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Thursday, April 29, 2010

Am I a "hate blogger"?

I saw this term in the comments section of someone else's blog today.  (Yes, it's taking me awhile to get into "work brain" mode this morning ... I really need to talk to a doctor about this adult-onset ADD that I have self-diagnosed myself with.)

Hate blogger. 

And it occurs to me ... damn straight, I am a hate blogger.

I hate dumb people, willfully ignorant people, people who insist that their point of view is inherently better than anyone else's even though it's obviously a subjective question, the Jazz at times, Glee at times, work at times, BYU at all times (sorry, BYU friends), reality TV generally and Max Hall specifically.  (Since he hates me, it's only fair.)  I'm sure I could think of more things I hate, given enough time ... but I really need to get back to billing those hours.  (This blog is only getting a 0.2, for the record.)

I'd like to be a fluffy girl, who told lame jokes as if they were funny, who gushed about how her boyfriend/husband picked out what necklace she was wearing that day (personally, helping me accessorize is my girlfriends and gay friends' jobs, and I'm fairly certain if I asked the boy I am kinda-sorta dating for his opinion on a dress or shoes, he would roll his eyes and suggest that maybe I should simplify the process and get rid of some of the stuff I own) while still insisting that rigid gender roles are the WAY TO GO, who took photos of the things I baked or my toenail polish or myself making fish-face in oversized sunglasses at the pool.  Those girls can never be hate bloggers. 

But I am not like that. 

And so I hate stuff.

Wednesday, April 28, 2010

Bad marriage

The Jazz and I have had a long and complicated relationship.  Our best years were 1997-1998.  Since then, things have gone downhill, and we have settled into a comfortable system of passive aggressiveness where I withhold affection and they do nothing to try to win it back.

There are moments, every season, where I am reminded of fonder times gone by, and I look over at the Jazz nostalgically and feel something close to love.

And then sometimes I feel like Don Draper, and despite all my own bad behavior, I just want to scream at my TV, "You selfish, childish, hateful little brat!*"  

But I'm Don Draper, so instead I silently seethe inside as the Jazz implode.

Go Jazz go!




* I totally do not want to say the word "brat."

In which I reveal myself to be a cold, heartless bitch

Look kids, I love Glee.  Think it's the cat's pajamas.

And I'm all about "love yourself/yay self-esteem" messages. 

But last night's episode was crap.  Not just the too-long songs, not just the incredibly slow pace.  Not even the I've-got-to-hide-my-face-behind-my-laptop-I'm-so-uncomfortable-for-Kurt-right-now serenade to Finn. 

Look -- teenage girls doing the Master Cleanse?  Bad. 

Anorexia?  Bad. 

Telling an obviously overweight teenage girl she needs to lose ten pounds? 

Not out of line.  (Though a week deadline is amusingly ridiculous, and the fact that Mercedes ended up gaining two pounds after following the cheerleaders' "starve yourself" advice was totally accurate, which I appreciated.) 

But kids.

Why do we have this myth that there's a fine line between eating disorders and self-esteem?  There isn't.  There is a big, big, big line.  Mercedes shouldn't have been starving herself, but she should have been following her own advice from the lunchroom -- chicken breast and a side salad is healthy.  Yes, I'm glad you love yourself and all, though I would have appreciated you not singing "Beautiful" to do it (hate, hate, hate that song), but don't you realize there's something equally unacceptable about telling someone who IS overweight, "Don't worry about it, as long as you love yourself, that's all that counts"?? 

It is what's on the inside the counts, but you have to take care of the package while you're at it.  Quinn's advice in the nurse's office was clearly the best--when you realize that food is supposed to take care of you, you start having a better relationship with it.  Yet the whole "take care of yourself and be healthy" message was completely obliterated by "don't let anyone else tell you there's something wrong with you, because self-esteem is more important than adult-onset diabetes."

Sunday, April 25, 2010

In every generation ...

Thanks to Netflix (your friend and mine) I have recently begun catching up on some old television favorites.

You know, I said it in 2001, and I'll say it again.  I just do not buy the Willow-as-lesbian storyline.*





*This may be due to the fact that I found (and still find) Tara incredibly annoying, although a much more believable gay character.

