It has come to my attention that I am a 46 year old pedophilic man. This comes about from having coworkers comment on the calendar in my cube. Yeah, I'm blogging about work. Big taboo, I know. Whatever.

The event took place last weekend, when having a friendly dinner with some coworkers; a female coworker of mine had previously expressed concern about a calendar I have displayed which happens to have pictures of 15-17 year old Japanese girls on it. (Don't take this wrong, but this calendar is not at all pornographic. It's a farking Sailor Moon calendar. I, being a fan of Sailor Moon, love it. Unfortunately, it's the only Sailor Moon calendar that was available this year in lieu of the manga/anime normal Sailor Moon World calendars, which have been proudly hung in my cube (wherever my cube may be) for the past 5 years.) She says that the calendar is strange. Well, maybe not the calendar itself, but me having the calendar up is strange. At the dinner, a completely different coworker (a male this time), asked me about it as well. I calmly explained the above; I may have gotten a little defensive. I really see nothing wrong with the calendar. It's v. v. kawaii. If a different calendar came out with different Sailor Moon stuff on it, I would have that instead of this one. I mean, really.

So I'm really trying to figure out why this calendar is so offensive. Does it make people feel uncomfortable because they think I'm like into little Japanese girls or something? I have other stuff around my cube that lends to the same Japanophile feeling: a Hello Kitty Calendar, a Japanese food calendar (featuring sushi!), some paper fans, some Power Puff Girls hanging from the walls, etc., amongst work-related stuff. I mean, I want my cube to feel like home, you know?

What do you people think?

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**edit** ahem. for those who don't know:
pla-ya (plī-uh)
n.
A nearly level area at the bottom of an undrained desert basin, sometimes temporarily covered with water.
**end edit**

yay! my friends and i are going camping this weekend! i haven't been "real" camping in a v. v. long time. since i have the largest tent, we're just going to take that (there's only 6 of us (?)). the only problem is that i haven't used the MegaTent since burning man 2002 (the last time i went). since we're leaving on saturday morning, i thought that bringing it out tonight was in due order to allow it to air out and kind of de-playa. however, i'm thinking that purchasing a new MegaTent may be in my future, as this is what it did to my clothes after just putting it up on the clothesline in my backyard:

so yeah, those pants? they're supposed to be black. and the shirt? it's blue. the tent is really really full of playa dust. hopefully tonight will be v. v. windy, as i don't want to embarass myself by making my friends coated in playa dust when not even on the playa. if it still looks coated in the morning, i'm thinking i'm just going to have to hose it off. which means waking up early. it also means that it's going to be in my backyard (which is open to the alley) for about 10 hours tomorrow. everyone has to pray that the MegaTent does not get stolen while drying out in the wonderful sunshine (nor the rain fly). please.

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Isn't it weird how something can totally change meaning overnight?

I thought many things were v. v. funny last night. Not so much now. Could that be the alcohol involved? You decide:

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In the left corner, we have the Current Champion, Green Day. Becoming my favorite band when I was a wee 13 years old, in the days of better music, 1992, Green Day became a group idol of many a youngster in the early to mid-?90s. Selling more than 10 million copies, their breakthrough album Dookie, the first released on a major label, was far less interesting than my personal favorite, Kerplunk!. Sticking by them (and them sticking by me) through the years was tough, but every time I went back to my roots, they were there; every time I turned to them, comfortable feelings of familiarity soothed my troubled senses and helped me through my day.

In recent years, Green Day has fallen to the wayside, but still stayed at the top of the list of preferred music, really in lieu of anything better. Their music brings me back to my youth, but nothing really recently has touched me more than those days of angst. I have obviously changed a lot over the past 12 years, and my angst is far less pronounced, or at least is pushed in another direction. I love Green Day, and I always will, but there's trouble ahead:

In the right corner, The Challenger, The Postal Service, has taken my heart and made it flip-flop. They're the first band I?ve heard in a v. v. long time to produce a truly original and completely perfect album. Their music is light, but happy; mellow and upbeat. I feel myself more drawn to them each time I listen to another one of their songs. I never have to reach to hit the 'next' button to skip over the tunes I don't like.

