This is just to say
I have been
in the bathroom
and it stinks like
someone shit in
the trashcan.
Forgive me.
It was awful,
and there was piss
on the floor.
Friday, September 28, 2007
Thursday, September 27, 2007
So let's say you sin on Tuesday and Confession is on Friday
So when you're not in the state of grace, after you committed a serious sin and before you've gone to Confession, you are cut off from sanctifying grace. But you can't be cut off from all grace, and I'll tell you why. Every good you do is prompted by grace, by actual grace. So, any time when you're not in the state of grace and you do something good (like go to Confession), it is because you are prompted by actual grace.
And you can pray for actual grace to help you go to Confession, or to reform in whichever way, whenever you want. And you can pray to the Saints for whatever intentions. God can't send grace that will get you into heaven, but you can still send good stuff his direction. And in the meantime, he will supply you with plenty of actual grace to get done what you need to get done.
Meanwhile, you can explore the possibilities of purely human discipline. No one can avoid sin completely without sanctifying grace (even with it, it's tough enough). But until you get to Confession, you can be like a good pagan (there's no salvation outside the Church; there's no salvation out of the state of grace). Be like a good pagan and discipline yourself better to avoid sin (using actual grace), and also get that actual grace you need to get to Confession. And then you're all better.
And you can pray for actual grace to help you go to Confession, or to reform in whichever way, whenever you want. And you can pray to the Saints for whatever intentions. God can't send grace that will get you into heaven, but you can still send good stuff his direction. And in the meantime, he will supply you with plenty of actual grace to get done what you need to get done.
Meanwhile, you can explore the possibilities of purely human discipline. No one can avoid sin completely without sanctifying grace (even with it, it's tough enough). But until you get to Confession, you can be like a good pagan (there's no salvation outside the Church; there's no salvation out of the state of grace). Be like a good pagan and discipline yourself better to avoid sin (using actual grace), and also get that actual grace you need to get to Confession. And then you're all better.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Autumn Doggerel
It always smells like smoke in fall,
the tired winds bring hints
of burning leaves, a cold brick wall,
and musty peppermints.
The gutters cover up with leaves,
the bottoms slick with slime,
which all the newly fallen sheaves
become in a short time.
Just like Ash Wednesday, dust to dust,
the trees return to earth.
So Nature's Lent and dying must
precede its spring rebirth.
I've always heard my friends declare
their favorite season's fall.
because of color, clean cold air,
or death stalking us all?
To see the death around us must
remind us we're alive,
that we've not yet returned to dust,
we've years till we arrive.
Remember then, that every year
you die a little more,
and still you have, not deathly fear,
but some time yet in store.
the tired winds bring hints
of burning leaves, a cold brick wall,
and musty peppermints.
The gutters cover up with leaves,
the bottoms slick with slime,
which all the newly fallen sheaves
become in a short time.
Just like Ash Wednesday, dust to dust,
the trees return to earth.
So Nature's Lent and dying must
precede its spring rebirth.
I've always heard my friends declare
their favorite season's fall.
because of color, clean cold air,
or death stalking us all?
To see the death around us must
remind us we're alive,
that we've not yet returned to dust,
we've years till we arrive.
Remember then, that every year
you die a little more,
and still you have, not deathly fear,
but some time yet in store.
why is it cliche to discuss the weather?
Well-mannered people consider it cliche to the point of being trite to talk about the weather. Well, I cupcake that notion. If you have something interesting to say about the weather, then go ahead and say it. And if I like you, I will not make fun of you for being such a pathetic conversationalist. So try me. You boor.
Do you ever get text messages from numbers you don't recognize with embarrassingly pseudo-sexual overtones? It has led me to my first awkward moments with people that I cannot detect with any of my five senses. I suppose I must give out my phone number during my prolonged alcholic blackouts, which last hours, days, and weeks. (Once I had one that went a year and a half, but that's not very regular.) "Yo shortie, I'm not shitting around. You need a ride?" Uh, no thank you, sir. I will provide my own transportation. wtf? wtfay? (that's "who tf are you?") wtfayayay (who tf are you are you are you?) wtfayayay ay caramba (who tf are you are you are you are you? Can awkward requests also maybe be awesome?) I don't know, but I doubt it. And I'm not about to find out.
p.s. I watched a little bit of Dancing with the Stars last night. Stop snickering, you know you like it too. I said shut up. I would like to predict that Julianne Hough will repeat her championship (dancing this season with Helio Castroneves), and announce that shortly following the season finale, I will be stealing her away from her current flame and former dancing partner Apolo Anton Ono (who himself stole her away from her fiance, and I think from the Church of LDS-- yeah, that's right, and she has ten siblings) and we are going to get married on top of a mountain. No one is invited, so don't ask. Just butt out, and give my future darling and me our space.
Lastly, if you hit a little kid while driving, would you be more stressed out than if you hit an old person?
Do you ever get text messages from numbers you don't recognize with embarrassingly pseudo-sexual overtones? It has led me to my first awkward moments with people that I cannot detect with any of my five senses. I suppose I must give out my phone number during my prolonged alcholic blackouts, which last hours, days, and weeks. (Once I had one that went a year and a half, but that's not very regular.) "Yo shortie, I'm not shitting around. You need a ride?" Uh, no thank you, sir. I will provide my own transportation. wtf? wtfay? (that's "who tf are you?") wtfayayay (who tf are you are you are you?) wtfayayay ay caramba (who tf are you are you are you are you? Can awkward requests also maybe be awesome?) I don't know, but I doubt it. And I'm not about to find out.
p.s. I watched a little bit of Dancing with the Stars last night. Stop snickering, you know you like it too. I said shut up. I would like to predict that Julianne Hough will repeat her championship (dancing this season with Helio Castroneves), and announce that shortly following the season finale, I will be stealing her away from her current flame and former dancing partner Apolo Anton Ono (who himself stole her away from her fiance, and I think from the Church of LDS-- yeah, that's right, and she has ten siblings) and we are going to get married on top of a mountain. No one is invited, so don't ask. Just butt out, and give my future darling and me our space.
