The Wizard of Oz rule of sushi

"Japonais?"

"Sure."

That was me and Jim, sending our standard pre-date text messages as he made his way into the city for our weekly date last night.

Summers in Chicago are just...amazing. So we try to make the most of them by spending at least one week night in the city during the warmer months.

Japonais is a snooty-falooty sushi restaurant that we've been hearing about forever.

"Sushi in the city? You MUST try Japonais!"

I should've known better. Any time anything is a 'MUST' it's usually a bust.

Like the play Cats.

Arguably the worst play on the fucking planet, but everyone and their mother was saying you MUST see it in the 80's. Fuck Cats. Seriously. Three hours of whiny, caterwauling...well, cats.
~~~~~~~~~~~
So back at Japonais.

It's in the River North area of Chicago about three blocks from my office. And it's one of them neato-skeeto trendy upscale hoo-ha places where everyone is skinny and beautiful - except you.

And the world famous, must-have sushi? Average. And expensive.

The only upside? The service was fantastic.

But great service didn't help the 'Let's go to McDonald's' hungry feeling in our stomachs and the 'I've just been raped' feeling on our credit card when we walked outta there.

"I've decided we're going to use the Wizard of Oz rule when it comes to sushi from now on," I say as we're leaving the parking garage.

"What's that?"

"We're never looking farther than our own backyard."

The thing is, we've got a world-class sushi place just a mile from our house.

It's called Jurin. It's cheap, friendly and awesome.

And it's not a place you MUST try, it's the place you go back to time and again after trying all those silly MUST try places.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Air rushing through the ducts in the office
I am reading: Drunkard by Neil Steinberg
And I am: Still hungry

Rites of passage

There’s a letter on the desktop
I dug out of a drawer
The last truce we ever came to
From our adolescent war
And I start to feel the fever
From the warm air through the screen
You come regular like seasons, shadowing my dreams
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I was in the shower this morning when that song popped into my head for no reason.

Ghost. By the Indigo Girls.

It’s a sweet, melancholy song that reminds me of my friend Nelson for no other reason than I loved it and included it on a mix tape for him a long, long time ago.

I haven’t been listening to music much lately because all my songs are trapped on the Home Mac and – with the new job and all – I’m spending a lotta time with the Work Mac these days. Plus, my iPod was stuffed in a drawer – out of sight and out of mind.

But this morning I dug it out and quickly found Ghost, singing it at the top of my lungs all the way to the train station.

It’s one of those songs that you actually can belt out pretty good even if you’re like me and couldn’t sing if Cuddly Wuddly Christ came back today and announced he’s saving only the True Singers of Show Tunes.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Mississippi’s mighty
It starts in Minnesota
At a place that you could walk across
With five steps down
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Rites of Passage is the album.

Yeah, it’s chick music. But it’s one of those rare CDs you can listen to all the way through. It’s in my top five for sure.

There’s something about it – whenever I’m feeling disconnected from everything that is important, it puts me back in my place.

Do you have an album like this? Music that runs like a thread through your entire adult life?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
And I guess that’s how you started
Like a pin prick to my heart
But at this point you rush right through me
And I start to drown
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
You didn’t talk to Mom this morning on your way to the train?

Nope. Mom and Da are here from Michigan. It’s been a fabulous week and I don’t want them to leave. Ever. Ever.

It’s funny, though. She’s here, sleeping in because she’s on vacation.

And I miss her because we’re not on the phone in the mornings.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
This is the part where I really give it all I’ve got for Cuddly Wuddly Christ:

And there’s not enough room in this world for my pain
Signals cross and love gets lost and time past makes it plain
Of all my demon spirits I need you the most
I’m in love with your ghost
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Okay, your turn. Tell me the one song that you just have to sing at the top of your lungs whenever it’s on. And why.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Rites of Passage – The Indigo Girls
I am reading: New web copy
And I am: Unbelievably happy

Everyone thank Cheryl today

From my new friend Cheryl via e-mail:

I have 3 suggestions I would love to see you cover in your blog:

What are the top 10 movies that are going with you on your deserted island?

The Wizard of Oz
Heidi (Shirley Temple)
Moonstruck
The Color Purple
The Big Chill
Pulp Fiction
Pride & Prejudice (the A&E series, not the crap with that skinny bitch Keira Knightley)
Shawshank Redemption
Monty Python's Holy Grail
American Beauty
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I love the idea of a deserted island with electricity. Love it.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Who are the members of your hot tub 5?

I don't know about this one.

I've heard of the five people you'd have over for dinner (Queen Elizabeth I, Jesus Christ, Mark Twain, Leonardo DaVinci, and Albert Einstein) but not the hot tub.

So I'm going with people I wouldn't mind seeing naked or semi naked:
