Well, last week I fixed Facebook (right? I mean, I haven't been on in a few weeks, so I'll assume it's everything I ever dreamed it would be) and now I'm going to fix the economy.
That's right, people. Me - the girl who failed out of basic math AND basic economics - has the solution to fix the world's problems. See, it's really very simple. I spent about 6 minutes talking about it with Madeline, and it's just so obvious that I'm shocked Ben Franklin never added it to his almanac. Or Guinness Book. Or whatever he wrote.
So, here's the thing. Money is annoying. The people who have it are rude and the people who don't have it are just always consumed by wanting it. It's a waste of time, people. We are all tied up by this stupid piece of paper. We don't need to work ourselves stupid just trying to pay for cable. So, Madeline and I came up with a solution. I'm 100% confident you'll agree. (100% is, like, all-the-way full, right?)
People should be paid in accordance to their jobs. Not in money, but in need.
Like, if you have a terribly gross or complex job that NO ONE else wants/can do, you should make a million dollars. This would include: social workers, waste management workers, diaper testers, non-alcoholic beverage tasters, doctors, geniuses, scientists, cow fertility specialists, etc. Everyone else gets paid in appropriate services and/or goods. Here are some examples:
* Bakers: Paid in flour and fondant
* Writers: Paid in compliments and typewriters
* Teachers: Paid in summer vacations and bank holidays
* Bartenders: Paid in food and booze
* Dermatologists: Paid in Proactive
* Farmers: Paid in seed (gross)
* Designers: Paid in fabric and/or furniture and/or computer programs
* Professional athletes: Paid in worldwide travel and free sports drinks
* Musicians: Paid in albums and studio equipment
* Construction workers: Paid in lumber and labor
* Zookeepers: Paid in cuddly animals
* Computer software something-or-others: Paid in computers
* Sommeliers: Paid in wine (and hints of oak, but not too much oak)
* Real estate agents: Paid in houses
* Apple employees: Paid in apples
* Retail workers: Paid in clothes
* Bankers: Paid in checkbooks and souls
* Actors: Paid in awards from various academies
* Models: Paid in daddy issues and dresses
See, money is stupid. It really shouldn't mean anything. But we need it to get cable and clothes and other important things. We have the Kardashians who make BUTTLOADS more than any of us could even dream of. And all they do is poop out money to stay famous. If they got paid in punches to the face, the world would be a different place.
So, my proposal is this: Pay people in what they deserve and need. Not money, but THINGS. If we are all supposed to work at what we love, we should also get paid in what we love. I would take 12 great compliments over cash any day of the week...IF I could pay my cable provider in suggestions for great shows.
The greatest part of this whole proposal is that people who add nothing to our moral or scientific or creative fabric would get zip. There would be no more motivation to be a jerk or a-hole or "rich because I'm rich" person. Everyone would get exactly what the need, and nothing else. Except the nerds and the hardest of workers: They'd have a billion dollars each and be the most popular people ever. And I'm pretty sure that's how it should be anyway...
Thursday, April 3, 2014
Thursday, March 27, 2014
Social Notworking
Have you missed me, guys? Have you? See, I've been purposely making myself scarce online these days. I log on only for work, shopping and to browse Reddit. (You know, for the news and such.) But the truth is, the Internet was making me all stabby. I needed a break from Facebook, Instagram and every other site that was chock full of people saying or showing me things that made me hate everything.
I still am hating Facebook and whatnot, but to be honest, I have kind of felt out of the loop after being away for so long and I want to come back. So I'm going to tell you all how to fix the social network environment so that I don't have to choose between slicing my wrists and reading terrible updates.
Now, please understand that I'm not saying everything you ever say online needs to be a home run or anything. (I admit it, I've had a BUNCH of dud statuses.) I'm saying that people should take a look at their collective social presence. If every status or picture or tweet or whatever is consistently terrible or preachy or boring, cancel your account. If everything you put online is all about how beautiful you are or how you feel about disposable diapers or why your life sucks or why your life is "perfect" (it's not, BTW), you are maybe not built for being on a network. You need a club. And probably a therapist.
I have recently unfollowed some people on Facebook. It's not because I don't love them, but it's because they are narcissistic, pathetic, bossy, or so incredibly uninteresting on Facebook that they were literally ruining my day. Everyone uses their social networking power differently, and I won't fault anyone for how they choose to use that power. But please don't make me stop liking you in real life because you are just the WORST on Facebook.
The first "social network" experience I had was when I was really young and my parents got Prodigy. We were the first people I knew to have it, and the power I felt was insane. My little brother and I would sit for hours, tying up the phone line, while we visited online chat rooms and talked to strangers. We were far too young for the Internet, but no one had ruined it yet. It was a pristine, intriguing and life-expanding environment full of randomness and interesting people.
Back then, there was no threat of "cyber bullying" or "you may get sucked into human trafficking." It was just a way to talk to people. I remember going into a chat room geared towards married women, curious about what it was like to be married. Findings? It's hard and men will never understand women. And after a few minutes in a Minnesota chat room, I figured out that people in Minnesota love casserole recipes. It was wildly informative.