Lastly, if you hit a little kid while driving, would you be more stressed out than if you hit an old person?
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
I was about to say I was feeling down when I realized it wasn't really true. I feel fine. I think I just thought that because I'm kind of tired. Plus I'm hungry, and that can sometimes be the EXACT same feeling as guilt. Which is, I guess, why some sad people can overeat, because they're trying to fill up their guilt, but let's not go there.
Anyway, that thought reminded me of other times I have felt down in the past. Sometimes, all it would take to snap out of a mood like that would be to go run or work out-- a lot of times actually. But other times, I could run and run, and still feel like I was slipping into the pit of the Sarlaac, and that was scary.
There's a big difference between feeling like you did something and knowing that you did something (and I mean "something" as ontologically substantive-- good=substance, evil=absence, so something=good). After you go running, you feel it in your whole body and it's good. It's good to use your body well, and it affects your soul. But endorphins are a lot of that. The feeling after running is still nothing like the feeling after keeping a very difficult resolution, or avoiding a particularly enticing temptation. When that happens, you know you did something.
And even it occasionally confuses me into thinking that I'm feeling down (which was really only a fleeting thing), I'd love to always be so tired from doing somethings that I can barely think for myself. That's the point of it all, right? I just don't do enough somethings very often.
Anyway, that thought reminded me of other times I have felt down in the past. Sometimes, all it would take to snap out of a mood like that would be to go run or work out-- a lot of times actually. But other times, I could run and run, and still feel like I was slipping into the pit of the Sarlaac, and that was scary.
There's a big difference between feeling like you did something and knowing that you did something (and I mean "something" as ontologically substantive-- good=substance, evil=absence, so something=good). After you go running, you feel it in your whole body and it's good. It's good to use your body well, and it affects your soul. But endorphins are a lot of that. The feeling after running is still nothing like the feeling after keeping a very difficult resolution, or avoiding a particularly enticing temptation. When that happens, you know you did something.
And even it occasionally confuses me into thinking that I'm feeling down (which was really only a fleeting thing), I'd love to always be so tired from doing somethings that I can barely think for myself. That's the point of it all, right? I just don't do enough somethings very often.
Monday, September 24, 2007
Friday, September 21, 2007
Hi, my name is Fort Knocks
and I'm an alcoholic. So the Cubs didn't play last night, but the second-place Brewers lost to the Braves in Atlanta, increasing the Cubs lead in the NL Central to 1 1/2 games. And I was drinking about eight screwdrivers, watching TV with mother, and (when he got home) dad.
Roundabout 10, I'm getting pretty sleepy, and I'm trying to decide if I should have another drink. So I'm going to the kitchen with my glass, undecided whether to put it in the dishwasher or fill it full of delicious vodka, ice and OJ. When I get to the pantry, I discover that there are only about four, four and a half ounces of firewater left, so I go ahead and dump it all into my tall glass.
But, oh, footsteps! Dad is coming. I turn forty-five degrees to shield the drink, but it's too obvious, so I head to the freezer for a couple of ice cubes. Three splashes later, the glass is about two thirds full. I guess I must have miscalsulated, because I now have twelveish ounces of vodka and ice.
Ok, it's not a problem. I'll just take it upstairs, and slug it down first thing in the morning-- shave the hair off the dog, as they say. I've done it before, and it's the best cure for a hangover, bar none.
"Good night, good night," up the stairs, two more swallows, two tosses and two turns, and unconsciousness happens. End scene.
I woke up this morning at Six to the cheerful chirping of "Bell 3" on my phone. Nothing so aggravating when your tired and grumpy as an agressively cheerful device. or person for that matter. I reset my alarm for 6:30, rolled over, felt pangs of either acid stomach or guilt, and after thirty or so seconds of deliberation, kicked my legs off the side of the bed and got up. The tall glass of warm vodka stared at me from my nightstand.
But I did not go back to sleep. I did not drink the drink. I had a glass of water and ran two miles. I took a shower listening to music, I got in my car, and I got to work earlier than I ever had before. And then realized I had pulled a groin muscle while I was running.
If I had stayed in bed, or if I had drunk the drink and gone to work, I would be fine. Instead, it hurts when I walk fast. What does that tell you?
Actually, that tells you that you should have stretched. Nothing else. I feel great, I really do. But I am still looking forward to that glass of vodka waiting patiently for me on the nightstand.
Roundabout 10, I'm getting pretty sleepy, and I'm trying to decide if I should have another drink. So I'm going to the kitchen with my glass, undecided whether to put it in the dishwasher or fill it full of delicious vodka, ice and OJ. When I get to the pantry, I discover that there are only about four, four and a half ounces of firewater left, so I go ahead and dump it all into my tall glass.
But, oh, footsteps! Dad is coming. I turn forty-five degrees to shield the drink, but it's too obvious, so I head to the freezer for a couple of ice cubes. Three splashes later, the glass is about two thirds full. I guess I must have miscalsulated, because I now have twelveish ounces of vodka and ice.
Ok, it's not a problem. I'll just take it upstairs, and slug it down first thing in the morning-- shave the hair off the dog, as they say. I've done it before, and it's the best cure for a hangover, bar none.
"Good night, good night," up the stairs, two more swallows, two tosses and two turns, and unconsciousness happens. End scene.
