A Man's Right to Shoes

In the Spirit of Christmas.

2008-12-09T20:14:00.001-08:00

I'm feeling a little bit sacrilegious today and this TV listing encouraged my mind to bad behaviour. Please see what is showing on channel 3.

Yup, Christ in the City. I wonder if this show is anything like Sex and The City? I can't imagine that it would be, but my overactive brain immediately conjured images of Jesus and the disciples talking about girls, how it was such a shame that really attractive harlot had to be stoned yesterday, discussing how perfect Sarah was except for the fact that she was a Leper. Chatting about the new Karl Lagerfeld phylacteries that all the cool kids were wearing. I imagine them in trendy water to wine bars. Shopping at the chicest of the Roman boutiques. I can't quite wrap my head around them drinking Cosmopolitans. I can however see a few of the apostles drinking Tartinis. I wonder what the Hebrew word for fabulous is and how often they used it.

This then led me to thinking which Apostle would be which Sex and The City character. Clearly Jesus would be the Carrie of the group. Would that make Mary Magdalene Mrs. Big? There's some unleavened bread for thought. I honestly can't remember all of the Apostles now, except for Judas and clearly he would be the Samantha. Yeah, definitely the Samantha.

Now that I know how to post videos, I'm a machine!

2008-11-19T21:47:00.000-08:00

Christian Charity Raising Money To Feed Non-Gay Famine Victims

I couldn't have said it better.

2008-11-11T06:40:00.000-08:00

Advertising Gone Wrong

2008-11-07T22:13:00.000-08:00

I think we have all seen ads that make us roll our eyes. Anyone living in Utah that has suffered through a Super Dale Totally Awesome Computers commercial knows what I mean.

I was watching the news when an ad for Aussie hairspray popped on. I typically don’t watch commercials (thanks DVR!) but I not only watched this one, I rewound it, watched it again and then called 3 friends.

A bit of background. The commercial opens with a kangaroo lying face down on a massage table. In walks the masseur and starts the massage. Then for an unknown reason the therapist jams both of her elbows into the purple kangaroo. After that I paused it and took the following pictures. Keep in mind that this commercial was supposed to be selling hairspray.

I don’t know what the hell kind of emotion this was supposed to elicit, but I can’t imagine that people want to purchase hairspray from a giant purple vagina. After the kangaroo births the hairspray, which goes flying through the air, the therapist snatchs it out of the air and sprays her hair with it. I can tell you one thing. If I were in a room and something came flying out of someone’s vajeen, I would run as if a there were a giant fuzzy purple vagina in the room. True story.

I told you so.

2008-04-30T20:50:00.000-07:00

I have always felt that Diet Coke is a good substitute for water. People say that it is bad for me, that it actually causes dehydration, it can cause cancer etc…

At work today, one of my co-workers came into my office and said, “Does anyone else think that the water from the water cooler tastes bad?” Another co-worker piped up and said, “It does taste kinda bad.” Co-worker 1 said, “Yeah, it’s making me feel sick.” Co-worker 2 said, “Me too.”

I said, “I’ll go smell it and see if there’s something wrong.” I smell the water, taste a little bit, swirl it around in my mouth wine tasting style and spit it out. It tasted like mold. Which cannot be very good for you. I think most people would agree that a cup full of Diet Coke is always preferable to a cup full of moldy water.

I turned to my co-workers, pointed a finger at them and said, “HA! That is why I only drink Diet Coke.” I turned around and walked back to my office.

It feels so good to be right.

Say What?

2008-04-20T12:47:00.000-07:00

It secretly makes me happy when people use words incorrectly. Not only does it make me feel smart, it makes me laugh my head off. Part of the reason I find this so funny is because I am a very visual person. When the wrong word is used I immediately visualize what the person is actually saying. Not what I know they are intending to say, but what is actually coming out of their mouth.

Below are a few of my favorite examples.

Example 1:

My newest guilty pleasure is a reality TV show called My Big Redneck Wedding. During one of my favorite episodes we find the groom writing his wedding vows. When finished he reads them to his granny. After expressing her love of Hot Pockets (really), Granny says, “You know, they don’t gots to rhyme.” To which the groom replies, “Aw, Granny. I don’t know how to use big, fancy words cuz I aint got no clitoris.”