I liked that Internet. I liked that people were just afraid enough to still keep it respectful and diplomatic, and really try to think about what they wanted to say before spewing it out to others. People had manners back then. (I'm apparently 100 years old, by the way.)
Now, it's just a means of puking up information about yourself without any filter whatsoever. Instead of taking responsibility for what we say, we put all the pressure on our "friends" to deal with whatever ridiculous garbage we decide to post on any given day. See, when you SAY something whiny or rude or vain or supremely lame on a public/social network, you are making every other person read that, internalize that and then get stuck with that information. If that information sucks, you have effectively ruined someone's day. Just because you CAN say something doesn't mean you SHOULD.
So, my final point is this: Please don't ruin the Internet. Try and be funny, informative, curious, kind, helpful or interesting. I'm not saying that we need to do this all the time, but maybe think about this before you post another picture of your running shoes.
I still am hating Facebook and whatnot, but to be honest, I have kind of felt out of the loop after being away for so long and I want to come back. So I'm going to tell you all how to fix the social network environment so that I don't have to choose between slicing my wrists and reading terrible updates.
Now, please understand that I'm not saying everything you ever say online needs to be a home run or anything. (I admit it, I've had a BUNCH of dud statuses.) I'm saying that people should take a look at their collective social presence. If every status or picture or tweet or whatever is consistently terrible or preachy or boring, cancel your account. If everything you put online is all about how beautiful you are or how you feel about disposable diapers or why your life sucks or why your life is "perfect" (it's not, BTW), you are maybe not built for being on a network. You need a club. And probably a therapist.
I have recently unfollowed some people on Facebook. It's not because I don't love them, but it's because they are narcissistic, pathetic, bossy, or so incredibly uninteresting on Facebook that they were literally ruining my day. Everyone uses their social networking power differently, and I won't fault anyone for how they choose to use that power. But please don't make me stop liking you in real life because you are just the WORST on Facebook.
The first "social network" experience I had was when I was really young and my parents got Prodigy. We were the first people I knew to have it, and the power I felt was insane. My little brother and I would sit for hours, tying up the phone line, while we visited online chat rooms and talked to strangers. We were far too young for the Internet, but no one had ruined it yet. It was a pristine, intriguing and life-expanding environment full of randomness and interesting people.
Back then, there was no threat of "cyber bullying" or "you may get sucked into human trafficking." It was just a way to talk to people. I remember going into a chat room geared towards married women, curious about what it was like to be married. Findings? It's hard and men will never understand women. And after a few minutes in a Minnesota chat room, I figured out that people in Minnesota love casserole recipes. It was wildly informative.
I liked that Internet. I liked that people were just afraid enough to still keep it respectful and diplomatic, and really try to think about what they wanted to say before spewing it out to others. People had manners back then. (I'm apparently 100 years old, by the way.)
Now, it's just a means of puking up information about yourself without any filter whatsoever. Instead of taking responsibility for what we say, we put all the pressure on our "friends" to deal with whatever ridiculous garbage we decide to post on any given day. See, when you SAY something whiny or rude or vain or supremely lame on a public/social network, you are making every other person read that, internalize that and then get stuck with that information. If that information sucks, you have effectively ruined someone's day. Just because you CAN say something doesn't mean you SHOULD.
So, my final point is this: Please don't ruin the Internet. Try and be funny, informative, curious, kind, helpful or interesting. I'm not saying that we need to do this all the time, but maybe think about this before you post another picture of your running shoes.
Tuesday, March 11, 2014
Taking punches
I did it, you guys. I tried to branch out and find my own little group of pals in Rochester. I did what every cool, relaxed, spontaneous gal does and thoroughly researched my new adventure before I headed out on my journey.
See, I needed to find something "Pharon-y" in this town. Geo got me all started by finding this fairly dope brewery blocks from our house that reminds of Minneapolis, and I realized that I was ready to try and get this hot piece out there. You know, really make a name for myself in this town. So I googled things I like. It was not super amazing. I looked up book clubs that are just a front for gossip and drinking, random karaoke nights and meat raffles and places to meet crazy people while waiting for a bus. I came up with virtually nothing.
Then I looked up kickboxing. I was mad, frustrated and had just finished eating a brick of Costco cheese, so it seemed appropriate. Now, I don't like kickboxing because it's, like, a good workout or anything. (UGH. I promise not to bore you with a workout story, because there is NOTHING MORE BORING THAN A WORKOUT STORY.) No, I like it because I seem to have a knack for it and I only know two other people who even remotely enjoy it. I may not be good at it, but I'm better at it than 99% of the people I know because they have never even tried it.
Anyway, so I google "kickboxing in Rochester" and actually found a place called 9Round. Everything about it screamed "PHARON - THIS IS FOR YOU." It was my chance to find my niche.
So I spent a few hours watching training videos to prep myself before I left to try out the place. I put on my best/only workout clothes, packed up my wrist wraps and boxing gloves that were covered in dust, told Geo not to wait up for me and headed out in search of Pharon.