Russell Crowe
Brad Pitt
Joseph Fiennes
Denzel Washington
And of course: Craig Ferguson

Plus one back up in case Brad is a no-show because of that skank Angelina: Steven Tyler from Aerosmith.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Hedy, how come Moe didn't make your hot tub list?

Well just look at him. C'mon.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
What is your death row meal?

If I'm on death row, I'm assuming I've lost my appetite. Along with all my friends.

So the only one who'd still love me for-sure no-matter-what I-don't-care-if-you-killed-your-husband-because-he smacks-his-lips-when-he-eats-Popsicles is Mom.

So it would have to be Mom's roast beef dinner with mashed potatoes and gravy, baked butternut squash, rolls, and her famous chocolate Navy cake (with vanilla ice cream) for dessert. And a big glass of ice cold milk.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Big thanks to Cheryl for helping me out during this dry spell.

Feel free to share your own lists and variations on the lists.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Quiet house
I am reading: Not much
And I am: Hopefully dieing on a deserted island with five famous actors

Reasons I'd like to be a man (or husband)

My Dilfy friend Moe was whining like a little bitch about how he's all outta fresh ideas for his blog. So I made a deal with the fascist free marketeer that I'd help him out with a bit of blog fodder today.

20 reasons why I’d like to be a man (or husband)

1. No bleeding, bloating, or bitching every month
2. No underwire bras
3. No shaving your legs/under your arms
4. You rule the world, albeit badly
5. You can screw around all you want and you’re a stud (not a slut)
6. The world is your toilet
7. The dog respects you
8. No panty hose
9. You never have to concern yourself with finding any of your stuff because your wife will always locate it for you
9.5 On that same note, you never have to concern yourself with putting away any of your stuff because again, your wife does that for you
10. You get gray hair and look 'distinguished'
11. You have no hair and you look 'sexy'
12. As the primary breadwinner, you get to lord it over the rest of us
13. You NEVER fake an orgasm
14. You get old and you win a 'trophy' wife, while we get old and are labeled after pathetic, predatory felines
15. You receive a blowjob in the White House and get away with it
16. You’re physically stronger – handy for unscrewing lids and carrying luggage
17. You seem to have been born knowing the difference between a Phillips and a regular screw driver
18. You make more money for doing the same (and often less) work
19. You can wear the same thing every day and no one notices
20. You never seem to be troubled by clutter or dust or crumbs
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Enjoy the Silence - Depeche Mode
I am reading: Nothing but work stuff lately
And I am: Actually pretty happy being a chick, mostly because of Moe's reason #9

Good morning

There are times when I must…resist…writing about the day’s events out of respect for the folks involved. Highlights:

“Christ wasn’t a smoker so he didn’t have that problem.”

“Just breathe and try to answer the question.”

“I don’t know. I’ll have to look it up in the employee handbook.”

And my personal favorite:

“Maybe you’ll learn this in your third year of law school…”

I really wish I could say more, but it just wouldn’t be right.

But you know those rare, deep belly laughs that come from unexpected yet truly hilarious moments?

That was my morning.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: A quiet office
I am reading: New web site content
And I am: Great

Runaway train

There’s a man sitting across the way wearing a hat.

He’s a time traveler; situated among us casual commuters in our flip-flops, bare legs, jeans and polo shirts. A gray-haired anachronism sporting a semi-rumpled suit, tie and overcoat.

And the hat.

Similar to the hats my Grandpa Kammer wore. Unbelievably soft yet durable. Inside: a shiny pale rosy satin, featuring the faint scent of that semi-gloss pomade used liberally to avoid what we call hat-head.

He looks like a reporter. Or a private investigator. Or a ghost.

There’s another old man sitting below, twiddling his thumbs. Who does this anymore? Twiddling.

Then for a time we run parallel to a freight train – car after giant car loaded with mounds of coal. Coal. A regular, yet oddly old-fashioned occurrence on these early morning trips to the city.

And then I realize that we, the casual commuters, are the time travelers who’ve somehow caught a throwback train instead of the 7:07.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Runaway Train – Soul Asylum
I am reading: Neil Steinberg at the Chicago Sun-Times
And I am: Sleepy

Outta gas

So I'm at the gas station last night getting ready to bend over and grab my ankles at $4.15 a gallon, and this happens:

That's right.

The hose that's supposed to be connected at the top of the pump just fell to the ground.

Unbelievable.

With what we're paying for gas here in Chicago, the damn thing should be made out of gold, detect when I'm thirsty, and serve Jack & Cokes out of crystal glassware (FREE, with every purchase over $100!)
~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: The air conditioner in the office
I am reading: Sin in the Second City by Karen Abbott
And I am: Disgusted

I passed

From Hedy, to Jim via e-mail on June 20:

Check this out – the results of my personality test. Apparently I’m an ‘ambivert’.


From Jim to Hedy via e-mail 20 minutes later:

“Your behavior may be offensive to those who are socially proper.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Yep. A personality test.