Thursday, April 22, 2010

What a difference a letter makes

I had some trouble at work yesterday.  Of course I told my pops about it, much in the way I did when I was seven, and the sixth graders wouldn't let me and my friends play on the Big Toy.  (Did your elementary school call its jungle gyms the Big Toy and Little Toy too?)

So he called today to see how I was doing.  I was pretty irritated yesterday (due partly to the fact that I've also been feeling under the weather) and apparently my rage-filled descriptions of X Event and Y Event were pretty over the top, because he teasingly asked me, "So did you put an IUD outside that guy's office this morning?"

I don't know what is more awesome -- the fact that my dad mixed up IUDs and IEDs, or the fact that he thinks I should roadside bomb someone I work with.

Tuesday, April 20, 2010

It really doesn't take much to make this girl happy

Case in point: Today we have all-you-can-drink slushies for staff appreciation week.

I'll be sugar-buzzed and carefree for the rest of the afternoon.

Monday, April 19, 2010

The power of positive thinking

This weekend is my ward's Relief Society retreat.  We're going to some cabin.  There will be hiking.  Junk food.  Presumably some sing-alongs.*

It's not really my bag, but I've spent three months with no friends in Austin.**  Clearly showing up at church and going to two or three activities a month is not going to cut it.

The problem is, I've done this Relief Society retreat thing before, with limited results.  (Read: No results, and some internal seething anger.)  So this time, I'm getting my Secret on (ugh) and envisioning a yay-friends-sunshine-and-puppies-sleepover starting on Monday in hopes of guaranteeing a peppy Friday.

Wish me luck.




* You know, this may just be me getting my Liz Lemon on, but why are grown women having a sleepover?  Not a fan.

** Not technically true.  Amy and I have hung out since she moved here, but I knew Amy in law school.  So no "Austin-made" friends.

Sunday, April 18, 2010

I just threw up in my mouth a little

I like horror films.  I think that scary movies are often written off as being silly or inconsequential, and a lot of them are.  But it's a mistake to think that just because subject matter is "scary," it's also a stupid gorefest. (Sometimes it's a very clever gorefest, but even that depends on your personal tolerance for gore.)  Movies like 28 Days Later are terrifying, and pretty bloody, but definitely not stupid.  Paranormal Activity is terrifying with basically no on-screen violence.  Silence of the Lambs, Jaws, The Sixth Sense, Invasion of the Body Snatchers, Let the Right One In ... you see where I'm going with this.   You may not like them personally, but there's no way you could call any of those movies "stupid."

Of course there's also the fairly ridiculous--The Ruins (ooooh, scary plants!)--and the pointlessly gory--Saws II through infinity.  (I'll defend the first Saw, since the twist ending was gold, the concept was only a moderate rip-off of Se7en, and the editing ... well, actually looked like a really low budget music video.  But who doesn't love Danny Glover?)  And then there's the new "torture porn" genre, where the point is not actually to root for the protagonist against the bad guys and/or the awful-situation-in-which-he-or-she-has-now-stumbled-into-but-still-has-some-slim-chance-of-escaping, but rather just watch all the incredibly gross, somewhat realistic, totally horrible things people can do to each other.  I'm not into that personally, partly because of the little part of me that's not spiritually or emotionally dead inside, but mostly just because I find movies without a relatable main character boring.  Oh look, a generically attractive character whose name I have already forgotten just got killed.  Yawn.

...
...
...



I just had to say all that as a preface to what I'm about to say.

I'm hard to offend.  I'm not into "but think of the children!" moralizing.  My shock threshold, for better or worse, is really low.

But I made the mistake today of watching a trailer for what I'm fairly certain is the most morally repugnant movie ever made.  I'm not saying that hyperbolically AT ALL.  I was thisclose to tears by the end of a TWO MINUTE TRAILER and thisclose to throwing up right now just thinking about it.  And like I said--I'M NOT EASILY OFFENDED.  But this movie isn't a cheerful, innocent little gorefest.  This movie is exploits human dignity.

I'm not planning to type the name of this movie because I wouldn't want anyone who accidentally comes across this blog to google it out of morbid curiosity.  I'm totally conflicted about writing about it at all -- I want the three people who read this blog (Hey guys!) to know about this monstrosity so they can avoid it, but I am literally repulsed by the idea that I would even just give it a google hit.

