Life. I guess I'll Never Ride Bareback Again.

What's that you say?

I'm medicated. I take pills every day in order to function. They say it's depression. My body either doesn't create enough serotonin or dopamine or fruit loops on it's own - or it makes too much, so I have to give it some encouragement to settle the hell down.

I'll be taking this stuff for the rest of my life. And while I knew that going in, I was never ready to fully accept the fact that I need help. For without the meds, I see and hear things. Things that aren't there.

I've managed my meds in excess of 10 years. I've only ever missed a med on accident one time. The withdrawal symptoms that followed were terrifying and confusing until I remembered "Oh, yeah. Forgot to take my pill." My senses had gone mad hatter on me, but it was easily fixed.

Right about now, you should be backing away from me with your eyebrows raised and your hands in a defensive position. It's ok. I would too, if I didn't know me like I do.

I know that my life is good and I pass for normal. At least as long as you don't look too closely, or expect particularly lady-like actions from me. I work hard at the office, I play hard whenever I can, sometimes when I'm at the office. My husband is my best friend and ALWAYS he's so good to me that there are times I think I've accidentally skipped a med and he's merely an illusion.

But there are bad times too. Little surprises that reinforce the fact that control is never to be taken for granted. Without getting too graphic, I recently missed a med without missing it. My body, uh.... evacuated some food I ate. And along with it was apparently a sizeable chunk of my time release med.

A night or so later, I awoke in the familiar cold sweat with my heart racing. Wild thoughts and the rubbery feelings all over. I knew this was a symptom of a missed med, but couldn't figure out how that was possible. I also knew I had a little time until things got real bad. The electrical zaps in my head hadn't arrived yet. And this wasn't a run of the mill panic attack.

I went through my days and concluded finally that I must have unwillingly given up too much of my med to the City's sewers. It made sense. I had taken it right before the snack of FAIL.

I took half a dose of my regular med as a replacement and within 24 hours I was right as rain.

And as I'm wont to do, I became a little introspective about my mental health. Why me? Why do I need to go through this? How can I fight something that throws me a curve every once in a while? What if I can't handle the next one? How can Mr. Zoom possibly stand so solidly beside me and accept everything that is me? If I'm crazy, and these meds are the only thing keeping me sane - holy shit.

I am literally, figuratively, clinically - mad.

And for about 3 minutes, I was actually happy being insane. I know it sounds strange, or at least I would think it does, but there was a weird kind of freedom that came with finally accepting that I am a full tilt nut-bar. Because for 3 minutes I didn't care that I need help, that I can't do this on my own, that I have to take medicine to participate in this world. I was what I am and I have a way to deal with it.

I haven't been able to maintain that acceptance, but it was a start. And I'm pretty sure I owe it to that half a cheesecake that I ate.

Just When I Thought I Hated Hollywood....

ZOMFG! Did I just use internet slang?

How To Lose Friends and Alienate People + Simon Pegg = Zoom Girl Boner.

Read the book by Toby Young a couple of years ago and loved it. I also read another of Young's books where he laid out the uphill battle of getting Lose & Alienate made into a movie. It didn't go well. And honestly, I had thought the project was dead.

...until I just saw a trailer for it on my t.v. in the middle of my Family Guy re-run. ALMOST needed a change of undies.

I suppose this is what I get for not keeping up on IMDB and, you know, the information that can be had in less than a second these days. As long as one isn't a complete knob. I feel a little shame, but mostly I'm looking for a cigarette after my massive moviegasm.

Exiting the Passenger Side, Even Though You Drove

I went to the grocery store on Sunday. That was dumb. Apparently everyone else in California needed to go to the store at exactly the same time. I had never been gridlocked in the bread aisle before, and it was quite a strange sensation. I had to override my claustrophobic driven urge to ram everyone with my cart.

Screaming children were EVERYWHERE. I heard, well, we all heard one parent yelling "Is it because you don't want to go to the birthday party? IS THAT IT? IS THAT WHY YOU ARE DOING THIS TO ME??" It was like watching synchronized swimming as we all decided whether we would be the people to act like the ruckus wasn't there, or we would be the people to stare directly into it.

At one point I found myself in an aisle alone. I was grateful for the space. And then the world decided to punch me in the face with a situation that happened far too fast for photo documentation. My own photos. As I'm positive security cameras caught it.