Personally, I was not aware a clitoris was necessary for the use of large words. In my mind I picture women everywhere bent in half, looking toward their Va-J-J saying, “Give me another word for fancy. Luxurious? Perfect! Thanks clitoris!”

Example 2:

A few years ago, I was lucky enough to have two Jehovah’s Witnesses ring my doorbell. As I was politely asking them to go away, one of them said, “Does the Condensation of Christ mean nothing to you?” I’m assuming he meant to use the word Condescension, but with the JW’s you never can be sure. In my mind I pictured a glass of Iced Tea on a hot summer day with little droplets of water forming on the outside of the glass. In each droplet was a little mini Jesus. That, my friends, is the Condensation of Christ.

Example 3:

Only yesterday, I was watching a program on the History Channel about the origins of Earth. Starting 4.5 billion years ago they walked through the various stages of life on our planet. When they got to the dinosaurs they naturally discussed different theories on extinction. The most widely accepted theory they said had to do with a “huge astrological tragedy.” Clearly he meant astronomical. Immediately I imagined the dinosaurs reading their horoscopes in the newspaper and having it read, “The stars highlight all the power in your tenacious heart. You are willing to risk anything, even your own survival. Your sacrifice is not in vain. Goodbye.”

Example 4:

My friend Tracy was watching the local news and they were covering a shooting that had happened in Salt Lake City. Naturally, the reporters wanted to get the thoughts of eyewitnesses. The interviewed a woman who confessed that she had been “very dramatized by the shooting.”

Example 5:

For my final example I return to My Big Redneck Wedding. As the bride and groom were leaving their reception, the groom turns to the bride and says, “Honey, let’s go constipate our marriage!”

Enough said!

Splat!

2008-04-15T20:51:00.000-07:00

Walking the dog in my neighborhood has become especially difficult. Claudia draws a good amount of attention making it impossible to walk more than a few steps without having to stop and chat with a neighbor. Step step step. Chat. Step step step. Chat. It’s really annoying. What is even more annoying is hearing the same comments over and over and over again. “Is that a horse?” “How much does that thing eat?” “Is that a horse?” “I’d hate to pick up that poop.” “Is that a horse?”

This weekend I decided to venture away from my neighborhood for our walk. Not too far from my house is a marina. Claudia likes the water. I like the water. No neighbors. All good reasons to walk around the marina.

The marina was bright and sunny. The frogs were croaking. There was a nice breeze. Someone even stopped to say, “Your Dane is beautiful.” I can count on one hand the number of times someone in public has correctly identified Claudia’s breed. Overall, it was the perfect afternoon.

We were meandering back to the car when a frog hopped out in front of us. I looked at Claudia to see what her reaction was going to be. I saw her cock her head, perk her ears forward and then pounce. To some this may sound cute. Or even playful. When you are a 100-pound dog with paws the size of human fists, pouncing is not cute. Or playful. Especially if you are a frog. Within 5 seconds of spotting the frog, Claudia had squashed it. Flat. Afraid she was going to then try and eat it, I dragged her away leaving the frog carcass behind.

Coincidentally, this is not my first experience watching an animal get smooshed. My sister and I were playing in our front yard when I was maybe 13. She had a broken foot at the time and was wearing a cast on one leg. I recall it being pink. To allow her to walk easily with the cast, there was a little boot that she could wear with a v-shaped wedge on the bottom. I can’t remember exactly how she broke her foot. It either involved a snow bank or roller-skates…

Anyway, we heard a commotion down the street, and saw a cat chasing a gerbil. As most children would, we ran to the rescue. After scaring the cat away, we attempted catch the gerbil. As luck would have it, it zigged when it should have zagged and ended up under my sisters foot. The foot with the cast. She didn’t react quickly enough and squished the gerbil, killing it instantly.

Even now, I remember two things vividly.

Number one: The sound.

Number two: When she lifted her foot I noticed both of it’s eyes had popped out. And by popped out, I mean literally popped out of it’s head. To this day she remains traumatized by this experience, and to this day it’s one of the funniest memories I have of our childhood.

I highly doubt that Claudia still remembers that frog. I, however, will add it to the list of small creatures squished by members of my family.

Too good to be true?

2007-12-29T23:13:00.000-08:00

Today while running errands I stumbled across something truly amazing. A new doggy daycare facility has come to town!