It is going to be released in about two weeks, and I can only hope that the fact that I had never heard of it or a seen a commercial for it before now indicates that audiences and distributors have better taste than these filmmakers obviously do.  Hopefully you'll never hear about it at all.

But since there's already a sequel being made, I sadly doubt it.

 


 

Saturday, April 17, 2010

Here's another random thing I hate ...

... quoting scripture or other spiritual authority in an argument.

Quoting for the sake of spiritual edification?  Fine.  Sunday school lessons, sacrament talks, random moments of emotional cheesiness, expression of personal opinion ... have at it.

Quoting to score points is simply lazy.  And it kills the argument.  Even if the other person disagrees with your interpretation of said quote, there's no point to discussing it.  The fact that you Prophet-Slapped them tells them all they need to know: that you are not worth debating, because you are not planning to see someone else's side.

After all, you've apparently already got all the angels in heaven backing you up.

Monday, April 12, 2010

Shameful confession part 849

You know how I've admitted to crying during Grey's Anatomy, Terminator 2 and Iron-Jawed Angels?  (At least the last one isn't totally embarrassing.)

I also cry during Armageddon.

Every.

Single.

Time.

Not at the ending, which lasts way too long.  But when Bruce Willis says, "I have been drilling holes in the earth for thirty years.  And I have never, never, missed a depth that I have aimed for.  And by God, I am not gonna miss this one.  I will make 800 feet."

Total meltdown.





(It does help that within a few minutes of that scene, Steve Buscemi starts riding the nuclear warhead.  Basically every scene with Steve Buscemi reminds me that, oh yeah, this movie isn't that great.)

Saturday, April 10, 2010

And another thing

Who shops at Anthropologie?

Who are you?

I need to know.

I think Anthropologie is a nice looking store.  They have very artfully dressed mannequins and it always smells nice.  Not Victoria's Secret nice, but several notches over Hollister.

But are you all serious with the clothes?

I have deluded myself, on occasion, to trying on a dress or two.  And every single time, I either look like a six-year-old (and I'm sorry, but it stopped being acceptable to look like a six-year-old on my seventh birthday) or a character from Grapes of Wrath.  And I know that everyone is suddenly so VINTAGE all of the sudden, but Depression-era vintage?  For reals?  I for one do not aspire to scrubbing my wardrobe on a washboard.  Which, for your information, would destroy most Anthropologie clothes.

You know how Tyra refers to ugly-pretty on America's Next Top Model?*

I have concluded that Anthropologie is hideous-cute.

Not a good thing.

And not only that, but the price.  THE PRICE.

Okay, I will admit -- today I went to Anthropologie because I want this sweater:


I really, really want it.  I have a fuchsia satiny dress that I got for ... wait for it ... THIRTEEN DOLLARS at an outlet store.  The problem is that it is slightly too dressy for church or work, and it's sleeveless, which in MoLand is a big church no-no.  So the awesome cheap dress hangs, unworn, in my closet, and it glares at me accusingly every Sunday when I pass over it.  (Yes.  It glares.)

So when Sandy visited and I saw the above pictured sweater at Anthropologie, with flowers that would totally match the Awesome Unworn Dress, and which would also look great with several pairs of my work pants, I coveted it.  Hard core.  Which I would feel bad about, but a quick google search revealed that there is no Bible-sanctioned punishment for the Big C.

Plus, something non-hideous-cute at Anthropologie?  So rare.

But then I saw the price.

$88.

The idea of non-stand-alone clothing costing $88 makes me a little ill.   I'm not going to pretend I've never gone nuts over an article of clothing, but jeez, a cardigan?  A dress, a suit jacket, a pair of particularly ass-camouflaging jeans, maybe.  A SWEATER?  A sweater I can't even wear without something else?

So I passed it up, sure that I'd eventually find a comparable, yet more reasonably priced, cardigan in time.  I totally haven't, so six weeks later, defeated yet oddly excited, I returned to Anthropologie.  

I'm not sure if I'm sad or relieved that they have sold out of the awesome, overpriced sweater.  Probably relieved.  It would look amazing, but for crying out loud ... $88.  

I consoled myself by getting two 50%-off three wick candles at Bath and Body Works, a store that actually knows how to have a sale.  And now my apartment smells way better than Anthropologie.





* Smile with your eyes.  You know you watch it.