I woke up this morning at Six to the cheerful chirping of "Bell 3" on my phone. Nothing so aggravating when your tired and grumpy as an agressively cheerful device. or person for that matter. I reset my alarm for 6:30, rolled over, felt pangs of either acid stomach or guilt, and after thirty or so seconds of deliberation, kicked my legs off the side of the bed and got up. The tall glass of warm vodka stared at me from my nightstand.
But I did not go back to sleep. I did not drink the drink. I had a glass of water and ran two miles. I took a shower listening to music, I got in my car, and I got to work earlier than I ever had before. And then realized I had pulled a groin muscle while I was running.
If I had stayed in bed, or if I had drunk the drink and gone to work, I would be fine. Instead, it hurts when I walk fast. What does that tell you?
Actually, that tells you that you should have stretched. Nothing else. I feel great, I really do. But I am still looking forward to that glass of vodka waiting patiently for me on the nightstand.
Thursday, September 20, 2007
oh my crap
I am so uncontrollably pissed off right now.
So, in a group email, someone asked what movie a certain quote was from ("Matilda?" "No, I'm Jessica."). And I didn't see it until too late because I was WORKING, and so the other person got it first. But the lines weren't even right, and no one will acknowledge how awesome I am and how fast I recognized the quote, and how much better than everyone else I am.
Whew. OK I'm starting to feel a little better now. That was really strange. I was so friggin irritated. or maybe frustrated. It's like yesterday when someone was looking at a piece of my writing and said, "It's good. There are some comma issues, but it's good." I swear I wanted to strangle her to death while headbutting her repeatedly in the face, then interrupt the funeral to spit on her grave. Fine, not the spitting on the grave part. Man, I honestly never knew I could be so sensitive.
Of course, in both of these cases, I didn't do anything, and wasn't actually about to, but I was seething inside. I felt like someone pushed my grandma down the stairs, or laughed at a little lost kid in the department store. I felt so hot under the collar it's ridiculous.
Oh, and then the person wouldn't tell me WHERE THE "COMMA ISSUES" WERE! So I silently said, "fine, piss off, bitch," and went on my merry way. I didn't really say that-- I didn't even think of that until just now.
So these whole situations make me laugh because holy cow, I seriously am an arrogant asshole. No two ways about it. I used to think I put it on, pretended to think I was God's gift to man. Maybe I did in the beginning. But now I am a full-fledged cocky little prick. haha, dang it. Maybe I should work on that.
So, in a group email, someone asked what movie a certain quote was from ("Matilda?" "No, I'm Jessica."). And I didn't see it until too late because I was WORKING, and so the other person got it first. But the lines weren't even right, and no one will acknowledge how awesome I am and how fast I recognized the quote, and how much better than everyone else I am.
Whew. OK I'm starting to feel a little better now. That was really strange. I was so friggin irritated. or maybe frustrated. It's like yesterday when someone was looking at a piece of my writing and said, "It's good. There are some comma issues, but it's good." I swear I wanted to strangle her to death while headbutting her repeatedly in the face, then interrupt the funeral to spit on her grave. Fine, not the spitting on the grave part. Man, I honestly never knew I could be so sensitive.
Of course, in both of these cases, I didn't do anything, and wasn't actually about to, but I was seething inside. I felt like someone pushed my grandma down the stairs, or laughed at a little lost kid in the department store. I felt so hot under the collar it's ridiculous.
Oh, and then the person wouldn't tell me WHERE THE "COMMA ISSUES" WERE! So I silently said, "fine, piss off, bitch," and went on my merry way. I didn't really say that-- I didn't even think of that until just now.
So these whole situations make me laugh because holy cow, I seriously am an arrogant asshole. No two ways about it. I used to think I put it on, pretended to think I was God's gift to man. Maybe I did in the beginning. But now I am a full-fledged cocky little prick. haha, dang it. Maybe I should work on that.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
how do you like me now?
Ha HA! Even if you beat my last phone bill, I can play a little one-up-manship.
$637.90. Try that on for size.
$637.90. Try that on for size.
A new term
You know those embarrassing internal farts, where some bunch of something gaseous shifts from one section of your intestine to another. I'm not talking about your stomach rumbling, I'm talking about those squeaky internal hoots where you almost want to say "No, everyone, I did not just let one rip right in front of you. That was inside of me. INSIDE. Nothing came out. Yes, I am certain. Stop dousing me with Febreeze, sir." Well, I have thought of a name for those. Henceforth, let them be known as 'bowel growls,' as in "oh, man, I had a wicked bowel growl at work and the woman next to me scooted as close as she could to the woman on the other side and immediately started talking about maalox."
The best way to deal with a bowel growl is to make a very skeptical face and slowly roll your head diagonally up and to the side for the duration of the growl. At the end, pause with your head rolled back for a moment, raise your eyebrows and pause for another moment, then shrug and continue business as usual. Go ahead, practice now.
p.s. the drinking fountain sucks here, because the stream is inconsistent, so as you wait for your cup to finish filling up, maybe smiling at the cute girl from logistics, all of a sudden the stream will jump and soak your hand, or generously splash your undercarriage. And you make a noise like a startled seal and probably spill a little more, and the cute girl from logistics looks back down at her desk and stifles a giggle. And the woman who sits next to you remembers your bowel growl and sees the moist patch on your trousers, and is now firmly convinced that you have trouble with incontinence.