This internal struggle is threatening my very existence and reality. After being with one band for so long, I feel as if I may fall apart if the challenger wins the time trials and goes on to become the New Favorite Band. I can't ignore the needs of my brain and ears. I am really afraid, though, that they may never come out with another full-length album. I don't think I can go on just these few songs for v. long, and if after a year, nothing new has become of it, and they fade from my eyes? What will I be left with then? Can I just sit back and watch this happen?

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So here are some pics taken 2 Fridays ago that I finally got off of my phone. No explanation is really needed, since you most likely don't care about these unless you're actually in them. Nevertheless, here they are in all of their glory. Sorry about the graininess in some; it was dim, as bars should be.

and just for posterity, the flowers blooming on a tree at work:

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I had this totally crazy dream last night that featured Wil Wheaton as himself. Normally I really don’t care about celebrity sightings, but in my dream, I was sitting outdoors at a café in LA and I saw Wil across the street, walking towards me. I just knew I had to walk up to him and compliment him on his writing. I knew that he would be impressed that I didn’t just want to see how tall he was, because I had always hoped he was taller than I, in lieu of my infatuation with Jean-Claude Van Damme that fell short (haha pun intended). He would be impressed that such a charismatic, intelligent, poised, and gorgeous woman read his website and enjoyed his book, even crying at the parts I was supposed to cry at. Then he would totally fall in love with me.

So, in the dream, I get up to him, and turned into a blabbering idiot. I gushed my few chosen words at him, and turned away in self-pity and embarrassment. He, being the caring person he is, felt sorry for me, of course, and put his hand on my shoulder as I was turning away. As he did this, LA turned into Boise, and he let me know that he was hopelessly lost (read: without me), and asked if I could help him (read: get his groove on). Could I? Hoo boy. So, we went back to my house (le duh). From there, things got awkward, just like it would in real life. Turns out our hero was just attempting to find the Boise Public Library (!).

So no heavy petting went on between the Wil and I. Nothing happened whatsoever that would make the dream just oh-so-super-kickass. At least I got to meet Wil Wheaton.

I’m thinking I need to get out of my own obsessive 13-year-old mind.

In other news, I dropped the boy off at the airport this morning for his trip to Europe. For some reason, no one in his family can show up on time for anything, so of course, when we get there, it is 1 hour before his plane leaves. This would normally be fine, as it’s 5.30AM in Boise, and there are hardly any people getting on a plane this early, only his mom left the paper (!) airplane tickets at her house, which they needed to be able to, well, check luggage and board the plane. Her house just happens to be all the way across town from the airport, and it usually takes about 20 minutes to get to from said airport. Need I remind you that the plane was leaving in (now less than) 1 hour? So Devlyn got to drive 75MPH down I-84 to the B’s mom’s house (with the B) to pick up these tickets in the dark pouring rain. What excitement!

I’m assuming the B was able to “catch” his plane (they were holding the flight until he got back), as I haven’t heard from him, and he should have landed in LA by now. I got him back safely to the airport 18 minutes before the scheduled departure. I rock. The party. That rocks. The party.

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So, I know that this is totally lame, and I would never put anything up like this, but I came to realize that sometimes one must go against one's moral obligations.

And I think I just want to gloat a bit, too.

You are a GRAMMAR GOD!

If your mission in life is not already to
preserve the English tongue, it should be.
Congratulations and thank you!

How grammatically sound are you?
brought to you by Quizilla
*ahem* I've always called myself the Grammar Queen. Now I have the cheap picture (read: free) to prove it (read: really unfortunately means nothing).

PS. I didn't even cheat. Then again, I don't have to. hah.