I got lost on the way there. That is not surprising. But what IS surprising is that I still found the place without GPS. It was like I was drawn to it. A shining beacon of familiarity in the vast wasteland that is a city I do not understand.
I went in and was greeted by this crazy-fit girl who wasn't the least bit judgmental when my hip inadvertently knocked brochures off a table. She seemed extra cool. And even though it looked like she never saw the bottom of a wine bottle on a Tues. night, I liked her a lot. She explained this workout to me, and was impressed by the fact that I could wrap my own wrists. I was slowly slipping back into the gentle embrace of Myself.
Then the workout started. It was the hardest effing thing I've done in my entire life. I thought I was going to puke. But I actually got through it because I felt so miserably aware that this was just for me. I knew these moves, even if I couldn't do them. And despite the gut-heaving pain I was in, I loved every second of it. Oh, 9Round, you GET ME. You soooo get me.
Ah yes, it would have been the perfect self-affirming experience. Until the end. I was nauseous, dehydrated and on a little bit of a workout high, so of course THAT'S when they hit me with the sign-up details.
It was a BILLION dollars to join, AND I'd need to sign a year-long contract in blood, even though I have no intention of being here this time next year. It was THE WORST. Oh, and plus? They were like "We'll need $100 so we can give you wrist wraps and gloves," and I was all "Hey, bros, no prob. I already have those things, so let's just go ahead and waive that, right?" And they were all "Silly rabbit, that's not how this works."
So now I refuse to join this delectable haven because it literally is the most expensive workout I will have ever had. And considering the fact that I also just polished off a Costco tube of summer sausage, I just don't think I deserve that. Oh well, at least I've got the brewery!
See, I needed to find something "Pharon-y" in this town. Geo got me all started by finding this fairly dope brewery blocks from our house that reminds of Minneapolis, and I realized that I was ready to try and get this hot piece out there. You know, really make a name for myself in this town. So I googled things I like. It was not super amazing. I looked up book clubs that are just a front for gossip and drinking, random karaoke nights and meat raffles and places to meet crazy people while waiting for a bus. I came up with virtually nothing.
Then I looked up kickboxing. I was mad, frustrated and had just finished eating a brick of Costco cheese, so it seemed appropriate. Now, I don't like kickboxing because it's, like, a good workout or anything. (UGH. I promise not to bore you with a workout story, because there is NOTHING MORE BORING THAN A WORKOUT STORY.) No, I like it because I seem to have a knack for it and I only know two other people who even remotely enjoy it. I may not be good at it, but I'm better at it than 99% of the people I know because they have never even tried it.
Anyway, so I google "kickboxing in Rochester" and actually found a place called 9Round. Everything about it screamed "PHARON - THIS IS FOR YOU." It was my chance to find my niche.
So I spent a few hours watching training videos to prep myself before I left to try out the place. I put on my best/only workout clothes, packed up my wrist wraps and boxing gloves that were covered in dust, told Geo not to wait up for me and headed out in search of Pharon.
I got lost on the way there. That is not surprising. But what IS surprising is that I still found the place without GPS. It was like I was drawn to it. A shining beacon of familiarity in the vast wasteland that is a city I do not understand.
I went in and was greeted by this crazy-fit girl who wasn't the least bit judgmental when my hip inadvertently knocked brochures off a table. She seemed extra cool. And even though it looked like she never saw the bottom of a wine bottle on a Tues. night, I liked her a lot. She explained this workout to me, and was impressed by the fact that I could wrap my own wrists. I was slowly slipping back into the gentle embrace of Myself.
Then the workout started. It was the hardest effing thing I've done in my entire life. I thought I was going to puke. But I actually got through it because I felt so miserably aware that this was just for me. I knew these moves, even if I couldn't do them. And despite the gut-heaving pain I was in, I loved every second of it. Oh, 9Round, you GET ME. You soooo get me.
Ah yes, it would have been the perfect self-affirming experience. Until the end. I was nauseous, dehydrated and on a little bit of a workout high, so of course THAT'S when they hit me with the sign-up details.
It was a BILLION dollars to join, AND I'd need to sign a year-long contract in blood, even though I have no intention of being here this time next year. It was THE WORST. Oh, and plus? They were like "We'll need $100 so we can give you wrist wraps and gloves," and I was all "Hey, bros, no prob. I already have those things, so let's just go ahead and waive that, right?" And they were all "Silly rabbit, that's not how this works."
So now I refuse to join this delectable haven because it literally is the most expensive workout I will have ever had. And considering the fact that I also just polished off a Costco tube of summer sausage, I just don't think I deserve that. Oh well, at least I've got the brewery!
Thursday, March 6, 2014
Dissed and dismissed - Jury Doodie Update
Well THAT was rude. After weeks of build up and anticipation, I was called up to the big leagues for 4 hours and then sent home. I won't lie you guys, it stung.
See, remember when I got the notice about Jury Duty? Well, my citizen-ly duty of serving on a jury has officially come and gone so I can finally dish on the patriotic experience.