The best way to deal with a bowel growl is to make a very skeptical face and slowly roll your head diagonally up and to the side for the duration of the growl. At the end, pause with your head rolled back for a moment, raise your eyebrows and pause for another moment, then shrug and continue business as usual. Go ahead, practice now.
p.s. the drinking fountain sucks here, because the stream is inconsistent, so as you wait for your cup to finish filling up, maybe smiling at the cute girl from logistics, all of a sudden the stream will jump and soak your hand, or generously splash your undercarriage. And you make a noise like a startled seal and probably spill a little more, and the cute girl from logistics looks back down at her desk and stifles a giggle. And the woman who sits next to you remembers your bowel growl and sees the moist patch on your trousers, and is now firmly convinced that you have trouble with incontinence.
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
I wondered
how long it could last, this posting every day. It couldn't have been for too long, I guess. And the entries were getting shorter and shorter, less and less substantial. I was about to start writing today about applying for company health insurance and how it was that perfect bureaucratic combination of boring and confusing. (It still amazes me that something can be so intricately complicated, and stultifyingly dull at the same time.) But I decided the experience was insufficient fodder for a decent blog. I was drawing a blank.
I've never been a fan of bloggers talking about their own blogs all the time, and I didn't want to get into it myself, but hey, when I break a promise, it gets to me. And I had promised to post every day, at least to myself, at least for a while.
So I don't have much today, just a few item/fact/polls:
After a forty-eight hour voting period, open to the general public, I will tell either a) whether the 'guy' in the previous post was me, or b) whether the line actually worked. If no votes are cast, I will stop relaying weekend experiences to people who are obviously bored with such details, fall into a despondent funk, and drink the Kool-Aid.
I was filling my gas tank on Saturday, and the pump automatically turned off after I had put in $100 worth of gas. My tank was not full.
"The Good Shepherd" is a good movie-- but very violent, confusing, and intense. Also, I am pretty sure that my feelings for one of the characters (Laura) is as close as I have ever come to love. I don't know if any of you have seen this movie, and I can't really explain myself here. But she is just so beautiful that when I think about her, my heart hurts. I really wish she was real. I would quit my job and be a teacher, and we would live happily ever after in a small college town. The end.
I've never been a fan of bloggers talking about their own blogs all the time, and I didn't want to get into it myself, but hey, when I break a promise, it gets to me. And I had promised to post every day, at least to myself, at least for a while.
So I don't have much today, just a few item/fact/polls:
After a forty-eight hour voting period, open to the general public, I will tell either a) whether the 'guy' in the previous post was me, or b) whether the line actually worked. If no votes are cast, I will stop relaying weekend experiences to people who are obviously bored with such details, fall into a despondent funk, and drink the Kool-Aid.
I was filling my gas tank on Saturday, and the pump automatically turned off after I had put in $100 worth of gas. My tank was not full.
"The Good Shepherd" is a good movie-- but very violent, confusing, and intense. Also, I am pretty sure that my feelings for one of the characters (Laura) is as close as I have ever come to love. I don't know if any of you have seen this movie, and I can't really explain myself here. But she is just so beautiful that when I think about her, my heart hurts. I really wish she was real. I would quit my job and be a teacher, and we would live happily ever after in a small college town. The end.
Monday, September 17, 2007
Girls: would you go for this line
if you were dancing for twentyish minutes with a guy at a live music bar, and he has to leave, says "maybe we can get together sometime," but you say, "I'm going home to Philadelphia tomorrow." And then he says, and here it is, folks: "Well, if I'm never going to see you again, at least you have to give me a kiss."
Friday, September 14, 2007
what's the highest phone bill you've ever gotten?
Nope, I win. My bill for the past month was $397.96. Maybe they messed something up. I'm going to have to have a word with them.
I had the following deep thought lying in bed last night
Blankets are much more comfortable than just the heat they keep in. Even when it's scorchingly hot, sleeping under a sheet is more comfortable, more cozy, than sleeping uncovered. Blankets push us down evenly, gently, but firmly, into our beds. They're like purpose. Purpose in our lives, at the same time that it demands much of us and is always a weight on us, is also overwhelmingly comfortable. Without purpose, we toss and turn. And our hearts are restless.
And now, another lighthearted flight of fancy: everyone has a guardian angel. The angel chose, chooses Good and God from the beginning. They choose good as completely as the greatest saints. Angels never sin. And our guardian angels help us constantly-- they remind us to pray, they wake us up when we are about to oversleep, and they can steer us away from temptation. Over the course of a person's life, the cumulative effect of all his angel's prodding and assistance must be unfathomable. They truly must change the course of lives drastically. Now I would like to meet Hitler's guardian angel. I wonder if he gets ribbed a lot by the other residents of heaven.
And now, another lighthearted flight of fancy: everyone has a guardian angel. The angel chose, chooses Good and God from the beginning. They choose good as completely as the greatest saints. Angels never sin. And our guardian angels help us constantly-- they remind us to pray, they wake us up when we are about to oversleep, and they can steer us away from temptation. Over the course of a person's life, the cumulative effect of all his angel's prodding and assistance must be unfathomable. They truly must change the course of lives drastically. Now I would like to meet Hitler's guardian angel. I wonder if he gets ribbed a lot by the other residents of heaven.
Thursday, September 13, 2007
4 things-- unless more come up
1. Yesterday, my mother bought me four new undershirts. I was somewhat behind on my laundry, as is my wont, and had not been wearing undershirts every day (or most days). Now I am a person who generally leaves the top two buttons unbuttoned when I am wearing a button-down shirt without a tie. In my mother's opinion, two buttons unbuttoned and no undershirt showed too much skin. Come on, she said, leave something to the imagination! (She didn't actually say that.) So I am wearing a new undershirt today, but come on, is two buttons unbuttoned without an undershirt really immodest? Yeah, I know Europeans do it, but not everything Europeans do is immodest. The Pope is European.