It was part of the screening process at this new place.

I had to sit at a computer for 40 minutes sweating out whether “I prefer praise or presents.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Read your report with an open mind, without prematurely judging its accuracy. Some statements may not be complimentary; however, it is essential that you not become defensive. Remember, the information presented in this report is based solely on the answers you gave to the questionnaire. We suggest that you read your report several times, and allow yourself to thoroughly analyze and integrate the information. It is imperative that you understand the relationship between each individual trait description and your overall behavior.

The purpose of this report is not to compliment or criticize you, but rather to bring into focus areas that may need attention.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Presents, of course. Definitely presents.

Praise is nice, but it doesn’t teach you anything.

That’s one of my favorite quotes. No idea who said it.

But I'm sure she liked presents, too.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The whole point is to answer honestly, rather than trying to make yourself look good. And they put these silly “control” questions in to keep you in line.

For example: “I am the queen of the universe.”

You really have to pay attention to the wording and punctuation in each question.

Had it said “I am the Queen of the Universe” then I would’ve said yes, of course.

Tricky, these brain invaders.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The accuracy of the test was immediately called into question when I came upon this silly statement:

You have little, if any, desire to be the center of attention, and dislike having an audience. You are very unlikely to say or do anything that would cause others to focus their attention on you.

This test clearly wasn’t on the beach in Longboat Key last year when, juiced up on tequila, I whipped off my bathing suit top to ‘let the girls have a swim’ in the ocean. In the middle of the afternoon.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
You also do not go out of your way to gain the respect of others, or do things simply because you think society expects it. Consequently, you are very casual about social rules and tend to set your own standards of behavior. This can cause you to do some things which others may consider to be eccentric or anti-social.

Then again, maybe this test was on the beach in Longboat Key. Hmmmm.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Under the “flexibility” trait: You are rather slow to accept changes in your environment, and would prefer that most things stay as they are. In your career, home, and social life, you are content with the routine of patterned activities and rarely seek out new and different experiences.

Under the “boldness” trait (two sections down): As a rather adventurous person, you are receptive to trying new and different experiences. You rarely hesitate to venture into new and unfamiliar environments.

I could blame these inconsistencies on the test.

But I’m clearly whacked.

And just really happy they hired me in spite of my anti-social, hermit-like tendencies.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: I'm Yours - Jason Mraz
I am reading: Sin in the Second City by Karen Abbott
And I am: Obviously conflicted

Father's Day

Since I couldn't be with my father in Michigan, I spent the day hauling brush and pulling weeds.

He said "If you can't do it right, Hedy, don't do it."

I did it right, Da. Because of you.

All my love today and always.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Into the Wild (movie)
I am reading: Sin in the Second City by Karen Abbott
And I am: Grateful

Tim Russert dead at 58

He was more excited than any of us about this year's presidential election. He was my Sunday morning ritual. A truly great American journalist.

And a truly great American, period.

Unbelievably sad.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: News
I am reading: Sin in the Second City by Karen Abbott
And I am: Sad

Greetings from the Land of Dave

I'm in Atlanta this week, home of Dave from Rather Than Working.

Atlanta? Yep.

It's a long story involving an official HedyBlog Job Search Update (cue ominous music: dun, dun, DUN!) that I'm not ready to write yet, but let's just say I'm here for a cool reason with cool people doing cool things.

Cool is great right now, because it's fucking hot here. To our friend, Dave, I suppose this is as clever as saying water is wet but it had to be said.

I've never been to Atlanta officially - drove through once on a trip with DewMama to Florida - but that's it. So I have that 'excited to be in a new place' feeling again.

Which is cool. More soon.
~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Air conditioner in my room
I am reading: Sin in the Second City by Karen Abbott (Fabulous non-fiction book about a famous brothel in Chicago)
And I am: Smiley

Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of Crap

Spoiler alert on the new Indiana Jones movie; don't read this if you plan on seeing it soon.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am now convinced that if Steven Spielberg could've figured out a way to include aliens in Schindler's List, he would've done it.

"But Mr. Schindler, you can't save anymore people, the list is full," says Ben Kingsley.

"DAMN YOU, tiny Hebrew list man! There's always more room on the MOTHER SHIP!"
~~~~~~~~~~~~
The upside: Because I'm unemployed, we were able to catch the early bird special, so we're only out $10 for this ridiculous time waster of a movie.