Here's one thing I will say about the process: No one is in a hurry to do anything. Except give me a parking ticket for parking in the wrong lot at the government center. See, I was "on call" for a full WEEK before being called in. Every night, I'd have to call this phone number and find out if I'd have to take a shower a put on pants the next day to go serve on a jury. It was an impossibly slow and tedious process. And it was nerve-wracking. For five stupid days, I'd get all ramped up to hear my number called, and it never happened.
But then it happened. I got a call-back to be on jury duty. It was like what I imagine American Idol is like. I was excited, nervous and scared all at the same time. What if it was a murder case? A rape trial? A kangaroo court? (Whatever that is.) On the morning of my first day, I left a full 50 minutes before the government center even opened because I didn't want to be late. (Meanwhile, everything in Rochester is 11 minutes away. EVERYTHING.) And I started off my heroic journey into judicial stardom by parking in the wrong lot and sitting in my car for 35 minutes browsing Reddit. Then I went in to the courthouse to change lives.
Serving on jury duty is boring. I sat with a bunch of strangers who had no desire to talk to me, even though I had my "conversation-starter Nordic leggings" on. Everyone just sat and ignored everything until some dude came in to explain the process and tell us not to worry about the 50 police officers that we may see near the courtroom. Then we were herded up to the courtroom where we sat again and just waited. My God, this is slow...
Finally, the judge started talking and we "met" the dude facing charges and two lawyers with a billion stacks of papers in front of them. (Um, wouldn't it be more efficient/earth-friendly to keep all that stuff in a Word doc? Sheesh...it's called a computer, people.)
Then they started asking us a bunch of questions. How we felt about that, what we think about this. Are we pro- or anti-violence? Pro- or anti-nutjobs? Could we make rational decisions, or were we insane? Blah blah blah. I thought I nailed all the questions. Even when one of the lawyers called me out individually to ask how I felt about the criminal justice system, I really thought I blew them away with a super valuable response.
Other people sounded pissed to be there. They gave these nasty, impatient answers and didn't smile back at the charming attorney. RUDE. No one likes rude people, right?!
WRONG. People LOVE rude people, apparently. After about 2 hours of playing a judicial version of Hot or Not, the lawyers picked their teams. And NO ONE PICKED ME.
At the beginning of the process, the judge told us not to take it personally if we were not chosen to be on the jury. But I couldn't help it. It was the high school Homecoming Court all over again. I had been passed over by my peers and never really understood why. "You're free to leave," the judge said to all of us rejects, while all the super rude folks got comfy in the jury box.
I left the courthouse and got in my illegally-parked car. I didn't know where to go. I had planned to be changing lives and passing judgement all day, so now that I'd been dismissed, I didn't know what to do. It was all so...disappointing.
I was ready to be a hero. To be the voice of reason. To make an impassioned plea to my fellow jurors against a powerful song scored by John Williams. It was all going to be so epic. And then it wasn't. Because no one liked me OR my charming leggings.
So, the moral of the story is that I'm not fit for a jury, even though the government basically hunted me down the second I changed my address to this county so that I could be called in. Oh well. Their loss. I'm crazy-good at pretending to listen and then making a snap judgement. Amurrrica!
See, remember when I got the notice about Jury Duty? Well, my citizen-ly duty of serving on a jury has officially come and gone so I can finally dish on the patriotic experience.
Here's one thing I will say about the process: No one is in a hurry to do anything. Except give me a parking ticket for parking in the wrong lot at the government center. See, I was "on call" for a full WEEK before being called in. Every night, I'd have to call this phone number and find out if I'd have to take a shower a put on pants the next day to go serve on a jury. It was an impossibly slow and tedious process. And it was nerve-wracking. For five stupid days, I'd get all ramped up to hear my number called, and it never happened.
But then it happened. I got a call-back to be on jury duty. It was like what I imagine American Idol is like. I was excited, nervous and scared all at the same time. What if it was a murder case? A rape trial? A kangaroo court? (Whatever that is.) On the morning of my first day, I left a full 50 minutes before the government center even opened because I didn't want to be late. (Meanwhile, everything in Rochester is 11 minutes away. EVERYTHING.) And I started off my heroic journey into judicial stardom by parking in the wrong lot and sitting in my car for 35 minutes browsing Reddit. Then I went in to the courthouse to change lives.
Serving on jury duty is boring. I sat with a bunch of strangers who had no desire to talk to me, even though I had my "conversation-starter Nordic leggings" on. Everyone just sat and ignored everything until some dude came in to explain the process and tell us not to worry about the 50 police officers that we may see near the courtroom. Then we were herded up to the courtroom where we sat again and just waited. My God, this is slow...
Finally, the judge started talking and we "met" the dude facing charges and two lawyers with a billion stacks of papers in front of them. (Um, wouldn't it be more efficient/earth-friendly to keep all that stuff in a Word doc? Sheesh...it's called a computer, people.)
Then they started asking us a bunch of questions. How we felt about that, what we think about this. Are we pro- or anti-violence? Pro- or anti-nutjobs? Could we make rational decisions, or were we insane? Blah blah blah. I thought I nailed all the questions. Even when one of the lawyers called me out individually to ask how I felt about the criminal justice system, I really thought I blew them away with a super valuable response.