2. Hedge fund managers make so much money. No, you don't get it. Soooo much money. Think of an amount. Nope, more than that. More. Little more. The top twenty hedge fund and private-equity shop managers made an average of $657.5 million dollars last year. They made more money every ten minutes than the average worker made all year. The top earners made more money than Bill Gates. That's right. Also, guess what? That income counts as capital gains, since they're all just trading stocks and taking over companies, not salaried. So they pay only 15% taxes on it, unlike Bill Gates. That's less effing taxes than I pay. But like Bono says, an Irishman will look at a mansion and say, 'I want to get that guy,' and an American will look at the mansion and say, 'I want to be that guy.' Because I know some people who work in that area, and it sounds so fast-paced, competitive and fun. Maybe a little mercenary too, ... maybe a lot mercenary. But if you know where to draw the line, I think it sure would be neat. Talk about just seizing the opportunity of a free market-- and riding it hard. Here's a harsher view than mine, but one that didn't convince me, only made me think 'hm- that might be fun.'
3. I want to get a motorcycle. They are so cool. I will get a Harley. They are cheaper than cars; they get much better gas mileage than cars; and they are cool. I know, they are sooo dangerous. But I think I could drive one safely, and avoid accidents and death. See the pictures of my friend?
I would not do that stuff. That is silly and stupid and dangerous. I would be safe ish. Doesn't this sound fun?
4. I just wiped a bunch of urine off the toilet. Shout out to my poo-spray sista Crystal.
2. Hedge fund managers make so much money. No, you don't get it. Soooo much money. Think of an amount. Nope, more than that. More. Little more. The top twenty hedge fund and private-equity shop managers made an average of $657.5 million dollars last year. They made more money every ten minutes than the average worker made all year. The top earners made more money than Bill Gates. That's right. Also, guess what? That income counts as capital gains, since they're all just trading stocks and taking over companies, not salaried. So they pay only 15% taxes on it, unlike Bill Gates. That's less effing taxes than I pay. But like Bono says, an Irishman will look at a mansion and say, 'I want to get that guy,' and an American will look at the mansion and say, 'I want to be that guy.' Because I know some people who work in that area, and it sounds so fast-paced, competitive and fun. Maybe a little mercenary too, ... maybe a lot mercenary. But if you know where to draw the line, I think it sure would be neat. Talk about just seizing the opportunity of a free market-- and riding it hard. Here's a harsher view than mine, but one that didn't convince me, only made me think 'hm- that might be fun.'
3. I want to get a motorcycle. They are so cool. I will get a Harley. They are cheaper than cars; they get much better gas mileage than cars; and they are cool. I know, they are sooo dangerous. But I think I could drive one safely, and avoid accidents and death. See the pictures of my friend?
I would not do that stuff. That is silly and stupid and dangerous. I would be safe ish. Doesn't this sound fun?
4. I just wiped a bunch of urine off the toilet. Shout out to my poo-spray sista Crystal.
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
Blogging every day
I thought it might be a good idea, even though I'm sure I won't keep it up for long. Apathy is my defining characteristic, after all. But even if some of the entries are lameish, the totality of product will build up so quickly, that it's got to be worth it. At least I'll get that warm feeling of accomplishment.
Conveniently, today I have something to talk about. Yesterday, I watched the Biggest Loser, and those people are gross. I know there's always a story behind any particular person's obesity (stress, bad genes, sedentary lifestyle, metabolism issues). But you know what else is behind every obesity? Lots of eating. Eating too much. Eating when you're full, and what I find nastiest: eating when you're full and you're already fat. All of these people, for at least a year, have been really fat, really overweight, and chosen to keep getting fatter! And now, they're all a sad bunch, with no motivation, no sense of self.
And here's the thought: more and more lately, we hear that everyone's self-esteem needs to be boosted, that the worst thing about the "obesity epidemic" is the low self-esteem and feelings of guilt that all the fat people harbor. But we don't hear enough about self-control. The two can't be separated! Only when you esteem and respect yourself and your body can you be expected to work at taking care of yourself. True. But most people never think about the converse, which is also true: if you don't work to take care of yourself and your body, you will inevitably lose self-respect. (and understandably so... take the Mean Girls exchange:
Gretchen: "In the United States and England, 7 out of 10 girls have a negative body image."
Regina George: "Who cares? 6 of those girls are right!")
Well, yes, you're basically right, Regina. We can't just go around convincing people that they look great and healthy if they don't.
Here's the deal: feeling good helps you work hard, and working hard helps you feel good. Everybody agree? Good. The reality is that we can't just spontaneously feel better whether we're in good shape (in my experience). But you CAN start to work hard without feeling better.
So spread the word. Don't worry about your self-esteem, worry about losing weight, and as soon as you've lost just a little, you've started yourself on a nice little cycle. Soon you'll be Lance Armstrong (I don't know anyone else who is so in shape and so knows it-- I think he's kind of a bitch, actually).
The four-hundred pound kid who works with us (I say kid; he's less than a year younger than I) is nicknamed Darth because his breathing is so heavy he sounds like Darth Vader. Only a very very few people know this nickname, and I never felt guilty about it. I think probably I still don't. But this morning, after watching Biggest Loser last night, I hear that he spends almost all his day playing video games and looking at pictures of fit/buff young men. I don't know what to make of it. I just have no idea.
The thing that I don't like-- I know everyone has his vices to struggle with, and a lot of times, everyone fails-- but people whose vice is overeating look markedly different from everyone else with every other vice. And they look gross. And I'm sure they know it, and it's not anyone's job to tell anyone else about his vices. But I think we should stop going out of our way to tell them to be happy with themselves.