I remember seeing the original Indiana Jones movie for the first time. It was fresh and funny and exciting and so different from all the other crap movies out back then.

This time around, everyone - including Shia LaBeouf and the silly aliens - looks tired and bored and ready to cry.

Which is kinda how I felt leaving the theater.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: The Space Between - Dave Matthews
I am reading: Literally, The Best Language Book Ever by Paul Yeager
And I am: Disappointed

Beware the wanglers

This unemployment thing has me trying all manner of marvelous new things.

Scrubbing our toilets with a toothbrush. Getting the mail.

And, since there's no particularly compelling reason to get out of bed in the morning, I've been staying up till all hours of the night playing Scrabulous. With Satan.

Have you heard of this? Scrabulous is the on-line, un-Hasbro sanctioned version of Scrabble.

You can play with others or by yourself. Or against the robot, who I'm convinced is Satan, the Dark Scrabulous Lord, lurking in Cyberspace and screwing with all of us lazy, unemployed idiots to amuse himself until the day his only son, Barack Obama, is finally elected president and he can rule the planet as foretold in Chapter 12, Verse 9 from the Book of Batshit Crazy Republicans.

Shaddap, settle down.

So I'm holding my own against the robot with 'ANGLER' for a double letter/double word score and I'm all SCREW YOU SATAN until the robot responds with the incomprehensible 'WANGLER' and suddenly I'm stuck with I I E Y I A Y, which, I'm pretty sure is the sound I made after being outsmarted by that fucking bastard robot a third time in less than 10 minutes.

Wangler, Hedy? I KNOW. Wangler.

According to Scrabble's extremely helpful on-line dictionary, a wangler is 'one who wangles'.

Yep.

So I'm left guessing at wangler because, as an unemployed person, the motivational wind in my lazy little sails can be knocked out by the silliest things and the STRESS of looking up WANGLER in a REAL DICTIONARY is just TOO MUCH right now.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
After my afternoon nap, I attempt to look up wangler using the Microsoft Word dictionary.

You right clicky on wangler, clicky one more time on Look Up and VOILA! The cursor actually JUMPED from wangler to another random word on the page and flat out REFUSED TO DEFINE WANGLER.