Other people sounded pissed to be there. They gave these nasty, impatient answers and didn't smile back at the charming attorney. RUDE. No one likes rude people, right?!
WRONG. People LOVE rude people, apparently. After about 2 hours of playing a judicial version of Hot or Not, the lawyers picked their teams. And NO ONE PICKED ME.
At the beginning of the process, the judge told us not to take it personally if we were not chosen to be on the jury. But I couldn't help it. It was the high school Homecoming Court all over again. I had been passed over by my peers and never really understood why. "You're free to leave," the judge said to all of us rejects, while all the super rude folks got comfy in the jury box.
I left the courthouse and got in my illegally-parked car. I didn't know where to go. I had planned to be changing lives and passing judgement all day, so now that I'd been dismissed, I didn't know what to do. It was all so...disappointing.
I was ready to be a hero. To be the voice of reason. To make an impassioned plea to my fellow jurors against a powerful song scored by John Williams. It was all going to be so epic. And then it wasn't. Because no one liked me OR my charming leggings.
So, the moral of the story is that I'm not fit for a jury, even though the government basically hunted me down the second I changed my address to this county so that I could be called in. Oh well. Their loss. I'm crazy-good at pretending to listen and then making a snap judgement. Amurrrica!
Monday, February 24, 2014
On Fire
A funny thing happens when you walk in on a kitchen fire. You don't immediately go into problem-solving mode, you go immediately into blame-assigning mode. And suddenly, you will forget 100% of everything you know about fire.
I was literally boiling water when I started a small fire tonight. I set my teapot on the burner, turned up the heat and went back to laying on the couch and watching Food Network. It was like I could SMELL the food that they were making on Worst Cooks in America (seriously...could there be any more relevant show for me to be watching?) Wait, that's not the TV. That's real life. Something was burning.
At first I was like, "I'm only boiling water. What could be burning? I'll just ignore it." So I ignored the blatant burning smell for like 3 more minutes until I was like "Wow. That's just getting burn-ier." I rolled off the couch and strolled into the kitchen. The front burner was COMPLETELY on fire.
As soon as I saw the flames, I thought "WHAT DID GEO SPILL UNDERNEATH THE BURNER!?" I ran over to the fire and then just stood there. The flames were shooting up around the teapot and I could not, for the life of me, figure out what to do.
The last time I started a kitchen fire, I was attempting to make wontons. I poured about 3 cups of oil into a pot and cranked the heat up to 11. Now, oil doesn't boil like water. Instead, it starts on fire. And then it's not the same kind of fire you throw water on. It's an oil fire. So when my pot was completely engulfed with flames, I grabbed the handle and moved it to the counter...there was a permanent black ring on the counter to serve as a constant reminder that I should not boil oil. Luckily, I was so scared of the fire, that I just brought the pot outside instead of throwing water on it. Outta sight, outta mind. The flames died down, and the house was still standing.
So tonight when I saw the flames, I thought "I'll just bring the teapot outside!" So I did, but that didn't do ANYTHING because it was not the teapot that was on fire. It was the stove. I went back to the fire and just stood there, blowing on the fire. Blowing and blowing. And the fire got bigger and bigger.
I think it was at that moment when the panic actually set in. "I DON'T OWN THIS HOUSE. I COULD BURN IT DOWN AND IT'S GOT ALL MY BEST STUFF IN IT!" I kept blowing on the fire while trying to reach for a towel. I see people smother fire with towels all the time! But I couldn't find one. I ran away from the fire to go back outside to get the teapot so I could dump water on the fire. (What's that? The sink was 6 inches away from the fire and I could have just used that? Screw you.)
When I got back to the fire, it was still going and I just stood there, holding a burned teapot full of water, and just went back to blowing on the fire. Eventually -- and mercifully -- the fire started going out.
Geo got home shortly after I nearly set our house on fire and then saved our lives and he goes "Whoa! What's burning!?" And I said "I don't know, whatever you dropped into the burner last night?! GOSH!" And then Geo said "Sorry, what were you making?" And I said "Water." And he said "Wow."
Anyway, I'm never cooking again and I'm going back to using my Keurig for tea. And somehow pasta.
I was literally boiling water when I started a small fire tonight. I set my teapot on the burner, turned up the heat and went back to laying on the couch and watching Food Network. It was like I could SMELL the food that they were making on Worst Cooks in America (seriously...could there be any more relevant show for me to be watching?) Wait, that's not the TV. That's real life. Something was burning.
At first I was like, "I'm only boiling water. What could be burning? I'll just ignore it." So I ignored the blatant burning smell for like 3 more minutes until I was like "Wow. That's just getting burn-ier." I rolled off the couch and strolled into the kitchen. The front burner was COMPLETELY on fire.
As soon as I saw the flames, I thought "WHAT DID GEO SPILL UNDERNEATH THE BURNER!?" I ran over to the fire and then just stood there. The flames were shooting up around the teapot and I could not, for the life of me, figure out what to do.