I was cautiously optimistic as I dialed the number to get some information. Not that I am uphappy with the daycare Claudia is in now, but it can’t hurt to call.

Right away they started telling me about all of the great amenities they offer. A large indoor play space that is climate controlled in both summer and winter. Dog trainers on staff to take care of any behavior problems. There is an outdoor obstacle course for agility training. A large outdoor play area in the summer with an in-ground, heated swimming pool. And they take the dogs on field trips three times a week. Field trips! To places like Sundance on hiking trips and to dog parks in Park City.

Now, as all of you know, Claudia is like a member of the family to me. However, I do still realize that she is a dog. Dogs do not need field trips or heated pools. Just like they don’t need Christmas presents. When I spoke to my mother on Christmas day this was our conversation:

Mother: What did you get Claudia for Christmas?
Me: Uh, nothing.
Mother: Nothing?
Me: Yeah. Nothing.
Mother: Christopher, that is terrible! It’s Christmas!
Me: Uh, dogs don’t know what Christmas is.
Mother: But, but, but, I bet her friends at daycare got Christmas presents!
Me: Uh oh. House is on fire. Gotta go!

A lot of people think that the fact Claudia goes to day care at all is kind of over the top, which I can’t totally disagree with, but this place was even over the top for me. Obstacle courses? Heated pools? Field trips?! I mean… Really?

Figuring that this service would cost a fortune, I asked how much it was per day. As it turns out moving Claudia to this daycare would actually save me about $70 per month. Plus they are open till 7pm (my daycare now is only open till 6) and they are open on weekends (mine isn’t.) It couldn’t possibly be any more convenient either. I drive right by every day to and from work. They also carry the brand of dog-food I feed her and will keep 3-4 bags on hold for me and I can just buy them as I need them.

When I told Mike I was thinking of moving Claudia to a new daycare he asked:

Mike: Won't she miss her friends from her current daycare?
Me (Giving a dirty look): Have you been talking to my mother?

So it looks like Claudia is moving on to bigger and better things. The only question that is still nagging at me is what color swim cap I should buy her.

Highway Robbery.

2007-10-01T20:41:00.000-07:00

I am convinced that my doggy day-care is trying to rob me.

Three weeks ago I went to pick up Claudia after work. As I walked into the building I saw one of the boarding technicians giggling with the receptionist. When they spotted me, the giggling stopped. They both adopted guilty expressions and wouldn’t make eye contact.

I walked up to the desk and the receptionist turns to the boarding tech and says, gesturing toward me with one hand, “Well, tell him.”

The boarding tech looks up and says, “Uh, well, today Claudia was playing, and, um, well she uh, well she…ateanotherdogspoop.” That’s just how she said it too. Really fast, all words running together. I didn’t understand her, so I said, “Pardon?”

She blushes a little bit and says again, “We caught Claudia eating another dogs poo. And it was really fresh.”

I was speechless. And nauseous. And ashamed. My sweet little princess was a shit eater?

The receptionist looks at me and says, “This isn’t good. You need to do something about it.” I explained that I had never seen her do this before, and if I’m not around when the behavior is happening how can I stop it?

She looks at me like this certainly is my fault. “This behavior is not tolerated here.” She then hands me a flyer about coprophagia in dogs. Coprophagia is a fancy (latin?) word for eating doody.

Two weeks went by without a repeat performance. Then, calamity. I was working late and asked Mike to pick Claudia up. He called me as soon as he had her in the car and said, “Your dog is eating shit again.” The same technician gave him a lecture about this behavior. I asked him what he said. He replied, “Once I realized I was being scolded because Claudia ate another dogs shit, I turned around and left.”

When I dropped Claudia off the following morning, the receptionist pulls me aside to discuss Claudia’s new favorite treat. She again told me how they won’t tolerate that kind of behavior. I asked what she thought I could do about it. Her response shocked me.

“Well, there is one thing we can do. If the other dog’s poop tastes bad then Claudia won’t want to eat it.”

“Uh, doesn’t poo already taste bad? It’s poo…”

“Well, your dog obviously enjoys the taste. What we can do is give the other dogs in daycare a supplement that makes their poo taste really yucky (her exact words).”

“Uh, OK. Do that I guess.”

“Well, what we’d need you to do is pay for the prescriptions for the other dogs. Those pills aren’t free you know! Te-he.”