This could be a sign from [insert the random god of your choice here; I suggest Cialis, God of Pork] that I'm simply not meant to know the way of the wangler, but I persist and find solace at dictionary.com:

wan·gle /ˈwæŋgəl/
1. to bring about, accomplish, or obtain by scheming or underhand methods: to wangle an invitation.
2. to falsify or manipulate for dishonest ends: to wangle business records.
3. to use contrivance, scheming, or underhand methods to obtain some goal or result.
4. to manipulate something for dishonest ends.
[And my personal favorite:]
5. an act or instance of wangling.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Confession: I know wangle. Or knew and even used 'wangle an invitation' at some point in my ever-darkening past. But wangler threw me. Who actually admits to being a wangler?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
E O O O F A S.

That's what I draw on my first turn, on my fourth and final game of Spelling with Satan last night.

What the fuck am I supposed to do with E O O O F A S? It's late. I'm exhausted from wrestling with wangler, and I am thisclose to giving up. Then I remember there's this god-like feature on the Official Scrabble web site: The Scrabble Word Builder. Pop in your letters and it gives you available words.

It's cheating. But it's late. And there's no way I'm coming up with OS ('an orifice') or SOFA ('a long upholstered seat' - who knew?) on my own.

So, kiddies, to review: Beware the wanglers. Think of unemployment as one big ass shrapnel recovery expedition. And it's okay to cheat when you're playing with Satan.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Wordplay - Jason Mraz
I am reading: Literally, The Best Language Book Ever by Paul Yeager
And I am: Satan's Scrabulous Little Bitch

The book of ethics

"The back cover on Henry the VIII is bent, see?" I tell the dude behind the counter at Borders. "It was the only copy left on the shelf. Anything you can do?"

He starts clicking keys, entering some mystical discount code into the computer and asks "Ten percent?"

Done.

Back in the car, I tell Nelson.

"You needed that discount because the back cover affected the words in the book?" he asks cynically.

"No, because I didn't want to pay full price for something that was damaged."

He's right though.

The book was fine. And I probably wouldn't have asked except a) I'm unemployed and b) I have no business buying books with a shelf full of unread stories at home.

Then - because I've had ethics on my mind lately - it occurred to me that someone might damage a book on purpose in order to pay less for it.

This bugged me. Not enough to storm back to Border's and demand to pay full price for Henry, but certainly enough that I will never ask for a damage discount on a book again.

When was the last time you found yourself in a situation involving ethics? And what did you do? Be honest. It always makes everything more interesting.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The following is borrowed from that flaky, nearly all-knowing God of the Internet, Wikipedia:

Socrates posited that people will naturally do what is good, if they know what is right. Evil or bad actions, are the result of ignorance. If a criminal were truly aware of the mental and spiritual consequences of his actions, he would neither commit nor even consider committing them. Any person who knows what is truly right will automatically do it, according to Socrates. While he equated knowledge with virtue, he similarly equated virtue with happiness. The truly wise man will know what is right, do what is good and therefore be happy.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
First of all, thanks to Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure, I will always pronounce Socrates phonetically.

So, So-Crates believed that self-awareness is the key to living an ethical (and therefore happy) life.

Example: I didn't lie about that second can of Pringles in Vegas because I'm evil or because I couldn't afford them, but because I was ashamed of having eaten so much and highly sensitive about my weight. Add a little self-awareness to that scenario and I would've proudly proclaimed my gluttony to the hotel receptionist and the entire lobby for that matter.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Quick: Name an ethical organization. Corporate or otherwise.

For me, it's Ben & Jerry's.

Hedy, Hedy, Hedy. Ice cream?

Well, yes. And not because I'm a huge fan of Ben & Jerry's. The last time I purchased a pint was for a friend who was recovering from surgery. Before that, at least five years.

I don't know why I don't buy it, I just don't. But my impression of the company - from coverage in the media - is that they appear to be a rather ethical organization.

Of course we can't believe everything on TV, but again, the impression of ethics is there.