The last time I started a kitchen fire, I was attempting to make wontons. I poured about 3 cups of oil into a pot and cranked the heat up to 11. Now, oil doesn't boil like water. Instead, it starts on fire. And then it's not the same kind of fire you throw water on. It's an oil fire. So when my pot was completely engulfed with flames, I grabbed the handle and moved it to the counter...there was a permanent black ring on the counter to serve as a constant reminder that I should not boil oil. Luckily, I was so scared of the fire, that I just brought the pot outside instead of throwing water on it. Outta sight, outta mind. The flames died down, and the house was still standing.
So tonight when I saw the flames, I thought "I'll just bring the teapot outside!" So I did, but that didn't do ANYTHING because it was not the teapot that was on fire. It was the stove. I went back to the fire and just stood there, blowing on the fire. Blowing and blowing. And the fire got bigger and bigger.
I think it was at that moment when the panic actually set in. "I DON'T OWN THIS HOUSE. I COULD BURN IT DOWN AND IT'S GOT ALL MY BEST STUFF IN IT!" I kept blowing on the fire while trying to reach for a towel. I see people smother fire with towels all the time! But I couldn't find one. I ran away from the fire to go back outside to get the teapot so I could dump water on the fire. (What's that? The sink was 6 inches away from the fire and I could have just used that? Screw you.)
When I got back to the fire, it was still going and I just stood there, holding a burned teapot full of water, and just went back to blowing on the fire. Eventually -- and mercifully -- the fire started going out.
Geo got home shortly after I nearly set our house on fire and then saved our lives and he goes "Whoa! What's burning!?" And I said "I don't know, whatever you dropped into the burner last night?! GOSH!" And then Geo said "Sorry, what were you making?" And I said "Water." And he said "Wow."
Anyway, I'm never cooking again and I'm going back to using my Keurig for tea. And somehow pasta.
Thursday, February 13, 2014
A Valentine
Oh Valentine's Day, aren't you just the darndest? It's all hearts and glitter and forcing Geo to get me chocolate and then yelling at him through my tears when he finds me under the bed covered in wrappers demanding, "Why did you get me chocolate?! I'm fat! I'm so fat! Why don't you love me?!"
See, that is why this day is just ridiculous. People want cards and flowers and candy and other things that serve no purpose. (Unless you receive them at work so you can brag to everyone that someone loves you even though you forgot to brush your teeth today.) Yeah, it's all pretty and delicious, but what happens at the end of the day? You're just fat with dead flowers that you forgot to water.
Romantic.
But the one thing I DO love about Valentine's Day is that it actually celebrates the ancient and forgotten art of WRITING. For centuries, people wrote love notes and passed them to their beloved by way of a donkey or something. They'd risk beheadings and dragons and evil Kings (OMG, I cannot WAIT for Game of Thrones!) just to tell their one true love that he or she was the bomb. All that work and risk just to let that person read how you feel.
Now THAT'S romance.
So here are some mini Valentine's for all the people/things I love.
My dearest TV,
How do I love thee? Let me count the channels. Food Network, Comedy Central, HGTV and whatever channel is showing Friends reruns. You nourish me, make me laugh, teach me new things and make me feel comfortable. TV, you are truly the best companion.
To my beloved Uggs,
I cannot imagine how I lived any sort of life before you came into it. Not a day goes by when I do think about slipping into your warm embrace, always welcoming. And of feet, nonetheless!
Kate Spade,
On my darkest days, I yearn for your bright colors, cheerful patterns and whimsical jewelry. The light you bring to my life is second only to the emptiness you bring to my wallet. I shall love thee for eternity.
Oh! My fair Soda Stream,
There you stand on my counter, stoic and strong. Ready to transform water into exhilaration at the press of a button. Without you, my brave hero, I would be forever thirsty, dry-throated from desire. Drinking straight vodka out of the bottle.
I love you, Every Crazy Celebrity,
Would that I could choose just one, but alas! I cannot. Collectively, your desperate need for the spotlight and passion for terrible decision-making skills make me feel like a healthy, well-adjusted adult. You are the only people who can make me feel this way, and for that I could never rely on another.
Is that you, wedding china?
My delicate lover. My fragile friend. My most beautiful Valentine. Though you remain behind glass, I can only hope that you feel how much I adore you. I shall love you forever, until I inevitably break you while trying to set up a fancy dinner of bagels and straight vodka.
Have I forgotten anyone? Oh, my husband? Well, I have a special Valentine for him. Let's just say it starts out with "Husband, sorry for not showering a lot. I'll be better. Or not. Either way, you are legally obligated to love me and I love that about you." And the sappiness only gets better from there...but I'll spare you the deets.
Anyway, I hope you all have a fantastic, loving an romantical Valentine's Day! And hey, why not take a stab at writing a love note? Leave Hallmark alone and write your own damn feelings down! It'll be fun!
I love you all, my dear, sweet readers!
See, that is why this day is just ridiculous. People want cards and flowers and candy and other things that serve no purpose. (Unless you receive them at work so you can brag to everyone that someone loves you even though you forgot to brush your teeth today.) Yeah, it's all pretty and delicious, but what happens at the end of the day? You're just fat with dead flowers that you forgot to water.