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so i'm currently in the middle of finishing a "chef's cart" i purchased from joe meyer a couple of weeks ago, and i have a slight headache from the fumes, even though i am slathering on the wood oil outside, where it is both windy and dirty. surely not the best environment to be finishing a wood project. however, it is something that must get done, and therefore i must do it.

updated the look of this page last night and well into this morning, trying many different things. i'm rather pleased with the current look, but my photoshop skills are still lacking in the areas i wish they wouldn't lack, and therefore, i am unable to do anything else i want to do at this time. however, i think i'm actually going to read that photoshop bible i have sitting in the cupboard, so you can expect much greater and far more wonderful things from me.... later.

that's about it for this weekend... though i had a proper weekend, i spent most of it sleeping, and while that is most definitely a worthwhile achievement for me, i feel as if i have wasted a good part of my life. i haven't even taken a shower today.

on the movie front, the DVD collection is growing by leaps and bounds. the B and i just finished watching Nowhere In Africa, a film that i had wanted to see in the theater, but since Boise has but one "indie" movie house, it only ran for a month, and we were unable to make it. the film finishes at a hefty 2H20M, but everything is well accounted for, and the story is not lacking. i highly recommend it, and i would give it a personal 4.5 out of a top 5 "shazam"s from me. if you want to know what it's about, you can go read it on amazon.

and shall we say, "toodle-oo."

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Have you ever felt like your life is like one of those teevee shows that’s only on for about an hour, but takes place over a few days? That’s how this week has been for me; I’ve been working OT and going to the gym or kung fu right from work, then from the gym/kung fu straight home to dinner and eventually bed. Available time has ceased to exist, and my life seems to be just passing me by like a white-tipped ocean wave.

To combat time from slipping even further away from me, I propose the following:

Days should now consist of at least 26 hours, if not more.
Work should be limited to a true 8 hours, including lunch, which everyone should get paid for.
Any OT done should be on “free time” which does not take place within the 26 hours of the day, but in an alternate reality.
All places of business that sell items to the public should stay open at least until 8pm on weeknights, later on weekends.
Half of the time spent sleeping will take place also in an alternate reality, sos that one gets at least 9 hours of sleep a night while only using 5 “real” hours.

So my wish list is long. Can you blame me? My house is a mess, sometimes I just plain can’t remember what I’m doing, and I’m all bloated and PMS-y and wanting to just drown my sorrows in a featherbed with 5 blankets atop me.

But all the joking aside here, folks…

My friend (Queen) Alisha will be performing karaoke at the Ranch Club tonight (that’s right, the one on Chinden in Garden City with the big horse on top) to win a car for her sister-in-law, whom she has been toting around for a while. Alisha has made it through the first round, and we all know she can make it through the last with flying colors. So, anyone that’s free tonight, come down and listen to Alisha, then scream as loud as you can for her so she can win the car for her sister-in-law so she doesn’t have to drive her ass around any more. Okay? Okay.

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So, I am totally excited. The plans for Oz are almost complete and ready and all set up. I’m looking at the flight times and realize that I haven’t been on a plane ride that’s lasted for more than 5 hours in almost 10 years. I don’t remember what in the heck I did when I was younger, taking planes abroad and whatnot.

The trip from LAX to Sydney takes 18 hours. 18 HOURS! That’s like 2 days at work. What in the hell do you do on a plane for 18 hours? Any ideas, anyone (comment, please)? I’m thinking about getting a little DVD player or something, but I’m afraid the batteries will run out too quickly, and I don't want to carry 10 lbs. of batteries on my person. Do they have plugs on 777’s? I don’t think so. Hmm…

I’m off to get a piece of paper notarized so I can get my birth certificate sometime this month so I can eventually get my passport. My last passport expired back in ’96, and since my mom can’t find it or my birth certificate, I have to go through this whole deal to get everything done. I was born in Santa Clara County, California. When I was living there, all I had to do was drive down to the County Registrar’s office, ask them for my certificate, and be on my way. Now that I live in Podunk Idaho, I have to send them a fax with my name and all this blah blah blah crap so they know it’s me that’s requesting the stupid thing, along with half of my bank account. Then I get to wait a lovely 15-20 days for processing. Like I couldn’t look this thing up in the computer and print it out in 5 minutes. Then I have to wait for them to mail it to me.

But it doesn’t stop there, folks. Boise, being the growing metropolis it is, doesn’t have a passport office. So when I get my birth certificate, I get to fill out forms and send them off with another huge amount of money, along with some pictures that for some reason cost one billion times more than what they’re worth, and start the waiting game all over again.

Yeah, so I’m impatient. Instant gratification. Now.* I think that’s going to be my new slogan.

*I promise I’m really not actually this bitchy and whiney in real life.