Smokers are just as unhealthy, but no-one ever runs ad campaigns to tell smokers they're beautiful just as they are, or they should love themselves, and we accept you for who you are, or if you can't quit, we know how hard it is, and the most important thing is to feel good about yourself.
No. If you smoke too much, stop. If you're fat, lose weight. And get back to me about your feelings when you're done.
Can you imagine a series of anti-obesity commercials like the anti-smoking ads out now, showing how many people die, what a fat person's arteries look like, the cost of triple bypass surgery, or (sick) gastric bypass surgery? Show a bunch of orphans whose parents ate themselves to death? What kind of hue and cry would that trigger? Maybe I should start one.
Conveniently, today I have something to talk about. Yesterday, I watched the Biggest Loser, and those people are gross. I know there's always a story behind any particular person's obesity (stress, bad genes, sedentary lifestyle, metabolism issues). But you know what else is behind every obesity? Lots of eating. Eating too much. Eating when you're full, and what I find nastiest: eating when you're full and you're already fat. All of these people, for at least a year, have been really fat, really overweight, and chosen to keep getting fatter! And now, they're all a sad bunch, with no motivation, no sense of self.
And here's the thought: more and more lately, we hear that everyone's self-esteem needs to be boosted, that the worst thing about the "obesity epidemic" is the low self-esteem and feelings of guilt that all the fat people harbor. But we don't hear enough about self-control. The two can't be separated! Only when you esteem and respect yourself and your body can you be expected to work at taking care of yourself. True. But most people never think about the converse, which is also true: if you don't work to take care of yourself and your body, you will inevitably lose self-respect. (and understandably so... take the Mean Girls exchange:
Gretchen: "In the United States and England, 7 out of 10 girls have a negative body image."
Regina George: "Who cares? 6 of those girls are right!")
Well, yes, you're basically right, Regina. We can't just go around convincing people that they look great and healthy if they don't.
Here's the deal: feeling good helps you work hard, and working hard helps you feel good. Everybody agree? Good. The reality is that we can't just spontaneously feel better whether we're in good shape (in my experience). But you CAN start to work hard without feeling better.
So spread the word. Don't worry about your self-esteem, worry about losing weight, and as soon as you've lost just a little, you've started yourself on a nice little cycle. Soon you'll be Lance Armstrong (I don't know anyone else who is so in shape and so knows it-- I think he's kind of a bitch, actually).
The four-hundred pound kid who works with us (I say kid; he's less than a year younger than I) is nicknamed Darth because his breathing is so heavy he sounds like Darth Vader. Only a very very few people know this nickname, and I never felt guilty about it. I think probably I still don't. But this morning, after watching Biggest Loser last night, I hear that he spends almost all his day playing video games and looking at pictures of fit/buff young men. I don't know what to make of it. I just have no idea.
The thing that I don't like-- I know everyone has his vices to struggle with, and a lot of times, everyone fails-- but people whose vice is overeating look markedly different from everyone else with every other vice. And they look gross. And I'm sure they know it, and it's not anyone's job to tell anyone else about his vices. But I think we should stop going out of our way to tell them to be happy with themselves.
Smokers are just as unhealthy, but no-one ever runs ad campaigns to tell smokers they're beautiful just as they are, or they should love themselves, and we accept you for who you are, or if you can't quit, we know how hard it is, and the most important thing is to feel good about yourself.
No. If you smoke too much, stop. If you're fat, lose weight. And get back to me about your feelings when you're done.
Can you imagine a series of anti-obesity commercials like the anti-smoking ads out now, showing how many people die, what a fat person's arteries look like, the cost of triple bypass surgery, or (sick) gastric bypass surgery? Show a bunch of orphans whose parents ate themselves to death? What kind of hue and cry would that trigger? Maybe I should start one.
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Gettin interactive on your ass
What follows is a quiz. If you fail, I will insert bamboo shoots beneath your fingernails.
1. If my life were a novel, the title would be:
"Murder at the Mandrake Lodge: A Tale of Intrigue, Sensuality, and One Misplaced Banana Peel." What would yours be?
2. Do truck drivers get at least mildly frustrated and annoyed when people pull up to the right of them at a red light and accelerate past them, and they take sooo long to get up to speed?
3. English muffins or bagels?
4. Baygels or baggels?
5. Why isn't there a movie about a nun with a bazooka? Is it because if anyone ever did it, mankind would have reached the pinnacle of artistic expression, and we all might as well drink the Kool-aid?
6. Who is ugliest?
7. What do you think about nuts or wheat kernels in bread?
8. If I was a billionaire, I would not make wallpaper out of money for my parlor, because that would be ugly. Plus, I wouldn't have a parlor. But I might make a wallet out of hundred dollar bills, carefully double-folded and stitched, because, come on, how cool would that be? What would you do if you were a billionaire?
9. What comes first?
10. Waterskiing in chocolate milk, riding a brontosaurus, punching Hitler in the groin, walking on the ceiling, riding with Ghengis Khan, $500 in singles spontaneously appearing in your underpants, or serving a large dish of crepes to Napoleon when a screaming monkey jumps out and startles Napoleon so much that he poops a little bit. ?
1. If my life were a novel, the title would be:
"Murder at the Mandrake Lodge: A Tale of Intrigue, Sensuality, and One Misplaced Banana Peel." What would yours be?
2. Do truck drivers get at least mildly frustrated and annoyed when people pull up to the right of them at a red light and accelerate past them, and they take sooo long to get up to speed?
3. English muffins or bagels?
4. Baygels or baggels?
5. Why isn't there a movie about a nun with a bazooka? Is it because if anyone ever did it, mankind would have reached the pinnacle of artistic expression, and we all might as well drink the Kool-aid?