Romantic.
But the one thing I DO love about Valentine's Day is that it actually celebrates the ancient and forgotten art of WRITING. For centuries, people wrote love notes and passed them to their beloved by way of a donkey or something. They'd risk beheadings and dragons and evil Kings (OMG, I cannot WAIT for Game of Thrones!) just to tell their one true love that he or she was the bomb. All that work and risk just to let that person read how you feel.
Now THAT'S romance.
So here are some mini Valentine's for all the people/things I love.
My dearest TV,
How do I love thee? Let me count the channels. Food Network, Comedy Central, HGTV and whatever channel is showing Friends reruns. You nourish me, make me laugh, teach me new things and make me feel comfortable. TV, you are truly the best companion.
To my beloved Uggs,
I cannot imagine how I lived any sort of life before you came into it. Not a day goes by when I do think about slipping into your warm embrace, always welcoming. And of feet, nonetheless!
Kate Spade,
On my darkest days, I yearn for your bright colors, cheerful patterns and whimsical jewelry. The light you bring to my life is second only to the emptiness you bring to my wallet. I shall love thee for eternity.
Oh! My fair Soda Stream,
There you stand on my counter, stoic and strong. Ready to transform water into exhilaration at the press of a button. Without you, my brave hero, I would be forever thirsty, dry-throated from desire. Drinking straight vodka out of the bottle.
I love you, Every Crazy Celebrity,
Would that I could choose just one, but alas! I cannot. Collectively, your desperate need for the spotlight and passion for terrible decision-making skills make me feel like a healthy, well-adjusted adult. You are the only people who can make me feel this way, and for that I could never rely on another.
Is that you, wedding china?
My delicate lover. My fragile friend. My most beautiful Valentine. Though you remain behind glass, I can only hope that you feel how much I adore you. I shall love you forever, until I inevitably break you while trying to set up a fancy dinner of bagels and straight vodka.
Have I forgotten anyone? Oh, my husband? Well, I have a special Valentine for him. Let's just say it starts out with "Husband, sorry for not showering a lot. I'll be better. Or not. Either way, you are legally obligated to love me and I love that about you." And the sappiness only gets better from there...but I'll spare you the deets.
Anyway, I hope you all have a fantastic, loving an romantical Valentine's Day! And hey, why not take a stab at writing a love note? Leave Hallmark alone and write your own damn feelings down! It'll be fun!
I love you all, my dear, sweet readers!
Wednesday, February 5, 2014
Versa...AHHH!!!!
You guys? My friend Kim is getting married this weekend! Weeeee! I'm so excited for the wedding, and I'm DOUBLE excited that I am a bridesmaid!
So, I've got my shoes, some jewelry, the dress, the hair and makeup appointment, and I really thought I was all set. Then these two enormous zits popped up on my face. Oh, and I'm...bustier in the dress than I was 10 pounds ago. I sort of panicked. What does a girl do when she's going to be in a formal event in 3 days in order to detract from her "before Proactiv" face and her pasty, untoned arms?
She goes tanning. Spray tanning.
It all sounded like such a good idea. I found a coupon for a free spray tan and had a night free, so I gave approximately 2 minutes of thought into the decision to just go get me some color. I had done it successfully like 8 years ago, so I just assumed I'd be a pro.
When I got to the salon, they gave me a choice between an enclosed spray tan booth and an open one. The fumes from the UV beds were already choking me, so I opted for the open booth. It was a VersaSpa booth or something. I pored over the instructions on the wall while I took off my wedding rings, tucked my hair into the shower cap and slathered something called "Barrier Cream" on my hands and feet. What does it do? I don't know. But Instructions told me to put it on, and I'm not about to go with the flow on this one.
I was standing in the booth when that scene from Friends punched me in the judgement part of my brain. You know, this one?
So I only have a few seconds to super-panic before the VersaVoice announces the spray is going to start. I snap to attention and obediently stand in the first position. It sprays and dries. It's surprisingly gentle and tickle-y. Oh crap, I forget what's next! OMG! What's the next position? Luckily, technology has advanced in 8 years and the voice came on again to tell me where to stand. Spray, dry. Position 3. Spray, dry. Turn around, spray, dry. It all was going so well.
But then I go through one more drying pass and step out of the booth. I'm starting to dab my fingers and elbows, as instructed, when the voice inside the booth interrupts my self-congratulations.
"Press green button to begin bronzing level."
What?! No one said anything about a SECOND round! What do I do? What do I do?! OMG! WHAT THE EFF DO I DO!? Will I get four 4's? HELP!
Like any obedient robot, I got back in the booth. Images from Kim's wedding flashed through my head. Me, ruining every picture with my orange skin. Me, staining Kim's wedding dress with Cheeto-y smears the instant I hug her. Me, wiping tears of joy from my eyes as Kim walks down the aisle, only to notice my professional makeup job is dripping down my broken-out face. Why was I back in the booth!?
I was accidentally (but luckily) in position 1 when the spray started. Then the drying. Then instead of positions 2 and 3, the VersaBot ordered me right to position 4. I spun around and it was at that moment I realized my ENTIRE BODY was shaking. My body was rebelling against the unexpected sprays and my relentless need to follow instructions. I was shaking so badly that I could feel the once-gentle mist being violently flung from my body.
