The bicycle debacle (or an utter lack of planning on my part).

So, I've been doing some walking lately. It's only 2 miles a day, but considering my heretofore sedentary lifestyle, it's a jump in activity. Walking is certainly not difficult, but I have learned over the past few weeks one thing: walking sucks. It's boring, it's slow, it totally sucks in every regard. As far as modes of transportation go, it's one of the least efficient. It takes me 15-20 minutes to go one mile. ONE MILE! That's nothing!

I decided that what I needed to complete my life was a bicycle. I used to ride my bike everywhere as a kid, to the point where I actually rode a dirt course with jumps and everything. It was a blast, and a decent mode of transportation. Bicycles are: fast, simple, fun. Walking: sucks. So, I pulled up my local craigslist and the search was on. My budget is not infinite, that's for sure, but in a college town with lots of people coming and going, surely an inexpensive bike wouldn't be hard to find, right?

I found several in my price range and sent out e-mails. I was antsy. I wanted to get a bike NOW, not tomorrow or a week from now. So, when someone did finally e-mail me back, I practically bought the bicycle in my head. He asked if I wanted to come see it, and I was like, "Uh... Yeah! Good idea!" I told him I'd have to stop by an ATM to get some cash out, but that I should be there within half an hour or so. I got in my Nissan Sentra and headed out.

Now, it would be an understatement to say that I'm frugal. I'm chintsy, I'm cheap. I don't like spending money. I buy generic, use coupons, shop sales. I have a deeply-rooted problem with fees such as ATM fees or night club covers. ATM fees because why the fuck should I have to pay you to get my money (my money that you loan out to others at exorbitant interest rates, I might add); club cover charges because why the fuck should I have to give you money to give you money? I want to come into your establishment to purchase some alcoholic beverages at an already ridiculously marked-up price. Take your cover and shove it.

Now, I bank with a credit union. I have been with this credit union since I was 16 and got my first job. I love their service. Through our eleven year business relationship, they have taken very good care of me. I've had three car loans through them (on my third now), a couple of small school loans, and of course they carry my checking and savings account. Though my credit isn't fantastic (I have some revolving debt that I can't quite pay off at this juncture, though I have never been late on a payment or anything like that), they gave me a really great interest rate on my most recent car simply because of how long I've been with them and my good history with this one company. Unfortunately, my credit union does not have a branch where I live now (in fact I think they only have branches in San Antonio and Austin). So, there are no free ATMs in my area. This isn't normally a problem because I can get cash-back at most places. Most. Places.

I needed gas, so I figured I'd stop by a gas station and fill-up, and get my cash-back there. It was Sunday but for some reason the gas station was very busy. I waited about 5 minutes and then saw a spot open up that I could get to. I looped around the pumps and headed towards the pump at the same instance that a woman showed up out of nowhere to take it. We were both pointed the same place and stopped short. Now, I had already been waiting and she had just pulled into the station. One of us was going to have to be the jerk. Either I let her be the jerk and I don't get what I want, or I be the jerk, and get what I want and have already been waiting for. So, I was the jerk. I didn't cut her off or anything, we had both stopped, but the choice came and I made it. Besides, the pump next to that one opened up, so I figured she would take that. She didn't, and instead pulled up behind another car. She rolled down her window and delivered a very sarcastic "Thank you" to me, which I completely ignored. I wasn't in the mood to argue, anyway.

So, I got gas and went to pay. The attendant told me they didn't do cash back. Great. I decided I'd stop by the grocery store across the parking lot and get a pack of gum or some trivial item (at least then I get something in exchange for the money, instead of paying $3.00 for nothing) and get cash back at the register. Apparently there was a football game going on later that afternoon, so the grocery store was packed. I waited in line about ten minutes, thinking the whole time that I would pay $3.00 to avoid all this hassle. When I finally did get to the register, I realised I'd left my damn wallet in the car. Irritated, I headed back to my car to find an ATM machine. I drove to the closest bank (some no-name local branch). I stuffed my card into the machine and put in my PIN. I requested cash and then... the transaction was declined. I can't adequately tell, in mere words, the emotion I was feeling at that moment.

There was a Wal-Greens across the street and I figured it'd be my last shot. I knew there was money in my account, I just had to GET to it, dammit. The transaction at Wal-Greens went flawlessly. There was no one in line and in fact I didn't see another customer the whole time I was there. I got a pack of mints and paid, the transaction was approved and I got $40 cash back (two twenties). I happily waltzed to my car, thinking of all the fun I'd have with my new bicycle. I hopped in the car, reversed out of the space and almost got completely out of the parking lot when I realise the seller of the bike would likely not have change for a twenty. He was asking $35 for the bike and I had the intention of asking if he'd take $30 instead. I would need change. So, back to Wal-Greens.

Forty-five minutes after leaving my house, I had a twenty, a ten and two fives and was headed to the guy's apartment complex. We met in front of his leasing office. I rode the bike a little bit to ensure it was mechanically sound, talked him down to $30 and paid for the bike. He left. I then spent the next fifteen fruitless minutes trying to get the bicycle in my car. It was physically impossible from any angle. It didn't fit in the trunk. The back seats don't fold down, so I couldn't do that and push it through from the trunk. It wouldn't fit in the back seat. The front seat wouldn't recline enough to squeeze it in there. I didn't have tools to dismantle the bicycle so that I could break it down and take it home. In short, there was no way for me to get this bicycle home aside from riding it, and I was about 15 miles from my apartment. Additionally, how the heck would my car get home?

I have no cell phone, so I couldn't call anyone from where I was at. I rode the bike to campus, where I tapped into their wifi with my iPod Touch and made a call to a friend who owns a truck. I explained to her that I was on campus, with a bicycle, and didn't know how to get it home. She asked some questions that didn't make sense to me until I realised that she was completely confused. "How the hell did you end up on campus with a bicycle without your car?!" she asked. I then explained the whole story to her, she laughed at me and finally I was able to go home. I got the bike home, got a lock for it and it was good to go.

I've been riding it to work every day which is 2 miles, total. The 2 miles I was walking. It takes HALF the time and is by far more fun. When school starts, it'll be nice to have a bicycle on campus. I'll get more riding in, too, because I will be taking classes at Blinn Community College on Tues/Thurs which is only about a mile from my house. So I envision I'll be riding to Blinn and back home, then putting the bike on my bicycle rack on my car, driving to where I park near campus and bicycling another 2 miles (one in and one out) on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and then on M/W/F get my straight two miles from my car and back. So, that's 14 miles a week, not including recreational riding. As I get into better shape, I can totally see myself hitting some biking trails. That shit is straight fun.

I believe I have discovered the lowest of lows:

Drinking $5 wine through a Twizzler.

That is all.

Conquerer of Worlds

So, this is sort of a continuation of last week's "theme" (not that we really have themes around here, but it's a nice thought). The so-called "great" outdoors have almost unconditionally ended up humiliating me at the least and injuring me at best. But recently I've been sort of looking for a hobby that doesn't involve the internet and I've been tossing a few ideas around in my head. I decided that I wanted to go fishing. Fortunately for me, my cat woke me up at 6:30 AM on a Saturday. Wide awake and with not much to do, I decided to hit up the local garage sales to see if I could procure a fishing pole. I found one and headed to a sports store for a basic, starter tackle kit and a fishing license. I came home and Googled nearby fishable waterways. By 10:30 that morning, I was on Gibbons Reservoir with a couple of beers, fishing gear, and a large plastic bucket. My genius idea was to put the fish I caught (if any) into the bucket.