“Wait, what? You want me to pay for pills to make shit taste like…shit?”

“Well, yes I suppose. Each prescription will cost about $25.”

“For how many dogs?!”

“Any given week we have 15-20 dogs at daycare,” she said to me with a totally straight face.

“Uh-uh. Not going to happen. Are you people on glue? You want me to pay $500 so my dog will stop allegedly eating poo. I’ve never seen her do this. Not once. How do I know she’s even really doing it?” I was furious! “I already pay you people to keep her from eating poo! Aren’t you supposed to be watching her? This is your problem!” With that I turned and walked out.

Strangely enough, that is the last I heard about Claudia’s poo eating. And while I think they made the whole thing up to steal my money, I still cringe inside every time Claudia tries to lick my face…

Introducing Claudia.

2007-05-09T21:56:00.000-07:00

World, meet Claudia. Claudia, meet world.

Claudia is a 3 month old Great Dane. However, everyone I meet thinks she is a Lab. This makes me crazy. Just because she is black and has floppy ears does not mean she is a Lab. Below are some of my favorite “I love your Lab” stories.

Stranger 1: Oh, your dog is so cute! But isn’t she a little bit skinny for a Lab…
Me: Uh, yeah. She’s not a Lab. She’s a Great Dane.
Stranger 1: Oh.

Pizza Delivery Boy: That’s a cute puppy! I love dogs. We have the same kind of dog at home, but she’s a yellow Lab, not a black one.
Me: Not a Lab. Great Dane. Give me my damn pizza.

Nosy Over-enthusiastic Neighbor: Your puppy is so cute! I grew up with Lab! They are sooooo nice! I LOVE Labs! I think my family sho…
Me: NOT A LAB! GREAT DANE!

The list goes on and on. The other thing I have noticed about dog ownership is that anyone who has ever watched the Dog Whisperer is magically transformed into the worlds top dog trainer. Drives me nuts. That’s a whole other post though. Enjoy the pics!

Some People...

2007-01-31T18:36:00.000-08:00

This past Sunday I was at brunch with Doug and That Guy was sitting two booths away. Sadly, into each of our lives a little bit of That Guy must fall. That Guy is typically some know-it-all who you want to hit and / or stab in various private places. On Sunday That Guy took the form of the elusive White Trash Food Critic.

We were having brunch at Trio, a tasty little restaurant in Salt Lake when the dark cloud that is the WTFC came blowing in. As we were finishing our meal, we overheard the following conversation:

Waiter: So how was everything? (Pretty innocuous question, right? The waiter doesn’t really care how everything was. He is trained to ask you that. And unless there is something actually wrong with your meal (a finger in your salad, a big hair etc…) your answer should always be: FINE!)

White Trash Food Critic: Well the meal started off with a lovely bowl of soup. A little heavy on the cream, but otherwise it was fine. Then the omelette (said with an exaggerated French accent: Ohm-leTTe) came and was a touch salty….

Me: Doug! Are you hearing this guy? He’s a moron! Give me your gun.

WTFC: …with the dessert I would recommend a coulis (sidenote. He pronounced the S in coulis. Phonetically it is pronounced coolee. He pronounced it CooLiS. And he said it like 5 times! WITH THE S! AHHHHH. I HATE HIM!)

Me: Seriously, does anyone have a gun?

Meanwhile the waiter is just staring at him. WTFC has a girlfriend with him who, understandably, looks like she wants to crawl under the table and die. Doug and I are listening in awe of how pretentious yet unintelligent this man is.

WTFC: In my culinary expertise I think that with a few changes, the food could be very good. (Wait, WHAT? Did he just say culinary expertise? Last time I checked watching the Food Network in a stained wife beater does not a culinary expert make.)

Me: Honestly. Gun. Now! (Another sidenote. At the resort our switchboard operator had a permit to carry a gun in her purse. One time a deer fell down an embankment and broke it’s leg. They had to use her gun to euthanize it. To me this man was no more than a deer with a broken leg.)

Why I Hate Halloween

2006-10-14T22:14:00.000-07:00

Over the past few years I have really grown to hate Halloween. I don’t know why, but I think it has something to do with the costumes or the fact that you have to make a spectacle of yourself just to get free candy. Whoop-di-do. Free candy. Blah. It’s amazing what people will do to get something for free. One time I saw people wait in line for three hours to get a free Whopper from Burger King. A Whopper they could have purchased for $1.06. Idiots. For this reason, free candy is not an incentive for me. I can spend $20 and get candy that I actually want to eat, instead of having to grovel for total crap candy on a stranger’s doorstep.