I was about to wheel my cart further down the aisle when an elderly man carrying something began walking towards me. My head began to calculate where he would be going, as we all do when there's another person in a space we need to navigate. I hadn't started moving yet because I felt like he was heading right for me. I remember thinking that was not possible, but then he came up to my cart and dropped the item he was carrying in it. He then looked up at me and I know all he saw was a strange lady staring back at him with her jaw riding in that built in kid seat shopping carts have. I wasn't sure WHAT to do. But then he literally clicked into the realization that my cart was not the cart he was looking for. He grabbed his items, practically yelled "I'm sorry" at me and then literally RAN AWAY.

I didn't see him the rest of the time I was in the store. I really wanted to. I wanted to see that he was with someone that perhaps looked like me and he just mistook my cart/me as that person. That maybe he had left her there while he retrieved something and that is why he thought I was her. What gave me the punched in the face sensation was that I was afraid he was having elderly dementia issues and I had witnessed an episode. And acted oh so gracefully as to stand there with a look of shock on my face. I really really wanted that not to be the case.

Just like I really really wanted the spider that was on my truck to be gone by the time I got out of the grocery store. Mr. Spider had built a web on my side view mirror, driver's side. I had driven on the freeway in order to blow him and his web off the truck, but it didn't work. And when I got off the freeway, Mr. Spider would come out of the center of the web to crawl up the driver's side window at stop lights. It's really not safe to drive a vehicle around while fighting the wibblies and saying "ew ew ew ew ew ew ew". When I arrived at the grocery store I exited my truck through the passenger side. I made some guy who parked 2 spaces away from me raise his eyebrows when he saw me climb over the center console to get out on the passenger side. I had to do all my business that day out of the passenger side. For all I know, the spider and his web are still there. Mr. Zoom drove us to work today.

I really hope the elderly man from the store had a spider like reason for placing his item in my cart.

Insecurity Needs a Workout Too

Usually the rule around the house is that once I go outside alone, Mr. Zoom knows to expect a story when I come back. To lessen the chances that I get myself beat up, arrested, or made to cry - Mr. Zoom will actually accompany me many places. This seems to keep the weirdness away.

And this is one of the main reasons I carry a camera with me at all times. If I didn't have actual proof of some of the things that happen to me, I'd think I'd gone "Beautiful Mind", without the brilliant part. Just the seeing things part.

Monday Mr. Zoom went with me to the gym. It was less of a protection thing for me and more of a want to get exercise for him. I was elated to have him with me. For all kinds of reasons, the most obvious being that I would be story free for the evening.

After I kicked the ass of a treadmill*, I went to the little lobby area to wait for Mr. Zoom. This area is directly in line with the "Kidz Klub" and often parents are streaming in and out with their minis. I was checking my e-mail with my phone and I looked up to see a little red headed kid, probably no more than 5 years old standing right in front of me. I exaggerate not, her face was inches away from my face. She asked me very loud and VERY directly, "Are you someone's mom?"

I went immobile in the head and body for a moment before I squeaked "No...no, I'm not." Her Mom raced back towards us to grab her, said "I'm so sorry!" to me and then drug the little depression machine off and out the door. I felt worse than I do when I'm forced to take a treadmill in front of the t.v. playing Jeopardy and Wheel of Fortune. SMART. What is FAIL? THIN? fail. And now, YOUNG? fail.

It was already feeling a little unhip girl logic that told me this stranger's little girl thought I was a mom because I was old. It could have been because I was in the lobby area. It could have been because I had a cell phone and was using it. It could have been ANYTHING, but Mr. Zoom got to ride out the wave of self critical jibber jabber that followed. And I am quite surprised that he didn't sit me on the couch and tell me to shut my hole, life is pretty damn good - what some strange kid innocently asks me should not bring my whole world to a halt. Especially since I didn't know where the question was coming from.

But he didn't. He let river jump to conclusion run itself dry.

I like to think I don't have any illusions about being 39, and looking 39 - whatever that means. But you know that idea you have in your head of what an age looks like to you? But I suppose the truth is, that just like I believe the dryer shrinks my jeans, I love to believe that maybe I look pretty good for 39. And that nobody would ever mistake me as someone's mom. But just like the phrase "looks 39" is ambiguous, so is "looking like someone's mom". Because there are a lot of moms out there who are fantastic looking, as well as genuinely wonderful people I'd be honored to be compared to/mistaken for.