On the other hand, there's the whole "if you have to say you're a lady, you ain't" thing and I'm always wary of anyone who wears their good deed do-age like a badge of honor.

Anyhoo.

Ethics matters. Or matter. I'm too lazy to look it up.

Isn't it ironic, though, that the organizations you'd think would be most concerned with doing the right thing - like the Catholic Church or Washington lawmakers - are the last groups you think of when it comes to ethics?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: I'm Yours - Jason Mraz
I am reading: The Art of Racing in the Rain by Garth Stein
And I am: Pretty good

Feels like home

Your friend Nelson lives in Thailand?

Yep. It was Tokyo for three years prior to Bangkok. It's just lately I've noticed he's calling it 'home'.

"How long does it take before it starts feeling like home there?" I ask.

"Home is where your shit is."

I disagree.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Home started out sitting next to you in Ms. Meinhardt's divided second and third grade class at Atwood Elementary. Home was my yellow Snoopy pen which you stole outta my desk and still haven't returned. :)

Home expanded for both of us when my family moved in kitty-corner to yours in a tiny, magical cul-de-sac across from the high school.

Home was gathering up all of us adults and kids for lunch and games on the weekends: Trivial Pursuit, Boggle and Euchre.

Home was our Moms dividing perennials and consulting on weeds; growing healthy kids and gardens together.

Home was your sister Kyra - the human burrito - rolled up in our big family room rug and Mom walking in right at that moment.

Home was riding bikes to the 'circle' and long walks to the pond.

Home was kickball and Frisbee and football in the side yard.

Home was your Mom driving us to school in the mornings - her big brown car always smelled like chocolate for some reason.

Home was trips to Harsens Island in the summer: swimming, watching the giant freighters float by, more games, and napping in the car on the drive home with our sweaty sun-burned legs sticking together in the back seat.

Home was your giant box of Legos. And sounds of your trombone echoing across the street.

Home was feeding your guinea pigs - CB and Mrs. CB - during your family vacations.

Home was (finally!) the RV's back in the driveway! And stories and souvenirs from your long summer road trips; a silver charm for my bracelet from Washington, D.C.

Home was your Dad's ham radio in the basement.

Home was me waiting in the foyer at your house before school, checking out your shoe box diorama and saying "Looks like he's taking a piss" right as your Mom walked in.

Home was building forts in the summer and ice skating in the winter.

Later, home became so far away for both of us - far from everything we knew.

It was Chicago and Kalamazoo and Washington, D.C. and Palm Beach and Carlsbad and Palm Springs and Maui and Saint Martin and anywhere else we've managed to find each other.

Today home is "If you're gonna shake your ass, move to a bigger room."

Talking about poop. Sharing music. Lunchtime margaritas. Shopping at Target.

And "It's Adagio for Strings, ya dumbass."

Today home is whenever, wherever we are together. Home is today.

Home is here, for now.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Feels Like Home - Bonnie Raitt
I am reading: The Art of Racing in the Rain by Garth Stein
And I am: Home

Uncultured

"HEY! I like this song...it's from a movie, I think."

That's me, driving Nelson all over town on various errands prior to his trip home to Bangkok this Thursday. He's playing DJ with his iPod - which I love - except for the fact that we rarely get to hear one song all the way through.

Anyhoo.

"It's from Saving Private Ryan or Apocalypse Now," I continue. "One of those weepy war flicks."

"This is Adagio for Strings by Samuel Barber," he says in disgust.

It's the same slightly aggravated tone you'd hear if an average Midwestern schmo said 'It's Bruce Springsteen, you idiot' to someone Born in the U.S.A.

This is the sad moment when I realize that most of the capital 'C' Culture I get comes from the lower case 'p' pop culture.

P also stands for Pathetic.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Adagio Hoo-Ha for Fancy Schmancy Strings
I am reading: Nothing right now
And I am: Margarita merry

Odd stuff I do

I sort M&M's by color.

I've been doing it since kindergarten, maybe earlier.

Red, yellow, and orange are 'female' colors.

Brown, light brown, and green are 'male' colors.

Next, the Ms get sorted into couples.

