Shto? Uzjas!

This morning, The White Stripes came on my iPod, and now I have the stupidest lyric running through my head:

"I got a backyard with nothing in it / except a stick, a dog, and a box with something in it"

Erm, what?

OK, first of all, I realize that The White Stripes are so last year, or two years ago, or whatever. Shove off. I still listen to Industrial, mkay?

Second of all, what the fuck kind of stupid-ass lyric is that? Apparently, it's the kind that burrows deep into your brain and shakes a shimmy on the butter.

Speaking of iPods, I read this neat post and have been thinking about what a great idea a wireless iPod would be. Good on ya, Christian.

Thanksgiving in Bumblefuck

Luis and I are leaving this evening to spend the holiday with my parents in Winchester, VA. God help us.

We'll be back and blogging on Sunday. Until then, Happy Turkey!

Bad Jokes

Yo mama's so ubiquitous, she everybody's mama! (Credit where credit is due to the Buttered Niblets.)

What's Jackie Chan's favorite drink?
Wa-taaaah!

So there are these two muffins in a pan in the oven. The first muffin turns to the second and says, "Whew! Is it hot enough in here for ya?" The second muffin says, "Oh my god, it's a talking muffin!"

And the worst (dorkiest) of all...
Three engineering students were sitting around talking between classes, when one brought up the question of who designed the human body. One of the students insisted that the human body must have been designed by an Electrical Engineer because of the perfection of the nerves and synapses. Another disagreed, and exclaimed that it had to have been a Mechanical Engineer who designed the human body. The system of levers and pullies is ingenious. "No," the third student said, "you're both wrong. The human body was designed by a Civil Engineer. Who else but a Civil Engineer would have put a toxic waste line through a recreation area?"

Anybody else have any bad jokes? Corniness never fails to make me smile.

Mes Cheveux

"Never [cut] your [hair], and [it] will soon become unlimited."
- Jean Jacques Rousseau

Since the moment of my birth, my hair has given me trouble. I was born completely bald and stayed that way through my second birthday. My mother, with a head full of curls, was understandably perplexed. Though he had already started to lose his hair, my father felt the same way. After all, this is a man who was the bass player for a 60s band called The Mohairs, because they had mo' hair than anyone else. How could their collective child be bald?

Once my meager hair began to come in, it was mousy brown and stick straight - the kind of straight that sort of globs together in clumpy, stringy strands, never falling in a shiny cascade like in the Pantene commercials. As a result, I spent most of my youth either in rollers or in the process of removing them. I remember my mother's disappointed face each time as the hairstyle she'd worked so hard to achieve fell right out of my stick straight hair. "Don't bounce," she would say through clenched teeth. No matter how still I was or how smoothly I walked, my hair would wilt like week-old roses.

When I did the pageants, I was onstage for only 5 or 10 minutes at a time during each portion of the competition, so I usually had ample opportunity to return to the dressing room and fix my wilting, hairsprayed disaster zone. My first ever panic attack was hair-related, and it happened the night before the interview preliminaries. I was crumpled on the cool tile floor of the hotel bathroom, sobbing my heart out because I could not decide whether I should re-dye my hair before the interview competition, or wait until the next night so that it would be freshly dyed for finals. Everything was slipping through my fingers - the competition, my sense of self, my sanity. I wound up dying my hair that night through tears and snot and puffy, bleary eyes. I didn't win the pageant that year. I didn't even make top 15.

I began my addiction to hair dye when I was thirteen years old, and it continued straight on through college. For most of those years, I was some version of a redhead. In my father's mind, I am forever fifteen years old, tall and lanky, with long, red hair (with fake curls at the bottom, of course). I think this is why he was so traumatized when my mother took me to Vidal Sassoon for my first real haircut before going off to college. I got the classic Sassoon cut, but without the bangs. Mom and I came home, and my father just looked at me, shook his head, and walked away. Then I dyed my hair black, and started packing my bags to leave him and my mother. I think it really was a cathartic moment in our relationship, as he switched modes from bossy you'll do what I want when I want it dad to needy, guilt-tripping dad. To rub salt in the wound, my freshman year of college I dyed my hair every color of the Manic Panic rainbow - sometimes several at once.