So what have I learned? That the dryer really DOES shrink my jeans. That's what.

*Not really, as everyone knows only Chuck Norris can kick treadmill ass.

Underrated Creepiness: The Ice Cream Truck

Mr. Zoom and I came round the corner on our way home from work and stopped mid-smack talk to gawk at the ice cream truck parked in the middle of our street. I began to flail, because my camera wasn't handy and my cell phone couldn't boot up in time to get a shot of it. And the weird thing, it wasn't parked because there were kids there. It was just parked. With the ill-tuned music gushing from it.


Mr. Zoom - funny enough - zoomed into our garage and got his camera out so he could video the rarely seen ice cream truck as it passed our house.




I had previously used the last of my phone battery to amuse myself at the office while waiting for Mr. Zoom to meet me in the lobby to drive home. I spotted a large fly on the window, booted up my phone and giggled to myself as I internally repeated "super fly!" to myself. I took some pictures which I intended to upload to TwitPic. Then I realized that nobody was going to be able to see the fly and the moment vanished.



But not before Mr. Zoom came down and saw me giggling to myself and chasing a fly around with my cell phone camera. The work week hadn't ended fast enough.


Just that morning I had gotten in the shower and all too late noticed a cricket in there. I had the wibblies, but figured I was already soaked in water so as long as he stayed in the corner I could finish my shower. With one eye open at all times. At that very moment, clown cricket took massive leaps into the water on the shower floor and began hop swimming towards me. I yelped and flew out of the shower, squealing for Mr. Zoom in the patented bug-in-my-space-come-fix-it-noise.


"BIG CRICKET IN THE SHOWER!!" I pointed while I struggled with a towel. "I was going to be fine, but then he came out of his corner and started chasing me across the shower! Apparently it was ON."


Mr. Zoom, barely hiding his amused disbelief "Came after you. Right." Then he opened the door. "Oh. He's a big boy." Mr. Zoom had to go find some cardboard so that he could air lift clown cricket out of the shower while I hid under a towel. That is not an exaggeration. I can't stand watching Mr. Zoom deal with the bugs.


You know how getting back in the shower after you've pre-completion exited just doesn't feel the same as getting your whole shower done in one session? Threw off my whole day.

Proving that I'm Always the Last to Discover Anything

It was last weekend that I entered the Bed Bath and Beyond for what seemed like the first time ever. I've been to that store before, but just like I didn't appreciate San Francisco when I was 9, I didn't understand the love capacity I had for Bed Bath and Beyond until this past weekend.

I can't stop thinking about the magical aisles with bric-a-brac that nobody needs but desperately wants. The "as seen on t.v." items are my favorite. And I bought some of them, too. The jury's still out on the actual effectiveness of those products as compared to their claimed effectiveness. But no matter. I was high on potential and I LIKED IT.


Do all BB&B's have just that one teeny little door to enter and exit through? Is it a theft deterrent kind of thing? I'm not sure how they get away with that as far as fire safety codes, but maybe they are so awesome that they are exempt. I am claustrophobic, but for some reason the super high ceilings and walls, covered with absolutely anything you could ever imagine isn't a threat to that part of me. Like, if there was a fire, I'd probably just run to the travel section, lie down and say "yeah, this is as good a place as any to have it all end."

HAVE YOU SEEN THEIR TRAVEL SECTION? Everything you've ever needed is in miniature travel size and in stock in that store. Most stores have that sissy one side of the aisle filled with a few bins of marginally exciting travel sizes. Not BB&B. They dedicate an entire SECTION to that. Their sections are about the size of a room in a house, with extra high ceilings. And all the wall space plus shelving aisles in between is stocked full.

Let's put it this way. Mr. Zoom used to shudder when I told him I'd be going to Target. I can still spend way too much time and money there - but there's a brand new (to me) whore in town and she gives me exactly what I want and exactly what I didn't even know I wanted. In several sizes, colors and brands. It makes me feel like I could have a clean, organized, hip home without the enormous energy I waste already if I could just fugue out the magical combination of items to buy and use. It's like they have some secret gas in there that induces domestic euphoria.

Awesome.

All the World's My Helmet

Mr. Zoom came home from the store with salsa. And thank goodness he got the non-poisonous one.

I suppose in the wake of the tomato scare, I get it. But here's an example of caution gone too far:

Really?

