crack my doody up

This morning, the most hilarious thing happened to me. The hotel room alarm clock went off and scared the crap out of me since it doesn't sound like my normal alarm clock. My hand shot out and knocked over my closed water bottle which slammed into the alarm clock turning off the alarm and turning on the radio in the process. The alarm clock muttered, "Ee-ho-lay," in a creepy Mexican voice like it was pissed and then continued on in Spanish. Ee-ho-lay. I don't even know what the real Spanish words are. I am a bad Mexican. A disgrace to my people.

Later this morning at breakfast, another funny thing happened. I saw a few of my friends at a table and went to sit with them. There were some ladies from Kentucky at the table as well. When it was time for us to head off to our workshops, the Kentucky ladies left first and were saying good-bye. One said, "It was nice meetin' y'all. Bye." Another said, "Bye, y'all." This prompted a third to ask, "What do you say in California?" I shrugged and said, "See ya later? I don't know." One of my helpful friends said, "Later, dudes!" in a perfect Keanu imitation. So, the fourth Kentucky lady says, "See y'all dudes later!" We were freaking rolling at that one. It cracks my doody up every time I think it.

See y'all dudes later.

Kill, Part 2

You may recall this post in which I wrote that I could be driven to kill people who describe themselves as airheads or goofballs because it just seems like an excuse for them to act stupidly or inconsidertately toward others.

I nearly killed one of them today. If there hadn't been so many people around, I might have. I am at a conference and we were all in the ballroom, eating lunch and waiting for the keynote speaker. One woman who looks like Cher's wallflower alter ego with glasses and frumpy hair was annoying me right away just by speaking. There are some people who just immediately get on your nerves for no apparent reason. It wasn't long before she gave me a reason.

The main course was served. It was a very small chicken breast, some BBQ beef brisket (I am in Texas) and some random vegetables. Loser Cher asked the table at large, "What is the sauce on the chicken?" Several of us looked at the mysterious orange sauce and shrugged our shoulders. Loser Cher asked, "Does it have mustard?" A couple brave souls tasted the sauce and then shrugged their shoulders. I turned back to my lunch and tore into the brisket. Then next thing I know, Loser Cher was hacking and making a face like two-year-old refusing to eat broccoli.

I was thinking, Are you fucking kidding me? Don't eat it then, you big baby. She sipped her water, then her tea, then dug out a medicinal brown bottle and put drops on her tongue. I guess the drops didn't do whatever they were supposed to do because she got up and left. Another lady across the table says, belatedly, "I think it is honey mustard sauce." Loser Cher's friend says, "Cher is allergic to mustard." For fuck's sake! If you have a food allergy that is going to send you into a fit of dramatics, don't you think you should ask the server what kind of sauce is on something before you dig into it?

Later, and this is where I nearly killed Loser Cher, when the keynote speaker said something that inspired spontaneous, wild applause, Loser Cher, instead of clapping like a normal person, banged on the table to show her appreciation, in the process knocking over an emoty water glass and sending silverware flying. Her reponse? "I am such a space cadet."

Kill.

You Will Fall Down Today

I hate it when Yahoo! hasn't updated the daily horrorscope by the time I'm ready to know how my day is going to be.  I already know how yesterday was supposed to be. I need to know whether or not I should avoid the co-worker who is out to get my job or whether or not I should challenge him/her to a battle of wits.

Steve Poltz

Me, not being a hardworker and lacking something I keep hearing about called a "work ethic", I spend my time emailing random, semi-famous people. This one, surprisingly, emailed me back within the hour, which leads me to believe that entertainers are just like you and me, sitting at their computers trying to avoid getting anything done.

To: Steve Poltz
Subject: AK Song
Date: Mon 07/26/04 12:43PM

Steve,

I saw you perform about six or seven years ago in Anchorage, Alaska. You were opening for Jewel. The internet, not being then what it is today, contained no information about you whatsoever. Every couple of years I would remember that concert and remember your name and see if I could find out anything more. I was really glad to find your site the other day.