Bad candy was the worst. Smarties, a.k.a. colorful flavored chalk, were my least favorite. I also hated old ladies that would give you pennies, an apple or a toothbrush. Of those three items we always had to throw away the latter two. An apple could have all manner of pins and razor blades hidden inside, and the toothbrush could have easily been soaked in poison or used to clean up old lady urine.

Our parents would make us inspect each piece of candy that we received to make sure there were no suspicious holes in the wrappers. Often times you would have to throw perfectly good candy away because my father thought the candy had been tampered with. This was especially horrifying as you first had to make a total ass of yourself to get the candy only to have your parents throw it in the garbage. This is a lose-lose situation.

You may think that I hate Halloween because I never had a good costume. Au contraire. I always had the best costumes growing up. I usually won the costume contests. Below is are a few of the more notable:

1. Yoda. I was an awesome Yoda. My mother sewed me a little smock that could have served as a back-up costume for the actual Yoda. I had little three toed feet that were stitched to the tops of my shoes, and my face was painted green with long pointy ears. I believe I won first place in the costume contest that year, and my costume was so realistic I remember a little girl cried.

2. Charlie brown. I had this amazing plastic Charlie Brown head that I wore. I even had the yellow shirt with the black zig-zag stripe across the chest. I even vaguely remember having a stuffed Snoopy.

3. A Genie. This may sound like a pretty ho-hum costume, but it was fierce. I had a blue painted face, a turban with an authentic ivory broach pinned above my forehead. And I was in lamp. A lamp you ask? Yes, I was in a full size Genie Lamp. It was 6 feet long, and just wide enough that it wouldn’t fit through doors. It was spray painted gold with straps that went over my shoulders to hold it up. There were large painted gemstones all around the lamp. Again, winner of best costume.

4. The next year I was a milk shake. Yes, a milk shake. My father made constructed this one out of cardboard. I was of course a Strawberry milkshake. There was a hole cut in the middle of one side so I could see while walking. At the top of the milkshake there was 6 inches of clear plastic and cotton batting so that it looked like I was topped with whipped cream. I can’t remember if there was a large cherry, but I do remember the straw. The straw was so tall that I again couldn’t walk through a doorway. Only this year I was too tall to fit through the door, instead of being too wide as I was the prior year as a genie.

I also hate Halloween because even when people aren’t in costumes, they are. Spider earrings, blinking lapel buttons, socks decorated with pumpkins and ghosts, sweaters with a witch or black cat cleverly crocheted into the pattern. Gaggers! Holiday Dressers should be ashamed of themselves. Holiday Dressers are worse than Pay Less shoes and denim on denim outfits combined.

I had a truly humiliating experience when I was mistaken for a Holiday Dresser. It was Halloween and because I care nothing for this stupid holiday, I had totally forgotten about it. I had a big meeting that day and my mind was more pre-occupied with the meeting than with free candy. Shortly after lunch I am tapped on the shoulder from behind. “Want a Buffalo Chip?” Unbeknownst to me, Robert Redford had snuck into the meeting and was now sitting behind me, offering me Buffalo Chips. For those who don’t know, Buffalo Chips are dried apples covered in chocolate. They are meant to look like buffalo poop, and for an unknown reason tourists buy them up by the cartful. Not wanting to be rude, I take a Buffalo Chip and hand the bag back to him. He takes it from my hand and says, “Nice shirt.” I thought this was kind of an odd comment, so I said, “Uh, thanks…”

As the meeting was coming to a close, the facilitator said, “Well I should wrap things up as I know many of you have kids that will want to go Trick-Or-Treating.” I thought, “Trick-Or-Treating? That’s odd. Is it even Halloween?” Then it hits me. It is in fact Halloween. Shit. I look down and see I am wearing an orange shirt. Redford’s comment starts to make sense. The realization hits me that he now thinks I am one of Them. A Holiday Dresser. This is possibly one of the worst things that has ever happened to me. There was no easy way to clear my name either. If I went and found him and explained that the orange shirt was a total accident he would either think I was lying, or a total psychopath. Most likely he would think both. I wasn’t sure which category I would rather be in. Holiday Dresser or raving lunatic. Is there really a difference?