Because if you come back from the fair with anything less than 3 layers of dust, straw, beer, animal hairs, drool, chocolate, sweat, a set of ShamWows and a sense of having sold your soul for something deep fried, well - ur doin it wrong.

Tweet. Chirp. Caw.

Blame twitter. Not that I think anyone is checking here for new content - but due to twitter and it's amazing ability to let me drain my noggin's chatter-pan more regularly, I find myself posting "big posts, official ones" to the blog much less often.

And even if it didn't exist or I weren't using it? There wouldn't be much here lately anyway. Bout all I have is a new found hatred for the sound a plastic spoon makes when it scrapes the bottom of a yogurt cup. For some reason this JUST started bothering me. One of my co-workers eats yogurt daily at her desk, has been for as long as I can remember. Yet, this audio event has just started to bother me.

We Zooms recently got to play a game called Apples to Apples with some friends of ours. Despite the fact that it isn't a drinking or eating game, I liked it!! The brief description of the game is that you have to pick a word you are given and match it to a word the "judge" gives you. Something you think will be seen by the judge as a match. As someone who can create a link between two or more events/things/etc., this game felt like it was made for me. Although I didn't come close to winning but once, and only then after I started shutting down my special kind of logic.

Zoom: "What do you mean toasters aren't shocking?"

Judge: "Well I'm not taking it into the bath with me!"

Zoom: *pout*

The after effect on Mr. Zoom is that when he says things to me now, I like to latch onto a word and fling "matching" words at it. Only nobody really knows what word will trigger me, or what I'm even talking about until deep resentment has set in.

Mr. Zoom: "I'm going to the market today."

Zoom: "ORANGES! glassware. MITTENS! Cake. Nooooo. Cash. WHY?!"

Mr. Zoom: *sigh*

Awesome.

Wax On... Why Are You Crying?

Recently I discovered the certificate I was issued when I obtained a yellow belt in some flim flammy karate class. When I was 10, the year 1979. YIKES!


I can totally remember when my Dad and two older brothers decided to take karate classes for the exact same reason that everyone else at the time wanted them. They all wanted to be Bruce Lee. And I wanted to be and do whatever my brothers were doing - the fact that I was a girl and they were boys didn't mean a thing to me. I should have known from the lack of hesitation [upon my joining the class] on their part that it was an incredibly bad idea. For me.


We were 3 latch key kids. When my brothers weren't spending time locking me out of the house, they were using me as a target for home made darts or just beating me up in the way that only brothers can do. Enrolling all of us in a class where they were not only allowed, but encouraged to beat on their sister was the ultimate get out of jail free card.

When the teacher informed us that karate was only to be used to protect oneself, and that it was downright improper to use it solely to show off or whack your sister in the head, I had hope. Hope that my brothers wouldn't roundhouse my ass just for fun. It is one of the clearest memories I have of complete and utter dismay at the difference of life "on paper" and "in reality". It was the down payment on my helmet for life. Because what do 12 and 14 year old boys care about improper? Only that the forbidden nature of it was the exact fuel they needed to put operation pummel-your-sister into action.

My Dad was in the class with us. That slightly cut down on the number of "sparring" sessions I had to endure. That - and the fact that I learned to cry sooner rather than later, which I believe got on their nerves more than anything.

Memories of those individual lessons are lost to me at this point. A blurry image here and there, mostly of my trying to remember my Forms. Or Form. Or whatever that maniacal dance routine was that they assigned to us at each level and that we were expected to memorize and perform on demand. One particular lesson I remember the class being introduced to a room - not unlike one of those super bounce things at kid parties - but it was an actual room in the building where the lights were turned out, we were placed inside, and the idea was for us to use our spidey senses to spar with our classmates. That might have been considered a great teaching technique if I didn't immediately curl up in a ball in the corner and just hope that nobody tripped over me. Much more turtle than spider.

I remember testing for the yellow belt, and quitting the classes the very night I got it. I was NOT going to stick around for nunchucks and throwing stars. Those items might not have been on the teacher's agenda, but that wouldn't have mattered to my brothers. There was already a pond in our courtyard filled with plastic army men who had been tied to bottle rockets and shot into the pond from the roof of our two story home - and cleaned out again before our parents got home. I didn't need much encouragement to believe that I would soon be forced to "hold this for a second, I want to see if I can make a throwing star stick in the wood while I run through the yard like a ninja."