Just wanted you to know

The other night my dad called to chat.  He and Charlie had just finished watching Taken (again).

"Kiddo," he said.  "I have to tell you something."

"What?"

"If you are ever taken by sex criminals, I'm pretty sure I couldn't get you back."*





* I am actually totally okay with this, because when the zombie apocalypse comes, my pops is going to be very handy to have around.

Thursday, April 8, 2010

Taxi cab confessions

I had to take a cab today.

It was one of the more impressive experiences of my life.

I've taken cabs before.

I've had awkward conversations a-plenty.

But no one -- NO ONE -- has ever said THIS to me:

"My first girlfriend, she taught me everything, if you know what I mean.  She taught me how to have sex.  She taught me how to read.  Lord of the Rings.  It was great when they made the movies.  G**damn, the 70s had good drugs.  We had an open relationship.  And she and her three friends, Pineapple, Peanut and Cookie, I mean, we were all sleeping together.  And those girls were bisexual, so sometimes it was more than just two of us.  THC, it's a hell of a drug.  Like Viagra.  So you know, I think everyone ought to leave Tiger Woods alone.  Who hasn't done a crazy thing or two in their day?"




And just so you know ...

Sometimes I exaggerate on this blog.

This is not one of those times.

Tuesday, April 6, 2010

Dear labor unions,

I want to love you.


I do.


Who doesn't support collective bargaining?  Who doesn't want employees to be able to negotiate a fair wage and safe working conditions?  Who doesn't want people to have a say about their place of employment?  WHO DOESN'T CRY DURING NEWSIES?


But seriously.


It would help my love if you guys weren't such dicks.


Thanks, bye.


















(This is for kids shinin' shoes in the street with no shoes on they feet everyday... )


It's stuck in your head now, too, huh?

Monday, April 5, 2010

Why yes, I'd love to help some inbred radiated zombies

In vampire horror films,* it's traditional for there to be a human "thrall" who goes first to do some vampiric bidding.  The thrall is usually either magically enchanted by the vampires, or willingly doing vampire-bidding because he or she hopes to become a vampire as well.

If you've suspended enough disbelief to be watching a vampire movie in the first place, then you can accept the logic that humans might have their free will ensnared by the Dracula types, or that they could be so overcome by power-lust or straight-up-crazy that they would sneak into a little Alaskan town to steal all the radios prior to vampire invasion.  (See, e.g., 30 Days of Night.)

BUT -- may I ask -- what compels various gas station owners to point lost hippies/tourists/med students in the direction of cannibalistic hill people?  Think about it.  There's always a (relatively) normal in these kind of movies: Texas Chainsaw Massacre, Wrong Turn, Deliverance, The Hills Have Eyes, etc.**

I can't imagine hill-people-bitch is a very glamorous job.  The hill folk probably don't engage in commerce, so payment would be an issue.  They probably won't share any of their delicious human harvest ... not that you'd even want any.  (Hopefully).  And while they do tend to be tough little buggers, I doubt they're much for peer pressure, so it's not like low self-esteem can be blamed.

Also ... could I have picked a nerdier thing to blog about?

Somehow I doubt it.


* Vampire HORROR films.  Not vampire romances.  This rule does not apply to Twilight etc.

** Speaking of all these, does anyone know why inbreeding (Texas Chainsaw Massacre) and exposure to radiation (The Hills Have Eyes) both result in goofy looking, super-strong cannibals?  Anyone?

Sunday, April 4, 2010

Easter BBQ

Sometimes I get homesick.  I miss Utah.  I miss my friends and family.

And then I remember that I live in a place that looks like this.


Not too shabby.

I love the interwebs

Today while I was sitting in my apartment, I felt an earthquake.  A teeny one.  One that might have been my imagination.  But my whole apartment seemed to be swaying slightly for thirty seconds.

Wondering if I was on crack, or turning epileptic, I googled "Earthquake in city I live in."

Three minutes before the swaying, there was a 6.9 magnitude earthquake in Geographic Region close to City I Live In.

Thanks for the confirmation, computer.

Friday, April 2, 2010

Spoiler alert ...

... for the six people who haven't already seen New Moon.

Kristen Stewart is not a pretty screamer.

Thursday, April 1, 2010

Cakesters

So I decided to bake some cookies with my BRAND NEW KITCHENAID, wooo!  (I know, I'm a clone.)