PS. So I was totally Miss AwesomelyTruthfulAndHonest last night. I went to go change my stuff into the dryer (we have shared laundry facilities), and my neighbor's stuff was still in there (after 4 hours). Since her basket was right there, I made sure her stuff was dry and smushed everything into the basket. As I was cleaning out the lint trap (bowl? net?), I touched something that felt familiar. Money. It was a $10 bill. "Woo!" thought I. And I almost stuck it in my pocket. But I didn't. I folded up nicely and put it in the pocket of her jeans. Aw. Now see who's a bitch. Yeah, not me.

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Today is the birthday of 2 wonderful women in my life: my friend LeeAnn and my mom. LeeAnn rocks the house that rocks the party that rocks the house. Then again, so does my mom. So both of these women kick major ass; Happy Birthday, kids!

I paid off my car yesterday. Yeah, right after I got the security guys at my work to jump it, because the battery was dead from leaving the lights on after running around at lunch. This was v. embarrassing, as it was 5pm, and everyone else was leaving in their cars and were looking at me funny; I was leaning on my car with the hood up, smoking a cigarette. That was the first (and hopefully the last) time I have ever left my lights on for so long it killed the battery. However, my car is much better now.
Since I have paid her off, and she’s all mine now, I think I should name her. I’m leaning towards “Bella” because she’s so cute, but I know 2 people (including LeeAnn: see above) who have cats named Bella. So, any ideas? I’ll post a picture here soon so “y’all” can see what she looks like and what her personality is.

Pesach dinners are over, but we don’t get to go back to bread until next week. The B and I had a v. v. yummy and tiring Seder on Monday, then I had my very own yummy Seder last night by myself (not as tiring, as I was able to start it earlier), as the B had a v. v. important meeting to attend that he was unable to get rescheduled. I must say, it was better than last year’s meal, and I’ll have to post pictures once I get them all gussied up in Photoshop.

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Yeah, I guess it has been 10 years. Kind of freaky, the way time flies. I really remember it as if it was? oh, I don't know... 5 years ago? Yeah, so my cousin RJ and my dad and I are eating at Taco Bell (my dad's fave haunt), and we're listening to the radio in my dad's car. See, eating at Taco Bell means going through the drive-through, then eating in the parking lot in the car. We never, ever go in.

So we're sitting out there, and it?s kind of getting late. RJ and I are talking about misc. crap. He was 12 or 13 and I was 14 and 3/4th. The radio is playing songs I like, which was a rarity in those days. Suddenly, it comes to my realization that every single song we?ve heard for the past 15 minutes is a Nirvana song. They?ve even broken out Bleach and possibly played a song or two from Incesticide. There is definitely something strange going on here.

We finish our burritos and my dad starts driving us home. He actually starts to talk, but it sounds like complains to a 14 year old?s ears, asking us why we like this music when it is so obviously violent and sick. My dad didn't like the Smashing Pumpkins poster on my wall, either. He said that the band name clearly indicated violence against children. The poster was from the cover of the Siamese Dream album, which further compounded his argument. RJ and I sigh at his request for knowledge. We obviously can read much more into ?this kind of music? than some 40-something guy.

Just as we were crossing over 101, the music stopped and the DJ came on. RJ and I had been discussing the strange trend in music from this otherwise teeny-bopper radio station, and how it was really really weird that they just kept playing Nirvana. Over and over again, as if it were some kind of chant. The DJ starts talking, and we really aren't paying attention. Suddenly, 3 words made their way through the ambient noise of chatter and into my ear: "Kurt Cobain dead."

After we got home, RJ and I were glued to the tube. It being one of the few years of my life with cable, we were of course tuned into MTV. We sat open-mouthed as Kurt Loder oh-so-calmly explained the situation; Kurt Cobain was dead, but more than that, he committed suicide.

I went through all of my magazines - I was a pack rat then even more than I am today. I thought that just a few weeks ago I had read that Kurt was happy; I read how he was finally getting on with his life. He was enjoying music, his wife, his daughter, all while not enjoying drugs. Of course, this was Bop we're talking about here.