I'll tell you what though. I was the best crier in the class.

No Really. It Wasn't From the Circus.

So what's the last thing you expect to see on the sidewalk as you drive home from YOUR work day? No really. Think of all the things you would never expect to see.

Is one of them a unicycle being ridden down the road? Because it should be.

When Mr. Zoom and I drive home, this is what we normally see, and what we expect to see. Sure, throw a random person walking their dog in there. We can handle that.



I am a clown, I am here for Earth's amusement. I have to be. How else can you explain that several times now, Mr. Zoom and I have been driving down that road and seen an honest to goodness UNICYCLE WITH A RIDER ON IT just toolin down the street like it's perfectly normal?

And the worst part? I can NEVER get a picture. NEVER. Even if I drove home with the camera on and pointed out the window, the speed at which both we are driving and the unicycle is going the other way makes it impossible for me to capture proof on ... digital camera.

And this keeps me up at night. Because who believes you when you say you've spotted an actual unicycle with rider just going down the street as if that's perfectly ok? And there's no circus around. The fair hasn't even been in town when the thing shows up every summer.

So guess what you all get. You get a really crappy artist's rendering of what Mr. Zoom and I have to see once in a while. Just like court cases where media can't come in. Only I'm spectacularly inept at drawing in general and I have not the slightest clue how to work the photoshop on our computers.

See that? Do you think you could keep your collective sh*t together if YOU were driving down the street and saw that?

I didn't think so.

FINALLY, after like 2 years of fretting over the fact that that I'm never going to get photographic proof of the existence of this thing, I can let.it.go.

Defending My Nit-Wit Title

Poor Mr. Zoom. Anytime now he will wake up in our house, and once more, wonder how I can possibly claim I wasn't raised/trained by lunatic hippies. With a straight face.

Mr. Zoom has come down with a horrible cold. The way he deals with ill is nearly identical to how he deals with the realization he's married to a woman who will do and say just about anything if it makes sense to her - and only her, the rest of the world is welcome to get on board but if not - oh well that's what insurance is for. Only the trained eye of the wife can tell the difference between "you've got to be kidding me" and "sick". When sick, he takes some cold relief medicine, and then curls up in a ball for a 4 day sleep in the guest bedroom. One doesn't wake him. One doesn't try to feed him. One only checks to be sure he's still breathing throughout the day.

I leave sick friendly food offerings in the fridge. I leave little notes around for him to call me if he needs something (but he never ever would).

Today though, here's what he's going to find when he wakes up and makes his way to the kitchen. A fresh loaf of bread I bought for him last night (for toast. He loves toast when he's not feeling great), a note that I love him, and oh yeah, a note that there's A WASP IN THE BATHROOM. Be careful.

What he'll see when he goes to the loo to check it out is another huge note on the bathroom mirror "WASP!! on the floor!! CAREFUL". He will then look down to see a brown paper lunch size sack taped over an upside down high-ball glass, which is covering a wasp I found in our loo last night. The sack says "stoopid Wasp".

I think I carried the bee into the house on my clothes. For some reason bees literally try to stick themselves to me. One time I went to lunch at work, came back to my desk and couldn't figure out why my hair was buzzing. I'd brought a bee all the way from outside and up 14 floors to my desk and didn't even know it. Just a month or so ago, a huge bumble bee followed me from our yard and all the way out to my truck. I was positive it was going to kill me and then drag me back to its house for the family to feed on. It finally flew away, but not until after much whimpering and adrenaline leaked out of my body.

So last night after I get out of the shower (had gone to the gym), I see the wasp on the floor. He's barely alive. Normal people would take care of it by vacuum or broom and dustpan. But I can't. I can't I can't I can't. Normally Mr. Zoom can recognize a spider squeal out of me and will be there within seconds to deal with it. But this time he was already down in the sick sleep and I wasn't going to wake him up.

The solution was for me to grab a glass and turn it over on the bee. And even that gave me the worst case of the willies. The glass landed over it's target and I shot backwards going "woeeididd eee ooo eeeiiieeee". I was afraid later that Mr. Zoom would wander in there and not see the glass or bee, and might kick it. So I took the lunch sack I found in a drawer and some packaging tape, and I taped the bag over the glass and onto the floor (cement acid washed floors, no carpet).

I'm pretty sure a giant spider will show up in the shower tomorrow morning. That's usually how this works. Worst time possible for critter interaction? Great. Everybody swarm.