Not married couples, of course, because we sure as shit wouldn't want to let tiny godless candies screw with the Sacred Rite of Matrimony.

Anyway, couples.

Then they die.

I always thought the whole process was rather romantic, these Ms hooking up briefly and then perishing together in my tummy.
~~~~~~~~~~~
Sadly, the light brown M&M's from my childhood no longer exist -- they were replaced by blue in 1995.

The blue ones are not to be trusted and always will be considered outsiders. As punishment, they are partnered with the orange (and therefore least desirable) female Ms.
~~~~~~~~~~~
Favorite childhood memory: My brother Eric and me are camped in front of the Magnavox watching Happy Days wearing our matching PJ's made by Grandma Kammer.

All of a sudden we hear the unmistakable sound of M&M's ping-ping-pinging into a glass bowl. It's Da, who had snuck into the kitchen for a snack. For us.

We look at each other with joyful, expectant grins and say it: "M&M's!"
~~~~~~~~~~~
Pairing off the pile of Ms rarely worked out exactly right, so the leftovers - typically reds and yellows for some reason - were coupled up because No One Should Die Alone.

I didn't really understand homosexuality until high school, so these leftover Ms weren't 'Life Partners' or whathaveyou, they were just BFFs who had yet to find boyfriends worthy of their sweet chocolaty goodness.

The male-female couples were sacrificed first, followed by the friends.
~~~~~~~~~~~
I'm sure you didn't come here today expecting to learn about the arbitrarily assigned gender roles of doomed candy-coated bits of chocolate.

But I guarantee you'll never look at a pile of M&M's the same way again.
~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Candy - Iggy Pop and Kate Pierson
I am reading: Step by Step by Bertie Bowman
And I am: A Veritable Goddess in the M&M Universe

Oh the humanity

Tragic news out of the Midwest, folks.

A truck flipped on I-80 here in Illinois yesterday, dumping 14 tons of Oreos onto the highway.

14 tons.

There are 2000 lbs. to a ton. A standard package of Oreos weighs 1 lb. 2 oz. and contains 45 delicious little cream-filled chocolaty wafer-ish bits of bliss.

I was never very good at story problems, so let's just say that's a lot of fucking cookies.

I don't think I'd be alone here in damning that silly truck driver straight to hell for what he did. Straight to hell, I say.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Um, Hedy? How did you know there are 45 cookies in a package of Oreos?

Research. Years and years of extensive research.

I've literally sacrificed my ass to the study of what must be considered the world's most perfect cookie.

In fact, it's surprising -- and more than a little disappointing -- that they didn't call me to the scene of the cookie carnage as a forensic expert.

"Hedy, thank God you're here! What should we do?"

"I need this whole area cordoned off, allow no one near. NO ONE. And get me some milk, man. Lots of milk."
~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Craig Ferguson
I am reading: A little bit of everything
And I am: In mourning

The show stopper

You're channel surfing.

Searching through what seems like a bazillion stations for something, anything to watch.

And then, BAM. There it is.

The show stopper.

The movie you'll always switch to, even if it's 6:55 and it ends at 7.

For me, it's Pillow Talk.

Yep. Doris Day. Rock Hudson. Pillows. And a party line.

Dang, Hedy, of all movies -- why Pillow Talk?

I think it's mostly the outfits. And Rock, of course. Sure, he was gay. But that particularly potent brand of masculine perfection makes my suspension of disbelief go all whacky and say "Sure, it could happen. Sure." Yum.

One of my favorite scenes takes place in a roadside diner when smarmy Jonathan Forbes (Tony Randall) slaps the shit outta Doris Day to get her to stop sobbing over Rex/Rock. It's just so...quaint.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Of course there are other stoppers.

Pulp Fiction. Tombstone. The American President. Almost Famous. Anything with Bill Bob Thornton.

The newest stopper is Devil Wears Prada, which was unfortunately boycotted for about six months for being too close to reality as I was actually working for a devil myself. But in the last month, I'm happy to say DWP is back in the show stopper rotation and I've watched it no less than five times.