So this year when people ask me what I am going to be for Halloween I am going to slap them across the face. Possibly using both hands. This will accomplish two things. One, it will prevent me from having to explain why I hate Halloween. And two, it will perhaps make them hate Halloween as much as I do.

Supposedly Fun Things I Will Never Do Again

2006-08-26T15:37:00.000-07:00

Camping. End of sentence.

Moving. I recently moved into a new house and a friend talked me out of hiring movers. Biggest mistake of my life. As I was heaving my couch over my head, I realized that in all the years I had owned this furniture this was the first time I had actually physically moved it. In my opinion, this is one time too many.

Painting. I painted an accent wall in my bedroom when I moved into the new house. Previously the wall was lilac. I decided (with Doug’s assistance) that a dark rust orange would be great in that room. I bought a tinted primer to cover the lavender wall, believing this would actually prevent me from having to do multiple coats of the new color. WRONG. I painted one coat of primer, and three coats of paint. THREE! I will never paint my own walls again.

Change my own oil in my car. HAHAHAHA. As if I have ever even attempted to change my own oil. Until three years ago I didn’t even know that people were able to change their own oil.

Mop the floor. Having a cleaning lady has changed my life. I don’t think I will ever mop a floor again as long as I live. Or dust.

Go to a Laundromat. In my last house, the washing machine broke. Luckily we only had to live with the broken washer for one week, since the new house came with a new washing machine. Sadly for me, I had to visit the Laundromat. Before I did though I called every Laundromat and dry cleaner I could find to see if the offered wash and fold service. Nobody did. In fact, I was treated like a crazy person for even asking. I finally broke down and decided to do my own laundry. I went to a place called Oasis because I liked the name. I arrived at Oasis, loaded up the washing machines and sat down to wait. I was looking around the room full of washing machines and saw a huge sign that said, “WASH AND FOLD SERVICE OFFERED HERE.” I ran to the desk and asked what the cost was. .95 cents per pound! I was sold. I think I actually cried a little. I explained to the girl that had I already loaded the clothes in, but would they finish them for me? She told me no. I spent the next two hours watching my clothes tumble around. Never again.

Sex in an airplane. Kidding. I would never! I'm not that flexible.

Going to a Jazz concert. I had a group of clients in town over the weekend and we hosted them at the Park City Jazz Festival. This experience just reinforced to me that I hate Jazz. Well, to be fair, it’s music with no words that I really don’t like. I just feel like it is such a waste. It’s like having a book with no words. I think God is on my side in this matter also. Halfway through the concert there was a huge thunderstorm, including hail and horizontal rain. After the storm none of the microphones would work. Divine retribution? I think so. Ps. I really really hate the be-bop-a-do-wopping that jazz artists do.

Answer my front door. The past three times I have answered the door when I wasn't expecting company, it has been someone from the local Ward welcoming me to the neighborhood. So far we have had the Elder's Quorum drop by, our Home Teachers and the Bishopric. I think we are going to have to erect an upside down cross made from condom wrappers, cigarettes, beer cans and empty vodka bottles in our front yard. Perhaps then we will be left alone.

Je déteste la nature!

2006-07-14T21:39:00.000-07:00

On my deck I noticed a strange little growth on the wall. It was about a foot above my head, and was the same shape as my index finger, if my index finger were cut off and glued horizontally to the wall, that is. I looked at it and decided it was a wasp’s nest. As all things insect and nature-related fall under Mike’s roommate responsibilities, I decided to tell him to take care of it later that night, but forgot. A week later we were out on the balcony and again I noticed this strange growth. Only now, the growth was bigger than it had been before. It was now about the size of 4 of my index fingers laid on top of each other. It was strange looking, and Mike didn't think that it was a wasps nest. In fact, he was stumped. Mr. I Love Camping More Than Staying In Hotels was stumped. Now that I looked closer I noticed that it looked more like concrete than that waspy paper they make their nests out of. I also noticed there were no openings for the wasps to fly in and out of. Trés bizarre.