To this day, I get a meaningful look from my father every time I cut my hair, as though it is a personal affront to him. With every trim I get we are farther apart, and yet the older I get the more I learn to hold him close. After all, he may not be around for my next haircut, as his eyes seem to remind me every time we see each other.

I am getting a haircut on Saturday, despite the fact that I will be seeing my parents for Thanksgiving less than a week from now. This 1/3 blonde, 2/3 brown skunk look I'm presently rocking has outstayed its welcome. I can't wait to hear what dad won't say about it.

Schadenfreude

Yes, I know that this term has been done to death in the media of late (sort of like metrosexual, Fab Five™, and Yeeeeeargh!); however, there is no other term to describe the truly perverse pleasure I take in the discomfort of others.

Sadly, my schadenfreude extends not only to strangers, but also to loved ones - ostensibly people who I should be horrified to see hurt. I remember getting into awful giggle fits when I was a child because my mother had stubbed her toe and was making that untypeable, sucking in "Sssssss" noise. Why is that funny? I can't explain it, but I know that I'm cracking up just sitting here typing it.

When Luis and I first started dating, we were cuddling on his bed one night when he brought his head down really hard against the windowsill. Kersmack! True to form, I started laughing so hard I was crying. I kept trying to hold it in, but I'm sure he could tell because my whole body was shaking with the effort. I apologized and apologized, but I think I really hurt his feelings that night. (Sorry again, honey!)

The most memorable incident I can think of happened when I was a sophomore at Hopkins. Levering Hall held a partially below-grade cafeteria that was only open for breakfast and lunch. Jenny and I (or was I alone? I can't remember now) were approaching the entrance below the Glass Pav, which had about eight brick stairs leading down. It had been pissing rain all day, and I remember seeing this freshman (who had very recognizable magenta hair) coming out of the doors and starting up the stairs. He was carrying a big sandwich on a styrofoam plate with one of those plastic lids that never seems to stay in place, balanced atop a large soda cup. Naturally, the poor kid completely did a face plant on the wet slippery stairs, his sandwich exploding in midair and soda cup executing a fantastic triple flip before hitting the brick below. To this day, I crack up when I think of this incident. It happened so fast too - poor kid. I wonder if he remembers me as some gothy bitch who was laughing at him as he tried to pick up the remains of his lunch and his dignity.

Of ubiquitous bracelets and nonextant blue-drink

This weekend I was in Philadelphia for the bridal shower and bachelorette party of one of my dearest friends. What a fun time! The shower was held in a big mansion on the Cabrini College campus. My friend's mother really pulled out all the stops to make this a memorable and spectacular afternoon. She even made a donation to a breast cancer charity, and gave each attendee a bracelet to show our support. What a great idea! It's nice to know that her money went directly to the charity, unlike that other bracelet snafu. I'm wearing mine today, and I'm feeling very self-righteous and puffy. I am breast cancer-aware, yes I am.

The bachelorette party was a whole lot of fun and a little bit of scandal, which I won't detail here. Suffice it to say that I am exhausted, surprisingly un-hungover (actually not all that surprising due to the v. tragic exploding sour mix incident and ensuing lack of blue drink), and eager to see all my Hopkins friends again soon.

Chin-atown

- "What happened to your [chin]? Somebody slammed a bedroom window on it?"
-- "Nope. Your wife got excited. She crossed her legs a little too quick. You understand what I mean, pal?"
That was ridiculously dorky. I hope somebody, somewhere, got it.

So, the chin drama continues. I bought the aforementioned benzoil peroxide and have been applying it with great fervor. It seemed to be working quite well until yesterday, when I got a bit overzealous and slightly burned my skin. It doesn't sting or hurt, but it is reddish and very dry. When I smile, my chin feels tight.