The goal of this was to be as self-sufficient as possible. I would catch, clean, cook, and eat my own fish. From the water. Myself. I would be a God and the fish-people would ever-cringe at the sound of my name. Conquerer of (watery) Worlds. Let's completely ignore the fact that the last time I went fishing, I was probably eight years old or so, and my father did all the actual work. Let's completely disregard the point that I have never cleaned a fish let alone put a knife into a living thing in my entire life and in fact the very thought of merely hooking a worm makes me squeamish. I was determined. I was going to do this with little-to-no knowledge and with no assistance. I was going to kick this reservoir's ass.

So I asked the lady at the park entry where a good place to catch bass was. This reservoir is stocked with bass and catfish and of the two, I'd prefer bass. Additionally, I recall once trying to catch catfish with my father and we'd had to use a special bait and everything and we didn't catch shit, so I figured I'd be better off going for bass. The woman advised me to fish along the coastline and so I parked and found a nice spot near some guys who were fishing. I figured if they were fishing there, maybe they knew something I didn't know. I was wrong (and so were they), because after half an hour, neither of us had caught anything. I mean, it would have been one thing if they'd caught something and I hadn't or vice-versa, but not even a nibble for either of us that whole time. So, I moved further down. Another half hour passed without a catch. I'd gotten a nibble, but the fish got away with half my nightcrawler (which I was somewhat upset about because I'd just finished overcoming my squeamishness of hooking them and I was learning you really had to hook them, like several times so the hook runs all through their little wormy bodies to keep them on the hook).

It hadn't really occurred to me that I might not catch anything. I was feeling a bit let down but I decided to move wayyyyy further down, closer to the dam and try again. I thought, these fish probably ate earlier this morning and maybe they're just not hungry yet (what? I don't know shit about fish eating habits, okay?), and maybe if I'm patient they will get hungry again and I'll catch something. Additionally, I added more weight to the line so I could cast further out, and moved the bobber up so that the bait would go deeper into the water. I mean, I'm just guessing at this point and learning as I go, but I figured, "What I'm doing now isn't working, let's change things," and so I did.

It paid off.

A few minutes in I got a nibble. Then another. They were taking bits of my bait but there was still enough to cast with. So, I cast again. At this point, I could see the fish almost literally jumping out of the lake. They were snagging unwary flies who landed on the water for a drink. They were hungry. I got a bite, tugged hard and hooked a fish! I was ECSTATIC. The weight of the fish fighting against the pole was a great deal more than I'd anticipated, and my pole bowed down almost as if honoring the fish for its struggle.

I had caught a catfish! I was awesome! I was queen of the land and seas! All creatures would bow before me!

Wait. What the fuck do I do now?! I got the fish and he's struggling, he's sort of in the shallows flopping around and I'm thinking, what did my dad do? Oh yeah, we had a line. He would put them on a line and keep them in the water until we were ready to leave. Line, line, line, do I have a line? I'm searching around me and I notice in my tackle kit there's a small blue rope that's about 6 feet long and has a round loop on one end and a metal stake at the other end. Aha! I remember now! You run the stake through the gill of the fish and out its mouth, then through the round loop and then stake it into the grass on the edge of the water. Perfect! I ran the stake through the gill opening, then through the loop, and then literally had the fish on a leash. That's when I realised I was on a cement embankment and there was absolutely no earth to shove the stake into.

At the same time, I didn't want to leave after all that work with just one fish. A relatively big fish for freshwater fishing, but still, just one fish. The whole time I'm trying to figure this out I'm holding the "leash" and the fish is trying to swim away. Awkward for everyone involved. So, I filled the bucket with water and put the fish in the water. But it was really hot, and the water would get hot, so I knew it wouldn't be a good idea. I put Mr. Fishy back in the lake and then it occurred to me that the bucket was heavy now that it was full of water. So, I put the bucket in the shallows and tied the rope to the bucket handle. It worked! Totally ghetto, but effective.

I cast my line and ended up catching two more catfish. How I wasn't catching bass, I have no idea, but fish is fish! I realised that if I wanted to keep them alive until I got them home, it was time to call it a day because I was out of room in the bucket. Now, about this bucket. It's one of those big, square ones that you get bulk cheap laundry detergent in. Through an incredible lack of planning, I didn't have any sort of lid for it. So, I have this bucket that's 3/4ths of the way full of water, with three live fish flopping around in it, and I've got to get it home -- about 30 minutes away -- without spilling water or fish all over my car. I was thinking about this as I was lugging everything back to the car (a half-mile or so walk). It was a difficult walk because the bucket & fish were quite heavy and on top of that I was carrying a small ice chest, a tackle box and a fishing pole.

Anyway, the most satisfying part of the day was when I was walking past the guys who I'd been fishing near originally. Here I am, a girl by myself who hasn't "gone fishing" since she was a child, learning the fine art of fishing as she goes. And they're three dudes who have expensive fishing poles and tackle gear and probably years of hobbyist experience. They hadn't caught shit. They asked me if I'd caught anything and I showed them my bucket 'o fish with pride. I was nice enough to not tell them this was my first time out fishing. They started asking me questions about my "technique" and my bait and such, and I tried to answer them without sound like so much of a noob (to avoid their embarrassment, not my own).

I got the fish home. The bucket fit snugly between my passenger seat and the glove compartment part of the dash, and was secure the whole way home. I covered it with a white hand towel, to keep the fish out of the hot sun and to help mitigate any splashes. At home, I carted the bucket into the kitchen, broke out the cutting board and my sharpest knife. I had read up a bit on fishing before I left the house, and many guides advised a swift blow to the head to kill the fish. I didn't want the fish to suffocate, that's unduly cruel, and I certainly didn't want to cut into them live. I have a large knife so I flipped it around so the blunt end was out. I held the fish firmly in my hand and brought the blunt edge down with a loud whack. See, I was expecting a thud, but here was a whack. What the hell?

Catfish, as it turns out, are one of the most difficult fish to clean. Their spines (?) run from their tail way up into their head and so there's bone protecting them. Or something. I don't know. All I knew was that I had a live fish and I didn't know what the fuck to do with it. Eventually, the fish did die. I wasn't tremendously happy with the way that it died, but it was dead and that was what I wanted. Now, to clean it. I looked up a video on youtube. It looked simple enough. I just wanted the filets because I'd read that the belly meat would be where all the toxins (if there were any) would be. I gripped the knife firmly in my hand, placed it against the fish, and proceeded to freak the fuck out. How could I do this? I had been steeling my nerves about this all day long, trying to prepare myself for that moment and the moment had come and I was lacking.

I paced. I pondered. Let's say I don't cut up the fish. What do I do with them? It seemed intrinsically wrong to have fished them out of the water, kept them on a leash, brought them home in a big bucket only to throw them in the dumpster or something. I didn't know anyone who could clean a fish or who would even want to try. What was I supposed to do with these fish?

No. I had to do this. I couldn't just give up. All my hard work, all for nothing? Not going to happen. I reached deep down inside and came up with some courage and I fileted the fuck out of those fish. I probably did a poor job, once I get more practice in I will be better, but in the end I got three good size filets and enough catfish bits for a meal or two. I made a fish fry with cornmeal and spices and dredged them in the mix. I fried up one filet and put the rest in the fridge.

They were delicious. Here's the bad boys in question, in order of catch:

Next up: Irate Irrelevance vs a bicycle -- HOW WILL IT END?!

Outdoors

I am not the "outdoorsy" type. It doesn't even matter how you define "outdoorsy," because however you define it, if you met me, you would know with a startling immediacy that I am not it. I don't hike very well. Jogging has resulted in no less than two of my three sprained ankles in the space of two years. Skiing? Forget the fact that I'm hundreds and hundreds of miles away from the nearest slopes, skiing is simply not for me. Same for snowboarding, obviously. Waterskiing, skating, bicycle riding, hang gliding, or any number of outdoor activities I complete with a frightening amount of dangerous incompetence. Even walking can sometimes be troublesome and before I know it, I'll end up face forward on the pavement.