When Sandy visited me in Austin about six weeks ago, we made Lion House chocochip cookies.  Of course, we had to divide everything by 7 because Lion House recipes are written with the unspoken understanding that you're planning to feed your husband and thirteen children with them.  Despite the fact that some things just don't divide evenly (what exactly does 4/10 of a cup of butter look like?) they turned out basically amaz-balls.

I decided to make them again for my friends in the doc review room to munch on tomorrow at work.  I busted out our modified recipe, threw all the stuff in the mixing bowl, and turned the sucker on for the VERY FIRST TIME.  Woooo!  (Kitchenaids require a lot of woooing.)

And then ...

I looked into the bowl and noticed that my dough wasn't exactly ... dough-y.  It was more like lots of tiny little dough balls.

Hmmmm, thought I, as I glanced over at Project Runway playing in the background.  I could call my mom and ask her what went wrong ... I could text Sandy and ask her opinion ...

OR I could take a page from the book of St. Gunn and just MAKE IT WORK.

So I added another egg.  Now the dough is the right consistency ... but I am worried about the fact that there is kinda 100% more egg in my dough than there should be.  So I throw in more flour.  And brown sugar.  And then some water and vanilla because I need more liquid.

And then I ... sort of ... have dough like the dough Sandy and I made.  So I plop a test round on my cookie sheet and popped it in the oven.

After nine minutes, I pull out my cookies and realize they're kind of burnt on the bottom and doughy on top, and I conclude this is due to my black cookie sheet.  So I reduce the heat in the oven from 350 to 325 and decide to increase my baking time by a few minutes.  (Foreshadowing: This will not work.)

The second round of cookies turn out a little better, but a taste test reveals they have the consistency of cake ... and really, aren't all that sweet unless you bite into one of the chocochips.  (PS - Thanks Sandy, you were right.  The Ghiradelli chips were totally worth it.)

At this point I'm a little irritated, and decide to bust out both cookie sheets so I can get this baking exercise over with already.  Then I burn my hand moving one of the baking racks.  Because, you know, time in the kitchen with me is not complete without injury.

So now I'm waiting for the last batch of cookies to bake.  They were supposed to take 8-10 minutes at 350.  At 325, they're apparently taking a half hour.

Grrrr.  The lawyers better appreciate this nonsense.*




* They will not appreciate this nonsense.  Let's be honest ... these cookies aren't that great.

What the what?

Forewarning: I have no intention of insulting someone else's strongly held spiritual beliefs.  Yes, I have frequently used this blog to mock my beliefs, myself, and other peoples' church-related quirks.  But I think I've stayed just this side of the "Isn't the sacrament prayer so tacky?"* line.  So if I cross that line in the following, my sincerest apologies.

Has anyone out there read The Shack?

After hearing nothing but good things from friends and relatives -- and lots of bad things from fundamentalist ministers in the media, which pleased me to no end -- I bought a copy, but haven't gotten around to reading it until now.

Ummmm ...

Is everyone serious with this? 

My aunt told me she was sobbing within the first fifteen pages.  I've heard other people say it changed their lives, their view of religion, their relationship with God.  "You have to read it, you will love it!"

Granted, I knew it was possible that The Shack was just going to turn out to be 2009's The Secret (oh, and if anyone wants my thoughts on that piece of pseudo-intellectual garbage, feel free to ask), but for some reason I thought, Nah.  This many people can't be wrong.  Especially not friends and relatives that I love and respect.  (Though that many people were wrong about The Secret ...)

I'm almost 80 pages in and I must say, I can get past the fact that it's poorly written.  (Sorry, it is.)  I can get past the insanely dragging plot line.  (Look, we all know the little girl gets kidnapped, it says so on the back and then in the foreward, so for the love, can we just get this kid kidnapped before page 50?)  I can get past some truly hackneyed characterizations.  (Got it, the wife is so spiritual she doesn't refer to God as "God" or even "Heavenly Father" but PAPA.  Oh for Pete's sake ...) 

But if something insanely spiritual doesn't happen soon, I am going to be enraged. 




* I do not actually find the sacrament prayer to be tacky.  I just couldn't think of anything truly blasphemous off the top of my head, which yes, I know, is so not like me.