6. Who is ugliest?
7. What do you think about nuts or wheat kernels in bread?
8. If I was a billionaire, I would not make wallpaper out of money for my parlor, because that would be ugly. Plus, I wouldn't have a parlor. But I might make a wallet out of hundred dollar bills, carefully double-folded and stitched, because, come on, how cool would that be? What would you do if you were a billionaire?
9. What comes first?
10. Waterskiing in chocolate milk, riding a brontosaurus, punching Hitler in the groin, walking on the ceiling, riding with Ghengis Khan, $500 in singles spontaneously appearing in your underpants, or serving a large dish of crepes to Napoleon when a screaming monkey jumps out and startles Napoleon so much that he poops a little bit. ?
Monday, September 10, 2007
| You Scored an A |
 You got 10/10 questions correct. It's pretty obvious that you don't make basic grammatical errors. If anything, you're annoyed when people make simple mistakes on their blogs. As far as people with bad grammar go, you know they're only human. And it's humanity and its current condition that truly disturb you sometimes. |
It makes me feel bad
that sometimes when people are taking something seriously, I am filled with glee and feel giggly. But it doesn't make me feel bad enough that I stop feeling giggly.
Thursday, September 6, 2007
hm. I guess.
| Your Preppy Name Is... |
 |
I finished my business with the DMV
before work this morning. It was no root canal like yesterday, but honestly, working with these people IS like pulling teeth. out of a bear. with bad breath and an attitude problem.
I came prepared for everything. No let me rephrase that-- I came with the naive belief that it was possible to come prepared for everything. A hundred and twenty dollars cash burned a hole in my pocket. I had the car's registration, bill of sale, title deed, my brand new license, and confidence that I would be in and out in a jiffy. No, I'm kidding, of course I wasn't quite that naive, but I did expect it to be, if not efficient, at least straightforward.
And it all started out well enough: "Fill these two forms out, and take them to the registration desk." Ok, fair enough. I started filling them out, and after a few hiccups (calling home for the expiration date of the insurance policy, wtf?), I proceeded to the desk with almost half the forms filled out. The rest of the blanks I would need some help with, as they asked for my PL1J code, the Vehicle Constancy Reticential Didacticism Enrollment number, and I think the UPC for my soul. Luckily, these were all available for the paraprofessional at the desk (since I mortgaged my soul to the Secretary of State's office yesterday to get out of standing in another line). And I pulled out my wallet to hand her some cash, because I knew these offices only take the cold hard stuff.
"I'm sorry, sir, we don't accept cash."
I laughed politely at her clever joke, but I was a little impatient. Let's put the jokes aside.
"We only take checks and money orders. When you go to pay the cashier the $143 fee, you can use cash, but we can't take it for the transfer tax."
My laugh withered on my lips, and drifted through the stuffy air (can't we have some AC, people?) to the floor, where it was immediately swept up by a guy with one of those long-handled dustpans, to be taken in back and pinned up in their large collection, in an exhibit entitled "The DMV: where happiness goes to die."
"There's a 711 only a mile down the road. You can pick up a money order there."
Yeah, thanks. I can also hit up the ATM because I didn't even bring enough cash in the first place. A few minutes there, a few seconds asking for and paying for my money order, and then a long awkward pause while I waited... do I need a receipt? I've never gotten a money order before... Will this large man with the vanilla-ice-cream-twirl turban yell at me if I ask him, or just shake his head and laugh. Then he started helping other customers, and so I dumped a bunch of change on the floor so I would at least have something to do. At least I wouldn't be standing there awkwardly, I would be awkwardly scooping forty-six cents off the weird black rubber-velcro mats that 711s always have. But forty-six cents only takes so long. I was looking around, thinking I might have to upend a magazine rack, when he suddenly turned to me with a slip of paper and a here-you-go. I heaved an uncomfortable sigh of relief, which he might have taken for impatience. I kind of hope so.
I was pretty zombied out when I got back to the Department of Motor Vehicles Facility, resigned to whatever cruel fate Jesse White, with his sickly grin, might assign to me. I'm afraid I blacked out somewhat and lost track of time, but my next conscious moment I was outside on the way to my car with my new license plates under my arm, and a bunch less money in my pocket. It might have been an hour, it might have been five minutes. No, no, it wasn't five minutes.
But I was only an hour and a half late for work. I feel fine, but I have the sneaking suspicion that if anything unexpected happens, I'm just as likely to murder someone as eat lunch today. I guess we'll see.
I came prepared for everything. No let me rephrase that-- I came with the naive belief that it was possible to come prepared for everything. A hundred and twenty dollars cash burned a hole in my pocket. I had the car's registration, bill of sale, title deed, my brand new license, and confidence that I would be in and out in a jiffy. No, I'm kidding, of course I wasn't quite that naive, but I did expect it to be, if not efficient, at least straightforward.
And it all started out well enough: "Fill these two forms out, and take them to the registration desk." Ok, fair enough. I started filling them out, and after a few hiccups (calling home for the expiration date of the insurance policy, wtf?), I proceeded to the desk with almost half the forms filled out. The rest of the blanks I would need some help with, as they asked for my PL1J code, the Vehicle Constancy Reticential Didacticism Enrollment number, and I think the UPC for my soul. Luckily, these were all available for the paraprofessional at the desk (since I mortgaged my soul to the Secretary of State's office yesterday to get out of standing in another line). And I pulled out my wallet to hand her some cash, because I knew these offices only take the cold hard stuff.
"I'm sorry, sir, we don't accept cash."
I laughed politely at her clever joke, but I was a little impatient. Let's put the jokes aside.