I'll try to be brief, because my incredible and outstanding inability to function outdoors is actually not the point of this post, but I want to relate to you the last time I attempted anything serious outdoors. This was back when I was with he-who-shall-not-be-named II, and we thought it would be a fine idea to go camping. Camping is pretty simple, right? You pitch a tent, get a little fire going, have some s'mores, get ridiculously drunk and have rowdy sex which most certainly annoys any neighboring campers. How difficult could it be? And to top it off, it's fairly inexpensive, as far as vacations go, as long as you already have the gear. So, I borrowed some of my parent's camping gear. I was directed that it was in the family storage unit, and given the key. I retrieved everything that was available, and we picked up a few things at Wal-Mart (outdoor camping stove, metal skewers, beer, etc). We checked the weather and, though it was winter time (mid-November) found it to be favorable in the mountains of West Texas. We hopped in the car early and headed out to Fort Davis, Texas (which as you can see is in the middle of fucking nowhere).

We caught an early evening star show at the McDonald Observatory (which was amazing) and during the show we noted that it was actually quite cold. We were seated on cement benches and we were sorely underdressed for the occasion. Regardless, we left the Observatory and drove the short distance to Davis Mountains State Park. We found a campsite and, using two lanterns and the headlights of our car, set up camp. There were some problems. For example, the tent that I thought I'd grabbed (you know, the one with room for roughly 8 people if you're on pretty friendly terms) ended up being a one-person pup tent. I had inadvertently grabbed the wrong tent; I didn't even know they had more than one! If you've never been in a one-person pup tent, allow me to guide you, through the power of your imagination, into being in one. Pretend you're lying on the ground. Your arms are at your side, but you cannot move them away from your body -- there is simply not room. The roof of the tent slopes downward from the top (which is behind your head) and touches your nose. Your feet stick out the end. Now, imagine that except with two people. Even if you're EXTREMELY familiar with the other person, this is not going to be a comfortable position.

At this point, it was roughly 36 degrees. The weather had promised an invigorating but manageable 38 degrees, even in the mountains. We started a fire. I could write a blog in itself about getting the fire started but suffice it to say it was nearly impossible (even though we had lighters) and one of us got a third degree burn (not me). When we finally DID get the fire going well enough that we felt it was safe to exhale and not worry that an errant breath would put it out, the fire itself illuminated about three feet in any given direction from it. On the outskirts of that three feet were at least four javelinas. Javelinas, if you didn't know, are wild boars. Not pigs. Boars. They are not Wilbur from Charlotte's fucking Web, they are vicious animals that could quite literally tear you into pieces and would probably eat off you while you were still alive if given half the chance. So, that was intimidating, although the fire seemed to keep them at bay.

It was cold. Very cold. We had no way of knowing how cold, but we were huddled up by the fire. Despite the chill, we were determined to drink a bit and toast some marshmallows, have some s'mores, as that was the plan. We did this for maybe thirty minutes but we were quite exhausted by this point, so we decided to try to get some sleep. This would prove to be 100% impossible for me. First of all, it was REALLY cold. The ground was cold, my toes were cold, my face was cold and my fingers were cold. Second of all, we didn't fit very well in the tent, despite being okay with being completely smushed into each other. It just wasn't working. I felt a tinge of claustrophobia at being in a space so small, my arms folded on my chest like the living dead, my breath hanging in the air. I snuggled under the sleeping bag, but my breath on the bag caused precipitation to form and freeze on the inside of my sleeping bag.

I didn't sleep, and eventually moved to the car. This was not much better. By this point, my toes were tingling, my fingers were sore and my face was numb. I could have tried to turn the car on for heat, but I couldn't leave it on all night long and I'm certain the warm air would just cause more precipitation as it faded, making me even more chilled. We could have gotten up and left, but where would we have gone? We were in the middle of nowhere, and even the state park wasn't staffed by anyone this late at night. I ended up spending the next eight hours wide awake, wondering if I'd get feeling back in my toes or not.

At the slightest hint of sunlight over the edge of the west Texas mountains (the sun rises there an hour later than it does in San Antonio, I might add), with just the faintest hint of a hazy light, we were both up immediately. We didn't so much as break down camp as we tore everything down, wrapped it up and shoved it into the trunk of the car. There was no sense of care, no organisation, we didn't even put the tent back in the box, just scrunched it into a ball and tossed it in the trunk with the lanterns, stakes, cooler, chairs and anything else we had brought with us. In the three-and-a-half minutes it took us to tear down the campsite we had the car running, and jumped in, our fingers numbed. I should also add that the gallon of water we'd brought with us to drink from during our camping trip was frozen solid. We later found out that according to the weather (mind you, this is the same weather that told us it'd be a "low of 38˚") the temperature had gotten down to 22˚ that night in the mountains.

We drove to Fort Davis which was a ghost town. Nothing was open - not even the gas station ("convenience" store, my ass). We drove to the next nearest town, Marfa. It was a 35 minute drive, if I recall correctly. We were both positively exhausted. Cold, dirty, tired, hungry and grouchy, we pulled into Marfa and found a greasy spoon. They could have served us cold lard and I'm fairly certain we would have taken it gratefully so long as it came with a cup of hot coffee and was served in a heated building. We spent the remainder of our weekend vacation in Aspen, Tx which was having a pretty nice little art show in town, and had good live music at a fun little dive bar. The rest of the trip was great, and the observatory was fantastic, but seriously: fuck the outdoors.

So, that whole thing wasn't the point of this post, but I've put enough here that I think I'll save it for later. Next time: I get a wild hair up my ass and decide to learn to fish (by myself)!

Let's talk politics.

As a head's up, I can't talk politics without almost literally foaming at the mouth, but here we go:

I don't purport to know everything, but I do know one thing: While the President of our nation is responsible for a lot and could certainly be culpable for a lot, not EVERYTHING is Obama's fault. The people who are blaming the President for the BP oil spill are the exact same people who sported the "Drill here, drill now, pay less" bumper stickers, so shut the hell up. It's called BRITISH PETROLEUM not OBAMA BIN LADEN NAZI MUSLIM FASCIST KILL AMERIKKKA COMPANY. Obama is not a magical fairy who can wave a wand and make a major national disaster disappear.

So let's talk about the "slavery law!" Because HAHA BLACKIE PRESIDENT WANT US TO BE SLAVES TO GET REVENGE ON THE WHITE MAN! You are so enlightened, please tell us more! And while you're at it, go ahead and include the requisite, "i'm not racist but..." statement, okay? Let's talk about the "slavery" bill:

"The slavery bill is currently in debate in the House Committee on Armed Services chaired by Rep Ike Skelton a democrat from Missouri. Those who oppose mandatory slavery should contact Rep. Skelton. Many bills die in committee and this bill should meet the same fate." (taken from http://www.prisonplanet.com/h-r-5741-slave-bill-now-in-committee.html)

Very similar bills were proposed in 2003, 2006, and 2007. Visit: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Conscription_in_the_United_States and please read the paragraph titled, "Conscription controversies since 2003" to get a full and illustrious history of how many other people have attempted to get this bill to pass.

OH MY GOD EVEN WHILE BUSH WAS IN OFFICE OMG OMG OMG NAZI HITLER MUSLIM TERRIST BLACKIE! HE IS IN CAHOOTS WITH OBAMA SAMA BIN LADEN!!!!

Additionally, Obama cannot wave aforementioned magic wand and CREATE A LAW. PRESIDENTS DO NOT MAKE LAWS. That's what our LEGISLATIVE BRANCHES DO. Legislation is a fancy word for MAKE LAWS. At worst, all the President can do is an executive order. Please visit http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Executive_order_(United_States) to read up on executive orders and you will plainly see that this is not one of them.

Obama did ask for a bill on NATIONAL SERVICE. Who knows what that could mean? That is broad term and could mean any number of things from roadside cleanup to STRAPPING ON BOMBS FOR KILL INFIDELS!!!