Fire Safety by Tag-Team

P Touch labelers are the best invention ever.



There are times when I hate living in a neighborhood full of college kids. Then there are the times they make me laugh and they make me thankful that our house isn't at the end of the block.



Managed to get a better picture of one of our office falcons this week.

What's so Funny?

Our house was built a long time ago. It is the fact I bring up every single time I blow the fuses in the house with my hair dryer or the vacuum cleaner. Mr. Zoom has never managed to do this, no matter how much electric stuff he has running in the house at one time. Apparently only I have the power.

One of our lights was set up on this antique timer that was built into the wall:




To fully appreciate it, you have to see the combination lock type set up one has to work with in order to get it to do anything resembling "useful". Or, working at all. Ever.



So one day on the way home from work Mr. Zoom throws this comment out:

"Yeah, I'm going to replace that thing. Because it's not working right and I'm always afraid I'm going to open the stargate whenever I mess with it."

I laughed so hard the rest of the way home, I think I snorted. And he really didn't think it was all that funny. He married me, so his point of views are obvioulsy invalid anyway.

While walking to our car through the parking lot last week, I saw this:



Which I also thought was hilarious. And I haven't even seen the movie, nor do I know who's car that is.

Yesterday, one of the baby falcons that lives on our office building landed on my boss' window ledge and proceeded to squawk his little head off. He had brought a round...lunch with him. I couldn't really get good pictures because the camera didn't want to focus on the bird, and I didn't want to scare him off.







The only reason I know it is a falcon is because when we all first noticed the birds we called them hawks. A co-worker wrinkled his nose in disgust and informed us all that it was a FALCON, not a hawk. And how silly of us to make such a pedestrian mistake, but, you know, not many people bother to learn the difference.

I still don't know how to tell the difference, because I tuned out as soon as our lack of intelligence was thrown on the floor and danced upon by some guy who apparently became a real estate attorney so he could wow a bunch of unsuspecting people with his amazing bird knowledge?

FAIL.

You Need Proper Supervision

There's just not a lot going on in my world these days.

I did witness our self proclaimed cougar hunter stalking one of our very cougar, single employees. He scored a dollar to buy some chips out of the vending machine, for himself AND another friend of his. I felt like I needed to boil myself for having been in the office kitchen when the deal went down. I did add a round of eye rolling to the general ambiance, but silently endured the willies the rest of the time.

Oh, and there was a company potluck, but there was a fight about who would get to bring the fruit bowl. Yes. Yes there was.

Mr. Zoom has had to chase me off of the science channel a couple of times, since there are many specials about black holes and theories of planet creation. I'm fascinated, but after watching those I can't sleep. I get that ticklie bottomless pit anxiety that comes from learning you might be sucked into a massive, mostly invisible, space quick sand AT ANY TIME - and I'll probably turn inside out in the process. Or that our universe is basically an accident residing on the inside of something even larger than can be comprehended. It's the Nova String Theory special all over again. I don't need a reason for life to be what it is - I try and enjoy it as much as I can while I'm here - HOWEVER I got here. And I know that these happenings are not very likely - just possible. Nevertheless, it yanks the carpet out from under me, which causes my yap to flap at Mr. Zoom when he's trying to go to sleep.

Oh, and then I also start throwing words at Mr. Zoom (like Singularity) as if they are a perfectly natural and long time member of my vocabulary. Sometimes he just takes it in stride, other times he has to stop what he's doing so he can rub his face in that defeated way that husbands do.

When Mr. Zoom and I are around the house and I need his attention, I flip on the Lifetime Channel. He's afraid of it (and to tell you the truth, so am I). I've even threatened him "If you don't _______ now, I'm going to sit down and watch Lifetime." Usually what is at stake is that I'm hungry and ready to get something to eat, and he's not quite there yet. Instead of being an adult and going on my own way, I use terrorist tactics to bring him around to my point of view. There's a Lifetime in the HD channels now, I wonder how fast I can get lunch with that thing!

What do you know, it's dinnertime!

Tourette's Marketing. Ur Doing it Wrong.