"We only take checks and money orders. When you go to pay the cashier the $143 fee, you can use cash, but we can't take it for the transfer tax."
My laugh withered on my lips, and drifted through the stuffy air (can't we have some AC, people?) to the floor, where it was immediately swept up by a guy with one of those long-handled dustpans, to be taken in back and pinned up in their large collection, in an exhibit entitled "The DMV: where happiness goes to die."
"There's a 711 only a mile down the road. You can pick up a money order there."
Yeah, thanks. I can also hit up the ATM because I didn't even bring enough cash in the first place. A few minutes there, a few seconds asking for and paying for my money order, and then a long awkward pause while I waited... do I need a receipt? I've never gotten a money order before... Will this large man with the vanilla-ice-cream-twirl turban yell at me if I ask him, or just shake his head and laugh. Then he started helping other customers, and so I dumped a bunch of change on the floor so I would at least have something to do. At least I wouldn't be standing there awkwardly, I would be awkwardly scooping forty-six cents off the weird black rubber-velcro mats that 711s always have. But forty-six cents only takes so long. I was looking around, thinking I might have to upend a magazine rack, when he suddenly turned to me with a slip of paper and a here-you-go. I heaved an uncomfortable sigh of relief, which he might have taken for impatience. I kind of hope so.
I was pretty zombied out when I got back to the Department of Motor Vehicles Facility, resigned to whatever cruel fate Jesse White, with his sickly grin, might assign to me. I'm afraid I blacked out somewhat and lost track of time, but my next conscious moment I was outside on the way to my car with my new license plates under my arm, and a bunch less money in my pocket. It might have been an hour, it might have been five minutes. No, no, it wasn't five minutes.
But I was only an hour and a half late for work. I feel fine, but I have the sneaking suspicion that if anything unexpected happens, I'm just as likely to murder someone as eat lunch today. I guess we'll see.
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
well, I sneaked back in
just under the 2:30 mark-- 2:13 to be exact. First of all, the directions to the DMV called for a left turn on 84th St.. Guess what? It was a right turn. So that took about 15 minutes, just to find the place. And then after waiting in the information line for ten minutes, and the help line for fifteen, and the cashier line for about 8, I got to the front, ready to give them my money.
"Please tell me it's not cash only."
"Sorry"
"Please tell me where to find an ATM."
It was just around the corner, in a liquor store (which tempted me strongly). And then it was in, ten more minutes in the cashier line, eight minutes in the picture line, twelve minutes waiting for the picture to come through and the license to be printed.
"But, unfortunately, sir, this is not a full-service facility, and we cannot help you get new plates, or even temporary plates. Here is a list of full-service DMVs."
"And what is this?" I thought, "a half service facility? Oh, no, I get it, a half-assed service facility." And with that, I was out of the Secretary of States Department of Motor Vehicles, having completed half of what I had come to do, in a snappy hour and ten minutes.
And the gas guage lay on empty. Pull into a Citgo, go inside to pay, grab a Gatorade for lunch, and for the first time in two weeks, ask for a pack of Camel Turkish Silvers. Don't worry, though. They were out, so they gave me Camel Lights instead. And they were out of gas. How? I don't know, and I think if I had stayed around, the clerks arms would have ended up wound in a tight knot around his head, and mine would have ended up in handcuffs.
So it was up the block after a hairy left turn onto Harlem, across the street, into a Mobil. They had managed to deplete their entire reservoir of fuel as well, and the pumps, bar none, were out of service. Foul words gurgled in my throat.
By the time I paid thirty bucks for less than half a tank of gas, struggled through inexplicable traffic, and made it back to the highway, I was receiving messages from co-workers asking whether I was dead.
No, but that sounds nice, thanks for asking.
When I left, I half expected the experience to be a breeze. I mean, the DMV can't really be as bad as everyone makes out, right? No, wrong. So very wrong.
"Please tell me it's not cash only."
"Sorry"
"Please tell me where to find an ATM."
It was just around the corner, in a liquor store (which tempted me strongly). And then it was in, ten more minutes in the cashier line, eight minutes in the picture line, twelve minutes waiting for the picture to come through and the license to be printed.
"But, unfortunately, sir, this is not a full-service facility, and we cannot help you get new plates, or even temporary plates. Here is a list of full-service DMVs."
"And what is this?" I thought, "a half service facility? Oh, no, I get it, a half-assed service facility." And with that, I was out of the Secretary of States Department of Motor Vehicles, having completed half of what I had come to do, in a snappy hour and ten minutes.
And the gas guage lay on empty. Pull into a Citgo, go inside to pay, grab a Gatorade for lunch, and for the first time in two weeks, ask for a pack of Camel Turkish Silvers. Don't worry, though. They were out, so they gave me Camel Lights instead. And they were out of gas. How? I don't know, and I think if I had stayed around, the clerks arms would have ended up wound in a tight knot around his head, and mine would have ended up in handcuffs.
So it was up the block after a hairy left turn onto Harlem, across the street, into a Mobil. They had managed to deplete their entire reservoir of fuel as well, and the pumps, bar none, were out of service. Foul words gurgled in my throat.
By the time I paid thirty bucks for less than half a tank of gas, struggled through inexplicable traffic, and made it back to the highway, I was receiving messages from co-workers asking whether I was dead.
No, but that sounds nice, thanks for asking.
When I left, I half expected the experience to be a breeze. I mean, the DMV can't really be as bad as everyone makes out, right? No, wrong. So very wrong.
oh boy oh boy george
I am about to go to the DMV for a very complicated process. On my lunch break. Odds are, it will take two and a half hours and I will get fired. Stay tuned for updates. I might be screwed.
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