I'm sorry, I'll shut up now so you can go back to blaming everything on the President. Ants on your lawn? PRESIDENT HUSSAIN OBAMA BIN BABY KILLER! Crime in the cities? Why gosh, that must be because of NAZI FASCIST OBAMARAMA! A SENATOR IS TRYING TO LEGISLATE A LAW THAT I DON'T LIKE AROIHAUOIHGDIAUDGIG OBAMAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!@!!!!!@#!@$one!

Oh, and if you don't like this law, please go here: http://www.house.gov/skelton/ and contact Rep. Skelton to oppose it. That might actually do some good, instead of screaming about Obama, which does nothing but make you feel better and alleviate the feeling of responsibility you have about what happens in this country because you have a scapegoat. Like all Presidents before him and all Presidents to come, the people of America only vote for pretty lies and someone to point the finger at when those lies don't happen.

You can also go here to write your representative if you don't live in Missouri: https://writerep.house.gov/writerep/welcome.shtml

So, I found this today: Omnivore's Hundred. Being a bit of a foodie, I thought it'd be neat to go through their list and cross of things I've already eaten. Let's see how tame my tastes really run!

1. Venison
2. Nettle tea
3. Huevos rancheros
4. Steak tartare
5. Crocodile
6. Black pudding
7. Cheese fondue
8. Carp
9. Borscht
10. Baba ghanoush
11. Calamari
12. Pho
13. PB&J sandwich
14. Aloo gobi
15. Hot dog from a street cart
16. Epoisses
17. Black truffle
18. Fruit wine made from something other than grapes
19. Steamed pork buns
20. Pistachio ice cream
21. Heirloom tomatoes
22. Fresh wild berries
23. Foie gras
24. Rice and beans
25. Brawn, or head cheese
26. Raw Scotch Bonnet pepper
27. Dulce de leche
28. Oysters
29. Baklava
30. Bagna cauda
31. Wasabi peas
32. Clam chowder in a sourdough bowl
33. Salted lassi
34. Sauerkraut
35. Root beer float
36. Cognac with a fat cigar
37. Clotted cream tea
38. Vodka jelly/Jell-O
39. Gumbo
40. Oxtail
41. Curried goat
42. Whole insects
43. Phaal
44. Goat’s milk
45. Malt whisky from a bottle worth £60/$120 or more
46. Fugu
47. Chicken tikka masala
48. Eel
49. Krispy Kreme original glazed doughnut
50. Sea urchin
51. Prickly pear
52. Umeboshi
53. Abalone
54. Paneer
55. McDonald’s Big Mac Meal
56. Spaetzle
57. Dirty gin martini
58. Beer above 8% ABV
59. Poutine
60. Carob chips
61. S’mores
62. Sweetbreads
63. Kaolin
64. Currywurst
65. Durian
66. Frogs’ legs
67. Beignets, churros, elephant ears or funnel cake
68. Haggis
69. Fried plantain
70. Chitterlings, or andouillette
71. Gazpacho
72. Caviar and blini
73. Louche absinthe
74. Gjetost, or brunost
75. Roadkill
76. Baijiu
77. Hostess Fruit Pie
78. Snail
79. Lapsang souchong
80. Bellini
81. Tom yum
82. Eggs Benedict
83. Pocky
84. Tasting menu at a three-Michelin-star restaurant.
85. Kobe beef
86. Hare
87. Goulash
88. Flowers
89. Horse
90. Criollo chocolate
91. Spam
92. Soft shell crab
93. Rose harissa
94. Catfish
95. Mole poblano
96. Bagel and lox
97. Lobster Thermidor
98. Polenta
99. Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee
100. Snake

52/100! Not too shabby, really! Where do you land on the Omnivore's Hundred?

Busy Weekend

I had a busy, productive, and good weekend. I went to San Antonio to visit my parents and get some work done on my car. I have neither the tools nor the know-how to work on my car solo, but my dad's pretty knowledgeable and what he doesn't know, the Haynes Service Repair Manual can fill in. So I drove out Friday morning with my kitty in tow. Last time I went out for 2-3 days I had worried the entire time about the cat being home alone. I know it's retarded, I do. But what if something happened? What if there was a fire or gas leak? What if the maintenance guys had to repair something and when they came into the apartment, he escaped and got hit by a car or something?

It's a three hour car drive, and though I know my cat has severe car-anxiety issues, I figured after the first hour or so he'd settle down and get over it. Could not be more wrong. He was freaked. First he started crying, mewling loudly and pitifully. This lasted over half an hour. Then he started panting. Like a dog. While he was panting, he started drooling and foaming at the mouth. His strings of drool were like six inches long, hanging out of his mouth, thick and stringy. It was gross. He was freaking the fuck out. Then he peed on the seat. Looking back, I am not sure why I didn't take precautions to protect the seat in my car, but I didn't. Now my car smells like urine. I will likely have to replace the seat.

I arrived in SA a bit frazzled, to say the least, but all in all it was a good weekend. I got the things done on my car that needed to be done. We replaced the brake pads (my dad showed me how to do one and I did the other - yay me!), replaced a bolt in the wheel that had been stripped, put in a new horn (have to pass inspection!) and put on new windshield wipers. I am really bad about wipers, I have at one point let them get so worn down that they scratched the windshield. I don't drive in rain if I can help it, but it happens on occasion. Then I took the car in to have the safety inspection and an oil change done. There was this very attractive Dykey McDykerton working at the Jiffy Lube. She had on boyish clothes and her head was shaved, but she had a very pretty face, nice eyes and the world's most perfect teeth. Teeth are important, okay? I mean, they were like movie star teeth. White, straight, perfect. Then I took the car home and gave it a bath, washing it top-to-bottom by hand. By the end of the afternoon, I was sweaty and gross and overheated. It felt great to take a dip in the pool.

Sunday night my friend Jessica and I hit the gay strip on Main St. near San Antonio College. We started out at Luther's, a burger joint that's been there since the 40s, if I recall correctly. We hit up four different bars and somehow magically no one was charging cover AND they all had rocking drink specials (I think it was $1 for well drinks or something ridiculous like that). We even got to catch the drag show at The Saint which was a lot of fun. They had some very talented "ladies" on stage that evening.

I got in late but was up early'ish the next day, ready to head home. This time, I wised up in regards to the cat. I did a bit of Googling for the right dosage, and in the end gave him 2ml children's Benadryl. He was calm and collected the entire ride home. There was a bit of panting here and there but he was much more relaxed, such that he sat in the seat next to me (atop a towel, which was atop a plastic trash bag to protect from additional accidents) and I was able to pet him the entire trip home.

So it was a good and productive weekend, I'm glad I was able to get so much done. More good news -- my roommate was approved and this weekend, we're signing the paperwork. Hooray! I want to say I can relax but I don't want to give the fates something to toy with.

Massive Ass

I am exceptionally good at making a huge ass out of myself. It's not even by doing or saying ridiculous things. On the contrary, what will happen is that something I end up saying or doing ends up being unintentionally horribly offensive to whomever I'm speaking to. I stress unintentionally because when I am trying to be a dick that is all good and fine, but there have been so many instances where I've just said the wrong thing at the wrong time to the wrong person, or a situation where a simple mistake makes me look like the World's Biggest Asshole^® when I'm totally not TRYING to be an asshole. You want examples? O-kay.

^{Case #1 - Insulting the Dead Girl's Brother}

^{So back in the day when I went to church -- I know what you're thinking, it's a wonder the Lord allowed such a sinful deviant in the building, but whatever -- there was a girl that I was acquainted with named Emily. Now, Emily was a sweetheart; a genuinely nice person. Emily's brother, however, was not. Dude was a total dick. He was mean-spirited and an all-around jerk. He didn't go to church though, at least not most of the time. One Sunday happened to be his birthday and our youth advisor had brought cupcakes or something just in case he was there. he wasn't, but we enjoyed the cupcakes anyway. I bumped into Emily in the hallway after (she was older than me and so in a different class, and therefore did not get any delicious cupcakes). I said, "We celebrated your brother's birthday in class today, even though he's not here."}

^{She took a step back, mouth open, a look of shock on her face.}

^"What?"