Ye gods! When will my suffering end? To date, I have tried the following on the chin zit (which is really now much more of a red chin dot/scar than a proper zit, but no matter):
1) Mario Badescu drying lotion
2) Neosporin
3) Hydrocortizone cream (it went through an itchy, awkward pubescent phase)
4) Neosporin spot treatment, 2% salicylic acid
5) Rite Aid® acne cream, 10% benzoil peroxide

Is this not enough? When will I have burnt off whatever horrible face-karma I'm currently working through? This is because I didn't have pimples as a teenager, isn't it?

:: sigh ::

2:32am and counting...

So now I finally understand what it's really like to be a paralegal...

In the past week I've worked three 17+ hour days, today is shaping up to be #4, and there are still three workdays left in the week! The worst part is that this pace will keep going until about Thanksgiving, at which point I think I'll be able to retire off of my overtime pay, and maybe buy a little island in the South Pacific for Liz and I... That would be nice.

"Earth to Newman, Earth to Newman, do you read me? You're delirious again... Earth to Newman..."

"Yeah, yeah, I heard you the first time..."

"So act like it, already. Maybe you should have some more coffee?"

When I started here last October things were really slow for days, weeks and even months. I only got the occasional deal here and there, and nothing much was going on except for the usual menial tasks like photocopying, redacting, proofreading, etc. I even jokingly referred to myself as "the Deal Killer", since whenever I got assigned to a deal it went and died on me. "Dammit, man, I'm trying to save a man's life!" (gratuitous Baseketball quote) Ah, Trey Parker, Matt Stone, how I do love thee... Anyway, back to my bitching.

...well, actually, I think that was all the bitching I needed to get off of my chest. The work isn't hard, and most of the time it involves a lot of waiting around. At least they're paying me to be bored stiff circa 3am. Last night at about this time I went and photocopied my face, adding a text bubble and some words to the insomniac collage I was crafting. I have yet to decipher how to convert a PDF to a JPG on my work PC, or else that scan of my face would be all over this blog. Suffice to say that it is now on the invitation to our firm-sponsored paralegal happy hour next week. Kickass.

Alright campers, I'm pushing the 16.5-hour mark, and that means if I order a car now it'll get here in 15 minutes, which means I'll be getting home to a PTFO'd Liz just around 3am, exactly 17 hours after I got to work this morning. You know what that means?

COMP DAY #4!

Hee.

Yuna: Oh god! It hurts, it hurts!
Tidus: Mmm, is that chicken? Somebody's cookin' over there.

It's over

Well, after more than forty hours of gameplay, we have finally finished Final Fantasy X. I can say that it was, without a doubt, the best gaming experience of my life, and I never even picked up the controller. Watching Luis play was like sitting down for a fantastic movie I had never seen before, only the movie lasted over three weeks. My only complaint: by the time we got to the end, our party was so badass that the final bosses were a complete joke. It seemed a shame to put all that time in only to face a couple of pussies at the very end of it all.

This experience stands in stark contrast to another of my favorite games, The Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time, otherwise known as Zelda64 for the N64. Much to my chagrin, I have never beaten this game, though I have come woefully, pitifully, tragically close to doing so. As with most games, the final boss goes through a few permutations before dying completely. His first form is the most annoying, as you have to volley a light ball with him until one or the other of you gets tired and consequently zapped. Once you beat him down, he makes the castle collapse, and you only have a few minutes to make a mad dash out of there alive with Princess Zelda. Then, on the ruins of the castle, he turns into this big, black dragon devil thingy that is an ungodly pain in the ass. Clearly, the big, black dragon devil thingy is his final form. (Duh, Mommy. [More on this another time]) I was hacking and slashing away at him when he collapsed in a smoldering heap and Zelda screamed, "Deliver the final blow!"

Now.

What does "Deliver the final blow!" mean to you? Well, to me it goddamn well means that the next time I hit him, that motherfucker's going down. I suppose you don't need me to tell you that I was wrong.

I ran up to him, clobbered him good right in the kisser, and he mauled me to death. I hadn't bothered to heal because this was supposed to be the final blow, remember? Well, so much for that. My little guy kicked the bucket, and I've never been able to get back to that part again. I guess I just don't have it in me.

Just a quick thing before I hop in the shower...

Dubya: you da man.