Last night Mr. Zoom had finally gotten me to pick a place for dinner. Since he was going out to buy some milk he wanted to make things simple. I'm a gigantic pain in the ass when it comes to picking a place to eat. I don't want to be, but I am. I was going over what I wanted to order with him - well, to be honest I was changing what I wanted every .5 seconds - when he finally said "look, just tell me what you want and I'll go from there." Sensing that he was interested in getting a move on - I said "Awww, come on. We've had sex! And in a post sex high, aren't you supposed to find everything I say riveting and fabulous?"

And without skipping a beat, he said "No no no nooooo. That's BEFORE we have sex. Not after." I almost high fived him for that one.

He went on his way and I settled onto the couch for some T.V. and Nintendo DS lite while I waited for him. I was surprised when about 15 minutes later my doorbell rang. I thought for sure it was Mr. Zoom, who likely had his hands full and needed me to unlock and open the door for him. I looked out the peep hole to be sure it was him, and it wasn't. There were two people I didn't recognize out there, and I could hear one saying through the door - and what he thought was under his breath - "please don't freak out - please don't freak out - please don't freak out" Which of course, made me freak out. Silently, but still.

They had heard me thud my way to the door, and when I hadn't responded one of them said "HELLLOOOOO." I kept the door closed and shouted back "UH, my husband isn't home at the moment."

What's wrong with me? If these are bad people, why don't I let them know I'm home alone! That's a fantastic idea! Not only that, but apparently I'm a 1950s housewife who can't take care of anything without the Husband? It would have been even better if I was dragging a vacuum around the house with me and I called it a sweeper or something.

Team Marketing wasn't giving up, and I was told (as I was still watching through the peep hole), "Aww, come on lady. He's got tourettes [pointing at his pal]. He needs to practice. Will you just let him do the presentation?"

Whether or not I fit the definition of LADY on paper, it still makes me uncomfortable when people say it at me. Although I really couldn't blame him since I pulled the I'm-Incapable-without-A-Husband thing. But I also couldn't figure out what the other guy's tourettes had to do with anything. And was positive that he probably didn't appreciate having those facts yelled through a door.

"No thank you." I said. I watched them through the door, their shoulders dropped in the realization that I had indeed, freaked out and refused to open the door. They said "Do you want a free paper?" I declined. They left.

Mr. Zoom got home. We ate dinner. I didn't want to share the story of Team Marketing with him just yet. And, I do believe he'd already told me earlier that very day that "Just because people talk to you, it doesn't mean you have to respond."

What he's really saying is "One of these days, someone is probably going to punch ME for something YOU said."

"Giant White Noise Machine"

You'll have to click it to actually read it.



Make your own at:
http://www.text2mindmap.com/

Mr. Zoom Shoots Nature's Peen

There's a river-ish thing that runs along some of the road we take to get to the office. I was always confused as to how California could justify calling these sometimes filled water ways "rivers" when in New Mexico they called them Arroyos.

Because, see, I thought as a kid that arroyo was THE name for nature's man-made cement sewer system for rain water. Not bothering to realize it was another word for small river. Just one of the many ways I've stumbled ever so gracefully into the concept of regional dialect.

Anyway, one morning over trying not to spill my coffee, I spied a giant rock phallus in the river bed. It is not unusual for there to be some kind of shape there, as the frats and sorrorities of the college right next to this place have been placing a rock version of their Greek pride on that very spot for years.

But this was the very first Greek symbol I understood immediately and without so much as a stutter. Mr. Zoom went back one evening to record this creature in its native environment before civilization could cover it up. It has since gone back into hiding.

This is my Boom Stick

While the rest of my idol bloggers are out there becoming grand parents, dealing with real world issues, writing inspiring posts - I'm over here inventing a way to keep birds out of my hair.

Yes, birds. out of. my hair.

Spring brought some particularly aggressive birds to the Zoom Yard. Aside from just being annoyingly loud and consistent with the loud, they have taken to flying at our heads when we walk outside. This is not unlike the situation I have dealt with at the coffee shop every year at this time - for the past 4 years or so.

But if you can't be safe in your own yard, then it's time to find a weapon. At least that's my view on it.


Behold the Bird Booty Boom Stick. Never before has there been a better use for the cardboard part of a dryclean hanger. My own pythagorean theorem: The as the length of the cardboardus - tubus of the hangarus increses, so increases the number of failed avian landings on the Zoomus Headus.

I find that my particular hairstyle - lazius maximus - is particularly threatening to birds. I roll it all up and clip it on the back of my head, and the fringe apparently looks so much like another bird that even if they didn't want to attack me - the obligation by nature is so strong that they do it anyway. I'm not waking up earlier to avoid bird bombings when I can simply wield my new weapon AND have my lazy too.