^{"Your brother? The big jerk? We celebrated his birthday today in class." I repeated, raising an eyebrow.}

^{"Who... Who do you think I am?" she stammered.}

^{I was completely confused at this point.
"You're Emily. Emily Johnson."}

^{"No. My name's Jennifer, and my brother died a year ago this week." she got the last part out as her voice cracked, tears rushed to her eyes and she fled the scene.}

^{You just can't recover from that. You can't apologize for that. I didn't know it wasn't Emily, she looked EXACTLY like Emily (seriously, they could have been twins, and I'd never met this girl before). So let's review the facts, here:}

It was during the week of the 1-year-anniversary of her brother's death.

I referenced how her dead brother was "not here."

I called her dead brother a "big jerk."

This was all unintentional. I had no intention of hurting anyone and in fact Emily and I had often talked and joked about what an ass her brother was. This was not Emily. This was Jennifer. Jennifer's brother is dead. Way to go, assface.

Case #2 - If Jesus Was Standing There

Speaking of religion and religious people, at one point in time I worked at Applebee's with a girl whose name I think was Kara. Kara was what I'll refer to as a "true Christian." Kara was kind to everyone, did not judge, always seemed to be happy and was in general a real pleasure to be around and work with. She did unto others, she was sweet, helpful and just all around a good person -- she was not at all hypocritical. I have LOADS of respect for that. She is following and living her faith. A living, breathing example of what the word "Christian" is supposed to mean. Loads of respect.

So, around Kara I tried to stifle my inherent misanthropy because, unlike most humanoids, she was not deserving of my ire. And actually, everyone did that around her. I don't want to say we used "kid gloves" because it wasn't a condescending sort of thing, it was just that we all respected her enough to mind our mouths around her and if you've ever worked in the food industry, you know that's quite a feat.

One day the boys were joking around in the back and sort of talking shit when I came into the kitchen. I joined in and one made a mean comment at me (all in jest). I don't remember what the comment was, but my reply to him was a flippant"Don't worry, I forgive ya." This was said just as Kara walked into the kitchen. She smiled and said, "That's great! That's what Jesus would do." with a huge smile on her face.

I know. I KNOW what you're thinking but shut the fuck up. She was being genuine, okay? Loads of respect. I'm being serious.

Anyway, we all went about our business and everything was hunky-dory. Fast-forward to the dinner rush. Tables are full, people are waiting to be seated and it's all rushrushrush. I should interject here that I was a terrible waitress. I have the memory of a fucking goldfish, so my service was tremendously bad. Someone would ask me for mayonnaise, or something, and on the way back to the kitchen I'd be like "mayonnaise, mayonnaise, mayonnaise" so that I wouldn't forget, but then someone would ask me for a tea or something and I'd be like "tea, tea, tea" and completely forget about the mayonnaise. Because of this deficiency, I was CONSTANTLY rushing around like a chicken with my head cut off and simultaneously apologizing because I'd forgotten someone's something. I did not wait tables for long, believe me.

Anyway, another set-back was that we only had one soda fountain, so if you needed drinks for your table and someone was currently getting drinks for their table, you'd have to wait. And we were busy, so busy. I was pushing hard because you just get the WORST tips when you're a bad waitress, but that's pretty much all you get, so I'm rushing around like a madwoman trying to get everything. I had a drink order that had to be filled, but Kara was carefully filling her drinks in front of me, setting them on the tray next to her. She must've had a full table, too, because she had several sodas to make.

I want to explain that I don't have to go out of my way to be mean, but rather, I have to go out of my way to be nice. I'm just naturally set to "mean-spirited," and if I'm not paying attention to what I'm saying, mean shit will come out. It's tiresome to constantly have to censor myself so normally I don't do it. I guess what I'm trying to explain is that my default setting kicks in when I'm on autopilot, which I most certainly was at that point in time.

My mouth opened and before I could stop it, the words tumbled out...

"If Jesus was standing there, he'd move."

Oh yes. Yes I did. I said it.

She turned on one heel, her eyes wide open, clearly offended. Her face darkened and she said, coldly, "You have no right to belittle my faith."

And she was ABSOLUTELY RIGHT. I had no right! No right at all! I sputtered an apology, clearly humbled, but really... What a shitty thing to do. I will add, however, that my friends think this was hilarious and it's one of their favourite stories.

Case #3 - The Lame Foot Drag

This one's old. I know there are more recent examples (probably even more offensive ones), but I can't think of them so I'll toss this one in 'cuz it's quick and easy. I don't like shopping and I've never liked shopping, but at one point when I was a teen some friends managed to drag me to the mall. The mall is a soulless place that robs people of their humanity, and I can't stand being there. As if just BEING THERE wasn't bad enough, they insisted on fucking SHOPPING, too (just shoot me now) for hours on end. I was being drug from store to store, asked opinions about clothes and shoes and bags that I don't give a fuck about and did I mention I have no fashion sense, either? I was getting tired of being at the fucking mall.

My friends were walking ahead of me and turned to tell me to hurry up. Out of rebellion, I dropped my left leg behind me and made it go limp, dragging it behind me as I "walked" towards them, looking like I had some serious physical deformity or handicap. We round the corner and I'm REALLY playing it up, my foot dragging behind me like a piece of meat. Just as we turn that corner I spot a dude who is way too young to have arthritis struggling to walk using a walker. I imagine he had some horrible injury or was in some terrible accident, or, perhaps even had been injured in the war. We locked eyes as I was mid-drag... I froze up, stood up straight, and walked normally just past him. I am certain he thought I was mocking him and had been busted doing so. I felt terrible about it. My friend said I should have just gone with it and kept dragging my leg behind me, but I hadn't thought of that. Once again, I'm an asshole.

I'm the one who will make a cancer joke to someone who's VERY RECENTLY lost a loved one to cancer -- without me even knowing that'd happened to them. I'll say something like, "Yeah, if I had kids, I'd beat them!" to someone who (unbeknownst to me) had been a victim of horrible child abuse growing up. I'll be fooling around at the lake and pretend I'm drowning in front of a mother who's child drowned or something. AND I WOULDN'T EVEN KNOW IT.

It's a talent, I tell ya. Pure talent.

Hate Vampires Right About Now? You're Not Alone.

PS I want to see this.

Immigrants and a Car that Has Needs, Too

I'm going to preface this by saying I quite literally have no problems with immigrants. I don't even really give a rip about their status. The reasons for this are many but to summarize: the legal immigration process is absolutely ridiculous and takes around ten years and a few thousand dollars and in addition to that, immigrant workers support the bulk of our industries. So if you like your dollar hamburgers and cheap clothes at Wal-Mart, you support immigrants, too -- legal or otherwise.

I saw an interaction yesterday that kind of surprised me. Maybe I'm naïve but I'm always surprised that people who are in the same situation, but of a different race or demographic, have a tendency to dislike each other instead of support each other. This was somewhat evidenced by the 2008 Presidential Election. The hispanic population, which is traditionally a democratic vote, actually shunned Obama. I don't want to be called a racist or talk about prejudices here; this is statistical data. It is a proven fact. It is neither opinion nor speculation. A group of people known to vote democratic did not vote for a black presidential candidate. They are both minority races, but they generally don't get along.