The VersaTron released me from it's casual dictatorship with a "Thank you for using/nearly passing out in VersaSpa. Use caution when exiting the booth." I leapt out of the booth carelessly and slipped. This is why we follow instructions, people! As I was considering taking the complimentary towel and smearing all the still-moist color off my body, it occurred to me that the VersaGod had not previously instructed me to exit the booth with care. I was not supposed to have gotten out the FIRST time.
And then I remembered that in discussing my color options, the girl up front told me that I could choose from three color levels and two finishing tones. After careful consideration and probably 20 minutes of discussion with the girl, I had chosen level 1 and bronzer in order to achieve a healthy glow. Had I stayed out of the booth like my fear-instincts wanted me to, I would have left with a light tint to my skin and no bronze.
The VersaQueen had not steered me wrong. I had gotten exactly what I had (not) paid for and my heart had settled back in my chest after jumping into my throat. I got dressed and breathed a huge sigh of relief. And when I got home, I could already see a tiny tan line starting to form and was definitely pleased with the results.
The stress, however, has angered my zits and I fear they may not recover quite as quickly. Oh well, at least my face is tan now.
So, I've got my shoes, some jewelry, the dress, the hair and makeup appointment, and I really thought I was all set. Then these two enormous zits popped up on my face. Oh, and I'm...bustier in the dress than I was 10 pounds ago. I sort of panicked. What does a girl do when she's going to be in a formal event in 3 days in order to detract from her "before Proactiv" face and her pasty, untoned arms?
She goes tanning. Spray tanning.
It all sounded like such a good idea. I found a coupon for a free spray tan and had a night free, so I gave approximately 2 minutes of thought into the decision to just go get me some color. I had done it successfully like 8 years ago, so I just assumed I'd be a pro.
When I got to the salon, they gave me a choice between an enclosed spray tan booth and an open one. The fumes from the UV beds were already choking me, so I opted for the open booth. It was a VersaSpa booth or something. I pored over the instructions on the wall while I took off my wedding rings, tucked my hair into the shower cap and slathered something called "Barrier Cream" on my hands and feet. What does it do? I don't know. But Instructions told me to put it on, and I'm not about to go with the flow on this one.
I was standing in the booth when that scene from Friends punched me in the judgement part of my brain. You know, this one?
So I only have a few seconds to super-panic before the VersaVoice announces the spray is going to start. I snap to attention and obediently stand in the first position. It sprays and dries. It's surprisingly gentle and tickle-y. Oh crap, I forget what's next! OMG! What's the next position? Luckily, technology has advanced in 8 years and the voice came on again to tell me where to stand. Spray, dry. Position 3. Spray, dry. Turn around, spray, dry. It all was going so well.
But then I go through one more drying pass and step out of the booth. I'm starting to dab my fingers and elbows, as instructed, when the voice inside the booth interrupts my self-congratulations.
"Press green button to begin bronzing level."
What?! No one said anything about a SECOND round! What do I do? What do I do?! OMG! WHAT THE EFF DO I DO!? Will I get four 4's? HELP!
Like any obedient robot, I got back in the booth. Images from Kim's wedding flashed through my head. Me, ruining every picture with my orange skin. Me, staining Kim's wedding dress with Cheeto-y smears the instant I hug her. Me, wiping tears of joy from my eyes as Kim walks down the aisle, only to notice my professional makeup job is dripping down my broken-out face. Why was I back in the booth!?
I was accidentally (but luckily) in position 1 when the spray started. Then the drying. Then instead of positions 2 and 3, the VersaBot ordered me right to position 4. I spun around and it was at that moment I realized my ENTIRE BODY was shaking. My body was rebelling against the unexpected sprays and my relentless need to follow instructions. I was shaking so badly that I could feel the once-gentle mist being violently flung from my body.
The VersaTron released me from it's casual dictatorship with a "Thank you for using/nearly passing out in VersaSpa. Use caution when exiting the booth." I leapt out of the booth carelessly and slipped. This is why we follow instructions, people! As I was considering taking the complimentary towel and smearing all the still-moist color off my body, it occurred to me that the VersaGod had not previously instructed me to exit the booth with care. I was not supposed to have gotten out the FIRST time.
And then I remembered that in discussing my color options, the girl up front told me that I could choose from three color levels and two finishing tones. After careful consideration and probably 20 minutes of discussion with the girl, I had chosen level 1 and bronzer in order to achieve a healthy glow. Had I stayed out of the booth like my fear-instincts wanted me to, I would have left with a light tint to my skin and no bronze.
The VersaQueen had not steered me wrong. I had gotten exactly what I had (not) paid for and my heart had settled back in my chest after jumping into my throat. I got dressed and breathed a huge sigh of relief. And when I got home, I could already see a tiny tan line starting to form and was definitely pleased with the results.
The stress, however, has angered my zits and I fear they may not recover quite as quickly. Oh well, at least my face is tan now.
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