Mr. Zoom christened the stick with phrases I can't recall the exact wording of. One side says Bird Booty Boom Stick (I think) and the other says "Behold Zoom Beater of Bird Ass" or something similar. These are obviously nods to both the Evil Dead and Sealab. And before I get hate mail, please know I'd never actually hit any bird. I just twirl the thing up over my head as I walk to and from my vehicle. Mr. Zoom actually called this one for what it was: "Oh, that's fantastic. Wait until you actually hit one and it falls in front of you. You are going to be devastated."

I had read on the internet that the birds wait until you turn around, they figure if they can't see your eyes, you can't see them and that's when they attack. The solution, prescribed by the net, was to make a giant set of eyes out of paper and stick them to the top of one's head. This won't be happening. For one thing, I'd have to keep track of both fake eyes, and that is a recipe for disaster. What if I can only find one eye? I'm fairly certain that a cycloptic bird looking hair style is going to get me in more bird trouble than walking around with my stick. And if they hit me, they will steal my paper for their nests.

Or we can look at it this way - I am one to two paper eyeballs away from being reported to the police as it is - I know for a fact that the patrons of the coffee shop are very much on edge when I come in holding my stick. They can not figure out what I plan on doing with it, until they see me walking away and dodging birds. Sticking paper eyes on myself is pretty much asking for a dog pile of citizens' arrests.

So that's what I've been up to lately. Staying out of jail and clinging to my laziness, no matter what the cost.

For My Mom

Dear Formerly Amish Mom,

First of all, let me just say thank you for getting the hell off the farm and fleeing to evil civilization when you did. Because even though I wasn't even in utero pre-production yet, had I been born into that world I know I'd have become the kind of eccentric loon that I adore researching today. However, Mom, you managed to bring some of that Amish charm with you and nail it into my subconscious with the kind of zeal you Ams reserved for barn raisings. All well intentioned love, I know.

You were always so worried that I'd end up looking like a trollop. Not an unrealistic fear, considering the women in our family have all been granted size D or larger racks. And apparently nothing screams whore like an oversized rack. Even after I grew up and out of the house, you let me know every single time I saw you just how disappointed you were in my cleavage to clothing ratio.

I spent so much time focusing on the TOP of the girls that I completely overlooked the other side of the mountains. I still don't understand how cracker crumbs can adhere up under there so stubbornly and in such great numbers. Doesn't gravity work anymore? Any surface that contains anything transferable, food, dust, colorforms - I merely have to think about walking by and an hour later I find those items attached to the upunder side of my girls.

You tried so hard. You really did. What you didn't know was that no matter what we women do, we look like a 2$ whore to somebody. I just look like one that's a tad more expensive - one that can be bought for an all you can eat buffet or admission to a very dusty place.

And even though that's exactly what you tried to avoid, I need you to know that it could have been worse. So much worse. I'm not easy to work with by any standards, and somehow you raised me well enough to find and land the Best Husband in the World. I only wish I knew exactly what cloaking device you activated for that to happen.

I love you Mom. Happy Mother's Day.

Too Long for Twitter

Actual conversation I (Zoom) had with ... let's just say ... someone who should know better (SNB).

SNB: "I haven't received any e-mail on my blackberry since 10 am. I think the office e-mail is down. Would you check?"

Zoom: "Ok."

Call to help desk reveals e-mail is functioning properly.

Zoom: "I called help desk and they say the e-mail systems are working fine. You need to call them so they can walk you through a couple of trouble shoots with your blackberry."

SNB: "Ok, I'll call them after I'm out of Best Buy. My battery in my blackberry is dead so I'm getting a new one."

Zoom: "How are we talking if your blackberry battery is dead?"

SNB: "It's not."

Zoom: "..."

SNB: "It was, but I have a new one."

Zoom: "You do realize that in order to receive e-mail, you need a functioning battery, right? It doesn't just fly through the air cloaked in invisibility and then embed itself into your device. The device still needs battery power to refresh your in-box."

SNB: "Yeah."

Zoom: "Are you going to walk in here with Ashton Kutcher?"

SNB: "Who?"

Zoom: "Nevermind. Check your e-mail now that you have a new battery. I think you'll find them in there now."

SNB: "Yup. There they are."