This is all just a lead-in to what happened yesterday. I went to the gas station to purchase some beer provisions for the evening. The man behind the counter (it's almost always the same dude) is Indian. Dot Indian, not feather Indian. A Mexican dude was at the counter making a purchase, and I walked back to get my beer. I toted it up to the counter and waited in line behind the Mexican dude. The Indian guy looked somewhat agitated but honestly, his customer service skills could use some work so he usually looks that way. The transaction was taking a long time, and I wasn't sure why but I wasn't really paying attention. A lot of independently owned & operated convenience stores use older technology, so often the approval process for credit cards takes longer.

Anyway, the Mexican dude asked for a plastic bag after his card was approved. He said this in a very thick accent and in broken English. The Indian dude quite literally took a plastic bag in his hand and tossed it in the air in the general direction of the Mexican. It landed haphazardly on the counter and the Mexican guy took it, looking confused.

"You want receipt?" the Indian asked. The Mexican nodded. With a flourish, the Indian tore the receipt off the printer and tossed it in the air towards the guy. It floated to the counter dramatically. The Mexican blinked and then asked "Why you throw?" -- not in an accusatory tone even, but just confused as to why the guy was being a total dick. The Indian only glared at him. The Mexican left, looking irritated and bewildered.

"He must've really pissed you off." I said, fishing for information.

In a thick and almost incomprehensible accent, the Indian replied something along the lines of, "I ask him debit or credit he no say."

Okay. The Mexican dude clearly didn't speak English that well. And while I know the Indian's native language is probably "English", it's certainly not American English. You would think that someone who, surely, has had difficulties communicating with others would be a little more understanding of someone who doesn't speak English? I mean, you would think one immigrant to another there might be a little leeway? Apparently not. I'd also think that if you were working late at night in a gas station by yourself you wouldn't go out of your way to be a dick to anyone, but that's just me.

In other news, I am having car problems. I don't like cars. I mean, I love cars, of course. But only when they work and do not require any attention from me whatsoever. I'm like a mean girlfriend to my car; I only want to give it enough attention to survive but not enough for our relationship to be healthy for it. So the horn doesn't work. And at first I didn't really care because how often do you use your horn? Answer: Only when you need it. And if you NEED your horn, and it's not there, it could be very bad. Someone's backing up into you? No horn?! It's not like you have time to roll down the window and shout HEY FUCKER SOMEONE'S BACK HERE! Or someone's coming into the lane you're in and trying to occupy the same space you're in? No horn, you're outta luck. You have to swerve out of the way and hope for the best.

So I did some troubleshooting. I learned about fuses today which are amazingly simple and replaced the two horn fuses that are under the hood. But that didn't fix the problem. To make matters worse, my car started making a horrible squealing sound on the way home from the auto parts store. Most of the time the sound wasn't there but it seemed totally random except that braking would make it stop (sometimes just until I quit braking, sometimes permanently). My dad says it's probably just a sign I need new brake pads, so next weekend I'm going to San Antonio and we're going to try to get the horn working and then replace the brake pads. Hopefully we can get the horn working on our own. The safety inspection is due by the end of this month, and it won't pass safety without a functioning horn.

Other than that things are the same as they ever were. I finished my summer LIT class and made an A. ECON is going for another four weeks, I'm hoping to pull an A or B in that. Work is still tremendously busy and I'm beginning to hate college students more than I already did. Why do you fuckers wait until the last day something is due/can be done before you do it? Then don't complain to me you're running out of time. Additionally, if you ask me a question, and I answer it, and you don't like the answer, asking the question again but in a different way is NOT GOING TO CHANGE THE ANSWER.

Fffffs.

I know I said just one word review but fuck all, M. Night Shyamalan is a dick.

I don't normally watch very many movies, especially movies in the theatre. Why? Because I'm far too bourgeois to be caught amongst the commoners. That and $4 for a fucking soda are you KIDDING ME? But, I have been watching Avatar: The Last Airbender almost since its first airing date and although it's a kid's show, I really, really have enjoyed it. And so have my friends (see? It's not just me). We were excited when we heard a movie was coming out, and then massively disappointed when we found out M. Night Shyamalamadingdong was directing it. Fuck you, M. Night. He took ALL of the fun out of A:TLA and in addition to that, made some really retarded changes.

I understand that all directors want to leave their "stamp" (his reads "retard") on a movie, but you shouldn't change arbitrary things just for the sake of change. For example, in the show, the character named Sokka is pronounced "Sock-uh" and the character named Aang is pronounced "Ayng." In the movie, for no apparent reason their names are pronounced "Souh-ka" (long "o") and "Aahng," (long "a") respectively. Okay. This wasn't a BOOK. It's not like the pronunciation of the characters' names was kind of up in the air. It was a cartoon, on television, with SOUND. Their names were pronounced the way the actual creators of the show wanted them to be fucking pronounced you overwhelmingly douchy douchebag. There is NO REASON to make this change. It is pointless and irritating to the viewer.

I will say this, the entire first season was condensed in a smart way. THAT was done well. Things that had to happen happened and they didn't always happen the way they did in the cartoon, but things tied together very nicely. I appreciated the way the story was truncated and it made sense. They even made references to things that will happen in future movies and that happened in the original series (one character references "Hama," the blood-bender we meet in book 3 [season 3 for the uninitiated] and whom I assume we'll meet in the third movie). That was all good and well.

But also, he took all the fun out of the show. I mean ALL of it. A:TLA wasn't some intense, serious, deep show. It's a KID'S SHOW for chrissake. It was funny and charming and had parts that literally had me rolling ("MY CABBAGES!" for example). There is almost ZERO of this in the movie. There is like maybe 2 ever-so-tiny scenes that got a brief chuckle out of the audience. But this much austerity is unnecessary in what is, may I remind you once more, A KID'S SHOW.

The final crime was that it took a full thirty minutes before anything happened. I was, literally, bored for thirty fucking minutes. And it's not just because I knew what was going to happen, having seen the series a gajillion times, it's because IT WAS FUCKING BORING.

The real tragedy of this is that A:TLA was a goddamn good series and had a lot of meat -- material, that is -- to be turned into a fantastic film. I'm not some kind of LOTR elitist who cries whenever someone ruins the sanctity of "my" show, but goddamnit this show didn't just have amazing potential, as a cartoon series, it lived up to that potential and THEN SOME. The character development had the depth that I've seen serious adult shows completely lack. The humor was spot-on and always well-timed and often very clever. The storylines were, for the most part, interesting and worthwhile. I mean, there were filler episodes, of course. All shows have them. But the filler episodes were fun to watch and kept you engaged.

In short, M. Night Shyamalamadingdong took something that was already good, made some completely pointless changes, pulled out all the good stuff, and tried to push it as a legitimate adult film even though it's still rated and geared towards a tween-aged crowd. The CGI was okay. The kids' acting was horrible, but they're kids (although I do have to give them props for their, er, what I'll call Tai Chi abilities -- the movements made during bending). The guy that plays Sokka is like Anakin Fucking Junior. MAKE A FACIAL EXPRESSION! TWITCH OR SOMETHING. Bleh.

The movie should have and could have been better had it been in someone else's hands.

One Word Movie Reviews: Toy Story 3

"Meh."

One Word Movie Reviews: Avatar: The Last Airbender

"Bleargh."

Nicholas Cage as Everyone Ever

I have to share this with you because it's tremendously hilarious. That is all for now (you're welcome).

Recap

This weekend was busy, and good, and aggravating and all those things that days tend to be when you look at them all mushed up together instead of on an individual basis. I had some folks come look at the apartment and while I don't want to jinx anything, I believe I've found a roommate. He won't be moving in until "late August," but he said he's willing to start paying rent July 1st. This is great, if it happens. Two months of living by myself? Whee! I envision lots of cooking, baking, and talking to my cat as though he were an actual human being and further, interpreting his actions and mews as real responses.