12:30pm update - JK: to quote the great sociologist Ali G, "big up to you", sir, for not unnecessarily dragging this out.

Under Pressure

I believe that there are two types of people: those who pop their pimples, and those who do not.

Luis falls decidedly in the first category, nabbing those rogue bastards the moment they are visible. Before I met him, I was a non-popper, afraid of scarring and the pain of hunkering down for the big squeeze. Now, I'd say I'm sort of entre les deux... willing to pop when the situation is dire, but otherwise too fearful to "poke a skunk," as my mother would say.

I have had a minor... situation... on my chin for a long time now, and I'm convinced that it would not have evolved into such a predicament had I not popped it several months ago. You see, I think it's angry with me.

In order to truly appreciate this anecdote, you must understand that I'm pretty much categorically insane. I anthropomorphize everything, and pepper my daily activities with a sort of running monologue. My morning routine of feeding the cats consists of me talking half under my breath to the cats, their food bowls, the cabinet door, the cans of fancy cat food, and until recently, the little antibiotic pill that I would put in with Conan's food ("OK little guy, now I'm going to crush you up. There you go, here's some beef broth so you taste good.").

Poor, poor Luis, you are surely thinking. What did he do to deserve this madness? He must be a saint. But I digress.

I have had a running dialogue with my chin for many months now. "Please heal. Please. Oh god. Why are you red? Why why why?" Each morning, my chin responds with a hearty "You know what, lady? FUCK YOU. You went and poked at me in the first place." Then my tube of concealer horns in to the conversation. "Could you two shut up, please? I've got some major work to do here." This is nothing compared to the nighttime routine.

Tube of Neutrogena spot treatment: "Diediediediediedie!"
Chin: "Wooooofah! WTF? I was asleep!"
Zit: "Is that all you got?"

Today I read about the wonderful properties of benzoil peroxide. I think I'll give it a shot in lieu of the salicylic acid spot treatment. I have to say, this is exciting. I never had zits as a teenager, so this is a brave new world for me.

And now for something completely different...

First off, I'd like to say "Happy Eleven Months" to my one and only pup. It's been absolutely awesome, as I know it will continue to be. Ti amo, cara mia.

...and I'm glad she sees it my way. It's good to be right, but it's even better when you're right about something important, :-).

Sooooooo, as per my post's title (I think "As per your request..." and "Will do" are the phrases I use most often as I whore myself out to The Man every day, so why change a good thing...), something different: I got a haircut.

(DISCLAIMER: at no point in the current post's title or body did I promise something "interesting", only "different". Please for to direct all complaints and angry voicemails to 212-660-2245).

Yes, ladies (gentlemen?), the curls are gone, for now. I already envision the pep-talk I'll need to give Liz tonight when she starts pouting about my head's lack of curldom: "It's ok, honey, they'll be back in a few weeks..." Ah, if only I had a camera to delight my anxious audience with a pic... Maybe later.

But for now back to your regularly-scheduled programming, folks, whether that be the blissful nirvana of unemployment, the contemplative purgatory of pencil-pushing or the burning inferno of corporate law.

T-T-F-N.

Proud people breed sad sorrows for themselves

I woke up this morning, as I do most mornings, with a niggling sense of apprehension. My brain says to me, "Elizabeth Paige Austin (my brain addresses me like an angry parent), what are you going to do with yourself?" The meager reply I eke out is, "Feed the cats, get in the shower, wake up Luis, and then, maybe, I'll think about it."

I feel like time is slipping through my fingers like so much smooth sand. I desperately want to hold on to it, slowing its passage to a bearable speed, removing each grain deliberately until I am ready, finally, to let go of the entire handful. Instead, I grab errant fistful after fistful, waking up each morning with a sense that today should be my day, the day where I do something. It never is.

I am not proud of this. I am not proud of the fact that I didn't go to graduate school right after undergrad. I am not proud of the fact that I've abandoned so many of my dreams because of their perceived impracticalities. Most of all, I resent my own indecision.

Luis is always telling me to calm down, take a look around, and appreciate what I have. He doesn't need me to tell him he's right. I'll get there... eventually.