I played a couple of your songs for my husband, but he didn't really get it. I might have to divorce him.

At the concert with Jewel, you and she sang a duet that either had "rose" or "thorn" or maybe both in the title. Or maybe neither. Seriously, I might have been drunk at the time. Those were my college days.

Is that song, on the off chance that you know what song I am referring to, on any of your albums? If not, maybe you could just ring up Jewel and have her record it with you so that you can post it on your site just to please me. That would be great.

Tell Jewel I said hi. She might remember me from the concert. I was sitting about thirty rows back. The drunk one. Remember?

Thanks,
Michelle

------------------------------

To: Michelle
Subject: RE: AK Song
Date: Mon 07/26/04 1:17PM

hi michelle

the song to which you are referring is called "love is a rose." it was written by neil young and it is hard to find. but i am sure you will be able to. we never recorded it together or apart for that matter.

i remember that concert. i really had a great time there. i need to return. i hope this helps.

cheers
steve

tea

If you are not going to have a chai latte at your coffee bar, thus forcing me to order an iced tea in the morning, you should at least alert me to the fact that it is goddamned passion fruit tea before you charge me $2.17 for it and serve it to me you motherfucker.

Faster, dammit!

Listen up, slow talkers: I do not have time to sit around and listen to you as it takes you 10 minutes to painfully squeeze out the simplest of questions. Drop the "ums", "uhs", "likes", "you knows", "sos" and spit it the fuck out already.  If I can go to the bathroom, wash my hands, fix my hair (okay, I don't ever really fix my hair except for when I get up in the morning and even then, not always) and get back to my desk in the time that it takes you to ask a question, you need to speed it up. Chances are, I don't even really want to help you so if I also have to ask you questions just to figure out what the hell you're asking, it's not going to end well. I will likely sigh and talk to you like you're two years old or look at you like you're from Missouri. There's this little thing called forethought- think about it, formulate the (shortest possible) question in your head and then ask me. Don't try to do both at the same time. It's like drinking and then trying to operate heavy machinery. Dangerous.

hospitality

I hate it when I offer to do something for someone completely unsolicited and out of the goodness of my heart - yes, I have both goodness and a heart - and that person refuses my offer in an ungracious manner. Look, bitch, I was trying to help you out and do you a favor. If you don't want my help, fine, but at least be nice about it. Bitch.

Biggest. Peeve. Ever.

I hate it when I call some sort of customer service number and I enter information via the keypad and then when I finally get to speak to a person I have to repeat all the same information. Why the fuck did I have to enter it in the first place?

Ok, so maybe this isn't the biggest peeve ever, but it is a big one and it just happened so it is still fresh.

Peeved

Name calling, lines drawn in the sand, back biting, spilling secrets, reality shows - all very good things, especially when contained in an article that uses "peeved" in the headline.

... damn it! I just finished the whole article and it cuts off in the middle of a sentence. Peeved!

Elizabeth Edwards is ugly

Ok. This isn't a peeve, but more of a botheration, but not necessarily a botheration that I would hardly support. I'm speaking for 40 and 50-something (and some 30-something) women here. Have you seen VP candidate John Edwards' wife, Elizabeth?
Now, I'm not gay - not that there's anything wrong with that - but John Edwards is a pretty good looking guy (a heartthrob if you ask Michelle). And therefore I have to ask this question, how did he get stuck with this ugly woman? I mean, at least John Kerry had the sense to find a nice match, and a very rich one I might add. But the Edwards matchup does not make sense. For you guys out there having trouble understanding this, imagine if Anna Kournikova married that dude Jared from the Subway commercials. For most democratic women, this must be the severity of the situation.

Will this someday reach the magnitude of Barbara and the confusion over her and the guy on the Quaker Oats box? Only time will tell. I'm sure we'll hear more from the media about this as the election nears.