Anyway, the guy is the same age as me and is in college. He seems relatively laid back and said he listens to "90s industrial music," and he seemed genuinely shocked that I know who Thievery Corporation is. Hello, born in nainteen-eightah-twoh here. I've had a lot of time to develop musical tastes, too. He likes old NIN and stuff, so we'll probably get along musically. I wonder if I should drop the bombshell that I know who Front 242 is? I mean, these days I listen to shit like Death Cab for Cutie and Yael Naim and stuff, laid back and relaxed, but when I was an angst-ridden teenager I loved angry music. I haven't forgotten those days.

I had friends visit from San Antonio this weekend and we had a relatively good time, despite struggling to find something to do the third day they were here. We went to Somerville Lake (Lake Somerville? I don't know, whatever) and had a really good time. We hit up Northgate for some drinks and I made them suffer through the Dixie Chicken because it's a tradition, even though I fucking hate the chicken. We had steaks at Texas Roadhouse and then hippy food with hippy beers at The Village Cafe. There was live music. We spent way more time at Half-Price Books than I would have preferred, but my friends are nerds, what can I say? I took them to the little anime/comicbook/tabletop gaming store that is actually in an old house. It's a unique experience. They have a HUGE anime selection, though, so we rented Death Note. I had heard from multiple sources that Death Note was a "great" show and also "really good" and "you should see it." But I think it sucked. I was bored. We watched four entire episodes and it didn't hook me in. That's pretty fail if you ask me. Jes & Andrew thought it was okay, but not that great.

So my apartment totally sucks for guests right now because not only do I not have a dining table, but I don't have a guest bed anymore. As far as "things you can be horizontal on", I have a lazyboy, a love seat, and my bed. That's all. So I feel bad because one friend slept on a couch that was way too small for him and the other slept on the floor all weekend. Soy un perdedor. Anyway, maybe I can craigslist my way into a dining room table, and the new roommate should be bringing along a big couch or two. At Half Price Books, I found a large picture book which was a poem by Maya Angelou, with drawings done by Jean-Michel Basquiat. I bought it (for $1) and I think I'll try to make some kind of collage out of it for one of the walls, or perhaps down the hallway to the bedrooms. I think that could be neat. I just want my boring white walls to have some colour.

Next weekend I am going to San Antonio for the 4th of July, some family is visiting, yadda yadda and etcetera. I have been super-busy lately with summer classes. They move so quickly and it's difficult to keep up, especially working full-time with one job and then telecommuting some contracting work (mostly editing and data entry) for another job, but I am staying on top of things so far. Wish me luck.

asfjhauihtq0asjfa

(I started writing this post yesterday, but as you're about to read, I got a bit sidetracked.)

So, you may already know (if you know me or if I've mentioned it in the blog or if you're just exceptionally keen) that my "roommate" is actually my recently-ex'd boyfriend. Three weeks or so ago we broke up and although things ended poorly, I can't afford the full rent, so I told him that he could stay in the other room if he didn't want to move. I am emotionally mature enough that I can do this (read: basically pretend he doesn't exist). It's not difficult for me. But no, he said he would be moving to Austin instead, and that he'd be out by the 22nd. You may notice that it is past the 22nd of June. He is still here. He needs to not be here. I had initially not even wanted to show the apartment until he was gone. This would give me sufficient time to clean everything up to my standards (you know, normal people standards, not slobs).

So yesterday (the 23rd), he actually started packing up. He managed to go from zero to packed in about four hours, and I might add he was doing this all solo (aside from a bit of help separating out what was mine from his). He moved all of his stuff solo. Bed, recliner, etc. Why should I help? This is his fault and therefore his problem. Besides, I have to move all my my stuff (which had been populating our 'guest bedroom') into the master bedroom and then clean the entire fucking apartment from top to bottom. I mean, I already cleaned the main bathroom and the kitchen, but I have to clean the middle bedroom, the 1/2 bath, the kitchen needs to be refreshed and I have to clear all of my stuff out of the living room. I had some stuff on a desk in there, but a desk doesn't really belong in the dining room.

I have to say, I've got all my stuff in the master bedroom and I really like it. It's the largest room I've ever lived in, and there's plenty of space. I've got my bed, my dresser and my desk(s) -- it's two desks but one is stacked on the other to create a sort of 'hutch' effect -- and room leftover to spare. Waking up this morning in a clean, roomy bedroom was quite delightful. I also have two large windows overlooking our apartment's courtyard. Plenty of sunlight comes in through those windows (maybe even too much. I may have to invest in some curtains).

So tonight at 6 pm I have someone coming to look at the place which means that between 5pm when I get home and then I have to SERIOUSLY MOVE SOME SHIT because, fuck, there is a lot to do and only an hour to do it in. It's going to be a mad scramble. Then tomorrow at 5:30 I have another person coming to look, and finally on Sunday I've scheduled someone for 3 o'clock to come look it over. There was another girl who had expressed interest, but she's backed out, and there was a guy who said he was interested but I haven't heard back from him yet. Whoever shows up, I've gotta pick someone and quick.

Anyway, I'm a bit stressed out right now because work is crazier than normal, the classes I'm taking this summer are becoming overwhelming, I have friends coming to stay at my place this weekend and now no guest bedroom to put them in (well, the bedroom is there, but there's no bed), and I have three people coming to look at my apartment. I have GOT to get someone in there by July, paying the July rent solo, while feasible, would hurt me financially.

Wish me luck!

This here newfangled gadget...

I'm gonna talk about video games here for a moment and I'd like to pretend that everyone else in the entire world is 27 years old and is on the same page as me. You remember, right? Arcade-style games took the scene first, then the Commodore line (I barely remember that); you had your Atari then your Nintendo. Mario Brothers. Not Super Mario Brothers, the ORIGINAL fucking Mario Brothers. You remember up up down down left right left right B A start. You do! The controller was integral to the game. Remember joysticks? I mean who the fuck uses joysticks anymore? The hardware was your portal to the game itself. You could cradle it in your hands and through it, like some prophet spouting the word of god, you could command the creatures on the screen to obey your orders. It was almost spiritual.

Then the Wii came out. I hate the Wii. The Wii is not fun to me and further, it doesn't make any sense. Sure, the hardware is still there, but now I have to fight with this console comprehending my movements in an appropriate way. And if it doesn't? Then I have to tailor my movements to it. No siree, I don't like the Wii.

Now this monster. No controller required? What the fucking fuck? This isn't fucking virtual reality, which is where games were supposed to go -- where you could be completely immersed in a 3-D holographic environment and move within it. This is NOT that. This is fucking morons jumping at their goddamn TV (we still use TVs, right?). This is not real. I couldn't play this. It's bizarre, a twisted contortion of a madman's dreams. I refuse to entertain the idea that a console game can be played without a fucking controller. Get this shit out of my world.

And so now I'm like, great. I'm old. I'm fucking old. Right? Like you kids and your gameboys and your cellular telephones and your central heating. Why back in my day we threw rocks at each other for fun and two cans and a string were good enough for us to communicate and when it got cold, we burned minorities to generate heat. Like this is me now. I don't understand the new technologies coming out and I don't like them!

Now if I could just find my cane and dentures...

I know I joke around a lot here, but I want to take a moment to be serious. I think it's wrong of network television to take advantage of people with poor mental faculties, just to make a cheap buck by showcasing them on tv. It's not okay to make fun of retarded people, okay?

Here's how it is, parents...

Congratulations, parents! You've managed to reproduce, a rare feat that is only accomplished perhaps once by a small percentage of the population! You're special. You're unique. You deserve a parking space closer to the entrance to stores because you're just so fucking great and head-and-shoulders above everyone else!

Wait, everything I just said is bullshit! Reproduction is neither rare nor unique nor even fucking difficult! Neither you, nor your crotchspawn are a beautiful and unique fucking snowflake, ok? And the only way your child is a "miracle" of any sort is if, perhaps, the doctor said that it would be physically impossible for you to reproduce. If you think reproduction is so fucking special, then every cell in your body deserves a fucking medal, ok?