Last night I achieved a heretofore unimagined show-stopper feat: The Show Stopper Trifecta. Jim's outta town for the week so with full control of the remote, I managed to catch the final 30 minutes of Pillow Talk followed by the last 20 minutes of The Devil Wears Prada (right before Ann Hathaway gets to go to Paris, yay), capped off with the final scene of Tombstone.

What are your stoppers?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: "You are my inspiration, Heath-er"
I am reading: Step by Step by Bertie Bowman
And I am: Looking forward to everything

On the cutting edge over here

It's called live-blogging. Journalists do it during elections and the Academy Awards, providing minute-by-minute updates on major newsworthy world events as they happen.

Me? I'm live-blogging my garage sale.

So be sure to check back here throughout the day for vital, up-to-the-minute news about crap like this.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It is 8:25 a.m. and I've already made $13.

While some might consider this a new low career-wise -- sitting in a garage surrounded by old crap waiting for strangers to give you quarters -- I am thrilled.

Thirteen bucks? That's more than I've earned in the past month. And it's not even 9 a.m.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Gromit freaked out a little this morning when I fairly leaped outta bed at 6:30, disrupting his schedule.

"YOU are not supposed to get OUT OF BED until 9 a.m. and then YOU are supposed to give ME belly RUBS for a half hour followed by WALKIES. What the HELL?"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"I have 12 Cocoon bags," I tell Jim last night.

Cocoon is a cute little shop up in Geneva where chicks go to buy amazingly wonderful, must-have items that have no practical purpose whatsoever. Every time you spend $25 there, they give you a cool little fabric shopping bag.

We have 12 bags.

"What the hell did you buy there?" he asks.

"Um. All the stuff we're selling in the garage sale?"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
9:03 a.m.

An Hispanic couple stops by and buys a pile o' stuff. Pots. Perfume. Glassware. Toys.

"$9.25?" I say.

She laughs.

I think my crap is under-priced.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"That's a five-table diamond," says one lookee-loo.

"Excuse me?" I say.

"A diamond you can see from five tables away. I'm still waiting for mine."

Of course the stone in the pendant marked $1 isn't really a diamond, but an obnoxious bit of bling bought in a moment of extreme weakness at one of those home jewelry parties.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Here's the best thing about having a garage sale (Jim loves this): After the sale, when I'm out shopping and thinking about buying some silly little tschotke, I close my eyes and picture it sitting on a table in my garage with a $1 tag on it.

Sadly, the Garage Sale Effect only lasts about six months.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
10:56 a.m. $112.30.

Like a small miracle, my good friend Judy arrives so I can take a pee break. What's the miracle in that, Hedy?

She brought me biscuits and gravy from the local breakfast diner.

Unexpected biscuits and gravy always qualify as a small miracle. Amen.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
12:53. Not counting the cash any more.

Nobody's buying my books and I feel vaguely insulted by this. Of course 85% of my customers don't speak English so perhaps I need to let that go.

My neighbor Tina brought over a bunch of her Barbi dolls, packed up in a basket and priced at 75 cents each. As a 10-year-old, she graduated from them 'a long time ago.'

"They were just sitting naked in my house and I felt sorry for them," she said.

I, however, do not feel sorry for them.

She also brought over Barbi's condo, her car and all of her furniture.

When I was a kid, Barbi got a couch made out of a washcloth. And for end tables? Remember those little plastic thingies that keep the pizza box lid from sinking down into the pizza?

Yep.

Now she's got a bike and a jet ski. Bitch.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
We're winding down now. Still haven't sold the golf clubs I never used.

After inspecting everything to make sure we weren't selling any of this stuff, Gromit has decided that every single person is here just to see him.

All the stuff I liked (a small Christmas topiary, myriad candle holders) and thought would sell right away is still here. I'm taking it as a sign from the Garage Sale gods that it is Not Yet Time for them to go. Maybe tomorrow is the day.

Also, I am learning Spanish. Para una, I believe, means each.

Oh, and that damn squirrel is still here.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Birds, quiet conversations over crap
I am reading: The Beacon News
And I am: Profitable