I cut out all of the pictures and articles I could find about Kurt from all of my magazines and taped them into a collage on my wall. The picture from the front page of People was in the middle. I was enthralled. I wouldn't say I was obsessed; I was in love with the idea of having lost oneself so much that ending it all in a blaze of heroin and a shotgun seemed v. romantic. I sat in front of my stereo speaker and listened to Nirvana CDs one after another, forcing myself to cry. It felt good to cry, even if there really wasn't a reason.

I kept that collage up in my bedroom the whole time I lived with my dad. That summer, I moved with my mom to Idaho, and placed all of the scraps in a hanging file folder, which I kept in my filing box for years. Once in a while I'd go through that box, and desperate for more room, would eye that folder carefully, not sure if I was ready to part with something so obviously loved and carefully tended to, or at least it was at one time.

Yesterday, while cleaning like a madwoman on the eve of Pesach, I eyed that folder again, and finally threw it out, before I even remembered that today was the day. I don?t feel any kind of regret of course. The funny thing is is that the shooting really didn?t shock me. It didn?t hurt or truly make me feel anything. I felt like it should, and made my collage, and tried to look depressed, when so many of my peers were doing the same. We all talked about it more than we should have, really. We didn?t know what to think because it wasn't really a part of our lives; it was an extra piece of drama for the week, and it would pass by without a whisper later. I don't really know why I remember that day that well. I just do.

What I really can't believe is that I just wrote so much on the death of someone I didn't even know. Besides, it was that bitch Courtney that had him murdered, anyway. Everyone knows that.

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So there's a newish billboard deal that stands on the south side of Chinden Road. It's a beer advert, which isn?t too uncommon in these parts. The strange thing is that it really doesn?t make any sense to me. I'm thinking that my IQ is just too high.

I see this billboard every day on the way to work. It's quite simple really. I don?t have a picture of it, but I?m sure you can picture it from the description.

A cold can of beer lines the right-side of the sign. Next to it is a phone book, open to the yellow pages. The only thing on the page one can make out is a square outline around the words "Free Clinic." The title of the billboard lines the bottom, which says, "Parties Happen."

**edit** found a pic and snagged it from the local news site that has an article about mothers not liking the signs, as I guess they're close to jr. high schools or something. Click on the pic to read the article. It's nothing to tremble about, really.

Now, maybe someone can explain this to me. Maybe I'm just thinking the wrong way about this. But here is what I?ve come up with so far:

1. They could be talking about hangovers. Like, it would be nice if there were a free clinic around that would hand out hangover cures the day after so one wouldn't have to sit by the toilet all Sunday after drinking too many cheap beers, just because they were cheap, and you were already drunk, so they really weren't that bad.
2. Free morning-after pills? Like if we could see the rest of the page, maybe it's filled with Planned Parenthood and Central District Health department. Maybe what they're saying here is maybe the government should hand out morning-after pills like candy, so that when you're drunk and you have sex with that guy that wasn't necessarily hott, but you didn't care because you were drunk, you won't have to face the sickening thought of it for the rest of your life by having his offspring. Or whatever.

So I don't know if the billboard is really good or bad. Well, okay, so it's bad. It's for Keystone light for chrissakes. Anyone who ends up too drunk after drinking that sewage deserves it.

So off on the pregnancy foot - no, I'm not pregnant, but I've found people around me are starting to do the pregnancy thing. Not necessarily meaning to, I'm sure. So of course we slags are all hush hush and blah blah behind the backs of others, which really isn't a good habit, but is fun nevertheless. Though I throw the snarky comments as well as the others, there's just a little tug on my heart string that makes my clock tick. Just once, mind you, but I feel the tick. It makes me slightly nauseous. It makes me want to look at cheap Walmart baby cribs and coo at the cuteness of Winnie the Pooh. For about 10 minutes. Then I get over it.

The whole thought of having kids totally scares the flying fuck out of me. I know that one day I actually will want to have them, but I think I'm afraid of losing all of the personal freedoms I take totally for granted right now. I guess I'm happy that I'm realizing this now, so I'm not all stupid and regretful once I start popping out the puppies. Someone must promise to smack the hell out of me if I start decorating with Winnie the Pooh, though. I mean Disney Winnie the Pooh; Pooh the original is cool. Erm... yeah.

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