- Bomb -

Morton's

The husband and I had dinner at Morton's Steakhouse in Burbank tonight for our anniversary, which is tomorrow. There was some big shot television producer type sitting at the table next to us with his college-age daughter and her friend. He allegedly recounted a story about Mary-Kate Olsen. She had allegedly attended some sort of business dinner with him at a sushi restaurant. She allegedly went to the restroom for about 25 minutes and came back with some white streaks under her nose. Cocaine. Allegedly.

Also in the restaurant were two muckety gangstas from Def Jam Records. At one point they were both occupied by their cell phones at the same time. Very typically LA, as portrayed in movies. When we left, we walked by their table. One of the guys had diamond earrings the size of his earlobes.

We had a $50 coupon. Allegedly.

Coupling

I am a bit peeved that I raved and raved about Coupling on BBC America and told everyone I know that they should watch and love it as I have and now that it is in its fourth season (or "series" in Britspeak) is sucks a bit of ass. The first and second seasons were hilarious. The third season was very funny. The fourth season has jumped the shark with the introduction of a character named Oliver who is meant to replace the beloved Jeff. They should have known better than to name a new character Oliver.

Another peeve... British seasons are quite short. This one is only like six or eight episodes, four of which have already aired. That leaves precious few with which this show can redeem itself. I do still recommend seasons one through three, all of which are available on DVD.

Nitrous

I am not cut out for drug use. The nitrous that the dentist gave me (for free, so that I could try it out - like he was a dealer, trying to get me hooked) made me seriously loopy. At first I noticed that various parts of my face were losing feeling but it was like it was only on the outside, on my skin. The sensation began pulsating to some disco soundtrack I couldn't hear. I closed my eyes and became afraid that I would never be able to open them again. I was relieved to find that I still could, so I closed them again. Then I felt like I was paralyzed. My body wasn't moving. I told my arm to lift itself and it did. Another sigh of relief. Then the disco pulsing in my face started again.

The dentist came in and asked me if I was doing ok. I already had gauze and various Q-tips full of topical anaesthetic stuffed into my mouth, but my "uh huh" was easily understood. He asked if I was getting sleepy. I took stock of my body and answered, "I nuh no," and shrugged my shoulders. He left so I thought maybe that was the wrong answer and tried to be asleep. It was hard to fall asleep with the disco pulsing. I had the presence of mind to realize that I was freaking high and I understood why some people would like to do this recreationally.

The dentist came back in and tried to kill me. The paralysis was back, though, so I couldn't do anything but lie there and accept my fate. I was getting ready to make my final confession so that I could be sure to get into heaven when I realized he wasn't trying to kill me. The gun he was pointing at my head was actually a hypo full of novocaine. I'm glad I didn't say anything. It was at this point that I realized I wasn't cut out for drug use. I would totally be that paranoid drug addict who tapes hairs across the doors and has a secret knock.

Even realizing that I was in a state of drug-induced paranoia, I still thought the dentist might try to disfigure me. But he has celebrity clients! Surely I could trust a dentist who works on celebrities.

Things got really fast. The dentist seemed to be able to work at hyperspeed. I tried to sleep again. I woke up minutes or hours or days later and wondered if I was never going to get to leave. Time continued to defy all physics theories by speeding up and slowing down until I figured we must surely be nearing the end of this.

Some days later it was over. My entire face was numb and my traumatized gums looked like they belonged on a corpse. The dentist told the receptionist to go get me a diet coke to refresh them, which I thought was quite odd, but at least I have a medical sanction for my diet coke habit now.

The end result is that I now have healthy gums and the impressions of my teeth are on their way to Invisalign so that they can create my braces. The dentist asked me about my nitrous experience. No pain but I don't think the gas is for me.

Traffic

This listing of the 27 most wasteful road projects in America irks me. Surprisingly, only one of the projects can be found in California. This is the irritating part. At first you might think that it is because we have better planning here and so don't have wasteful road projects. Not so, my friends. It is simply because California is so freaking liberal that we are too busy spending money on illegals and saving naked mole rat habitats to spend a penny on improving roads and relieving traffic congestion.

This rant brought to you by the "It takes me 40 minutes to drive 16 miles to work" department.