You had a kid (and fairly inefficiently, at that). Even cats are more efficient at it becuase they have litters of kids, all in one go (most from different fathers - beat that!). Human reproduction is actually quite inefficient compared to other species, yet at the same time we're still astoundingly good at it.

The point I'm trying to make -the point- is that sperm reaching the egg is not a rare feat by any measure, and in fact it's so frequent that we've actually developed ways to prevent it! That's like being proud for getting a fucking sunburn. "Well hey, I didn't wear sunblock and now I'm red! I'm AWESOME!" Yes, that's you. You chose not to use protection (for whatever reason, maybe you wanted a kid, that's peaches, whatever) and you GOT PREGNANT. Congratulations. You're not a corpse!

I don't care that you're a parent, and I don't care that your life is infinitely more difficult than you perceive mine to be because you chose to have a child. Did it not remotely occur to you that your life might be a teensy bit different after the birth of your kid? Did it never, oh I don't know, cross the vast empty spaces in your mind that kids might be expensive, and messy, and time-consuming? Sure, they can also be delightful, and interesting, and fun (so I hear), but that's a side-effect of having a kid, whereas the primary effect is expense and stress.

Futher, I don't care how fucking adorable your teensy little humanoid is. I really, seriously, honestly, don't care. I don't want to see pictures. I don't want to hear stories (oh God, the stories!). YOU ARE THE ONLY PERSON WHO THINKS YOUR BABY'S SHIT IS INTERESTING AND/OR ADORABLE. Shut the fuck up. I don't care if he's getting potty trained and oh gosh it's so cute because he sings the entire time he's taking a shit and when he's done he runs around going "poo poo! poo poo! mommy, I made poo poo!" isn't that just precious? NO! It's disgusting! I don't want to hear about it! A basic rule would be that stories revolving around bowel movements aren't generally interesting or worthy of repeating.

I just... I don't know. So little Kaitelynne got a medal in gymnastics, and Presstonne just got his yellow belt in karate, and they are just such awesome little kids and your life is so enriched because of it. That's great, but I don't have kids - for a reason - and I certainly don't give a damn about your kids, so please just bugger off.

And put a fucking leash on those little fuckers.

Fútbol

And just to get this out of the way:
I didn't care about soccer before the world cup.
I don't care about soccer during the world cup.

I will not care about soccer after the world cup.

Most people around here didn't even know what the goddamn world cup was now it's all I hear about.

I was going to talk just about my productive day, but you know how it goes.

I have had a seriously productive weekend. Not only did I do all that house-decorating shit yesterday, but today I completed my LIT essay (from scratch), did laundry, fixed my broken desk (which is a story all its own), cleaned out my car, cleaned the bathroom from top to bottom and learned how to pick a padlock. Well, I've always wanted to learn! And now I know how to. I'm pretty proud of myself.

So the desk thing is a point of irritation. I bought this desk off craigslist for über cheap. It's solid wood and good craftsmanship. I mean, it's got a couple of dings and what-not but it's sturdy and looks good and serves its purpose. I did something stupid while moving it, though, and broke off two of the legs. It was totally my fault. I won't even admit to what happened because it was SERIOUSLY dumb and to this day I still can't believe I even tried it. I'll give you a hint, though: desks aren't meant to roll. Anyway, that's what I get for trying to move the desk myself.

So, I broke the legs off this desk and I was so disappointed because it was such a bargain and I really liked it and wahhhhhhhh, I want my mommy, etc. I thought maybe I could get Brent to fix it. He's still living here for now and I thought, he's got a penis, surely he knows how to fix broken things. I bought some metal braces and some screws, wondering the whole time how this would work. I mean, like, I don't own a drill. Okay? I have a small toolset from Ikea that my dad bought me when I moved out, and its QUITE useful, but I don't own any power-tools. Brent said he would do it. This was about two weeks ago. You can guess where this is going. It didn't happen. I asked him again yesterday but he said he was too hungover to do it.

He's supposed to be out of here by the 22nd, so I'm thinking this shit's not going to get done. I break out the tools and work on it. I start by hammering a nail just barely into the wood where I want the screw to go. I remove the nail and now have a starting point for the screw. I got all four braces onto the desk in appropriate places as to keep the legs attached. I want to point out here that each brace has 6 screws, so that's a total of 24 fucking screws. It was a monumental achievement, believe me. Three-fourths of the way through the process, Brent wakes up and walking past notices what I'm doing. He actually asked if I needed any help. No, motherfucker, I needed help two weeks ago. I needed help yesterday. I don't need any goddamn help now. I was almost fucking done anyway.

The bathroom, too. I asked him to clean the fucking bathroom. Do you know what he did? No? Well, neither do I. It looked exactly the same when he was done as it did when he started, so I have no fucking clue what he did. Me? I scoured and scrubbed the tub, tile, toilet and sink. I used a broom and a mop on the floor. I just now realised I forgot to clean the mirror and I'm irritated just thinking about it. I moved all the shit off the counter and the back of the toilet and cleaned that. I sprayed everything down with bleach water when I was done. The bathroom is now CLEAN.

I have done all the cleaning pretty much since we moved in together. So, if he's wondering why I'm not all butthurt and heartbroken that our relationship didn't go anywhere, maybe it's the fact that I was putting in a larger percentage than he was. It wasn't just the cleaning, mind you, but that fucking boy has to have his hand held to get anything done. Oh, you're swimming up to your eyeballs in credit card debt, so you just quit making payments? I'll call Chase and talk to them for you (they put him on a VERY reasonable payment plan). You can't find a job (you're not looking, I know this), so I will help you find a job by searching craigslist and making your ass get up on a Tuesday morning to pick up, fill out, and turn in applications (he got a job the FOLLOWING DAY). The entire time we've lived here I've done all the cleaning. I mean sure, he might load and unload the dishwasher, take out the trash, and I insisted that we take turns with the litterbox (seeing as how we both own a cat) -- but the deep cleaning? The vacuuming, sweeping, scrubbing the stove and kitchen sink, wiping down counters, scrubbing toilets, cleaning the tub? I did it. All of it. Every time.

And so eventually I just quit doing that shit because fuck it, you know? I mean, the man didn't just not clean, but he's a total slob, too. I would spend an hour cleaning the damn kitchen and he would destroy it in one meal. Look, LOOK. If you spill shit on the stove while you're cooking, wipe it off right then and there. It's so easy you could probably just use a plain ole paper towel to do it. But nooo, no, you have to fucking let this shit pile up until it's months old and then I have to break out the Spray'n'Shine, scrubby pad and elbow grease. So it was like, why bother? So I quit doing it and things got even worse and worse. Now that he's got 2-3 days being here I figure I can start cleaning for real and get shit reasonable for when I start showing the apartment to potential roommates.

Okay. So I got a bit off the mark. Sorry about that. I haven't really vented about all this yet. I have a laundry list of problems with my ex and while I wasn't too upset about us breaking up I'm just now sort of realising that I might actually be happy about it. I actually feel free. The things I've done that I didn't want to do and the things I didn't do that I wanted to, the way I regarded his feelings and his plans every time before my own (which is my fault, it's not like he made me, but still), I am free from that. I can do whatever I want whenever I want with whoever I want and not have to consider anyone else in any way, shape, or form. I can decorate my apartment and not wonder about whether it'll fit his tastes. I can clean and not be concerned that he'll destroy it. In a way, I'm not just happy, I'm relieved.

The whole point of this post, actually, was that I felt empowered today. I felt like "RAWR", especially after fixing that desk. Learning how to pick a lock was pretty fucking cool, too. I am beyond exhausted. I have work bright and early tomorrow, so I am going to get some rest, if I can.