I tell Mike to get rid of it, and he says he's going to get some wasp spray the next day. Next day, what? I can’t wait that long. I wanted it gone right then! The thing on the wall had become a Thing. For those who don’t know, a Thing is what happens when you are craving Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup Santas and the past three stores in which you have attempted to purchase the Santa’s are sold out. This does not deter you. In fact it only encourages you to try four more stores until the Santa’s are safely in a shopping bag. A Thing is when you call every Target and Wal-Mart within 2 hours of your house looking for Mean Girls on DVD and after being told they are sold out, you drive to each and every one of them thinking that the salespeople are just lying to you to be mean.

As this was a Thing involving insects, it became the worst kind of thing. I decide to take matters into my own hands. I say, "Fine! I'll do it myself!" I stomp into the house and grab the mop. I figured that if I pushed the mop along the wall I could knock whatever-it-was into my neighbors yard. Ready for a swarm of wasps to attack my face, I raise the mop above my head and push it as hard as I can toward the hive. The mop connects with the hive but instead of pushing it off the wall and onto the ground, the whole thing explodes. Bits of dried mud nest went everywhere. My arms, head and bare feet were sprinkled with it. As I stood there, I became very confused. I didn't see a single wasp. In fact, I was so surprised by the lack of wasps that I never thought to look down on the ground.

Behind me, Mike said, in a very nonplussed, matter of fact way, "Oh. It's not wasps. It's spiders." I didn't even look at the ground. I spun around, pushed Mike out of the way and ran into the house. I was convinced that my legs and head were now covered with spiders. Three seconds later my pants were off and I was running up the stairs. Screaming. It was a spider bomb. A little clay nightmare filled with spiders! For those of you who aren’t aware, I am more scared of spiders than I am of bad footwear.

This was spider retribution. A month ago I found a giant spider in my bedroom. It was roughly the size of a dime, sitting on the wall as I walked in. Frozen in the doorway, I tried not to throw up on the floor. Clearly, the only course of action was to capture and kill it.

I pick up an empty water glass from my nightstand, and creep toward the spider. I will slowly place the glass over the spider and knock it in by sliding a sheet of paper between the wall and the glass. When the lip of the glass was roughly an inch from the spider, it jumped right at me! This is why spiders are pure evil. They look like they are sleeping on the wall and then leap at you, fangs extended! Disgusting! I swear I heard it hissing.

Luckily the spider ended up in the glass and not on my face. I ran downstairs with the glass and now had to decide what to do with it. I didn’t want to let it go. That act of kindness would only encourage other spiders to come and visit. I didn’t want to squish it. That’s just gross. Plus if I did that, I’d have to throw the glass away. As it is, I’m going to have to soak the glass in bleach just to get the spider germs out of it. That’s it! Why wait till the spider is out of the glass to fill it with bleach? Genius! Isn’t that how they knock out animals to be dissected in labs? I was quite proud of how humanely I was going to handle dispose of this bug.

I take the bleach from the laundry room, and notice that the spider is watching me walk around the room. This unnerves me more than a little. I hurry to the glass and fill it about halfway with bleach. I take a step back to watch the hideous creature fall asleep and die. I wait. And wait. And wait. The spider isn’t dying. It’s just swimming around in the cup full of bleach. This really pisses me off. I tried to kill this little monster the nicest way I could think of. How dare it not cooperate?! I’ll show this little bastard just who he is messing with. As I pick up the glass I swear that spider smirked at me! Carrying the glass at arms length, I reach the sink, turn on the water and pour the glass of bleach down the drain. And then I turn on the garbage disposal. Take that, beotch! Let this be a lesson to all of your little spider friends!

After I showered I went back downstairs and said to Mike. "Well, I am never going out on that balcony again." He looked at me and said, “It’s only spiders. And besides, they’re all dead. And there were like 50 of them. Huh.” Wait...what? Only a few spiders? That’s like saying, “Hurricane Katrina was only a small thundershower.” The moral of the story is this: Some other creature had been collecting spiders and storing them in these strange little clay tubes. This is my worst nightmare come to life. My balcony has become the dead spider supermarket.

As Mike was totally unsympathetic, I decided to write an e-mail to my best friendy, and fellow spider hater, Angela. Her reaction was much more appropriate. She said, “That is horrifying!!!!! I would die! What a weird creature. What do you think it is? Maybe it will make its next dead spider morgue in your bed under your pillow. Maybe it’s a huge spider that eats other spiders and its going to take over your house. I would have had nightmares for a month. Move.”

Spoken like a true best friend.

Why Cycling is the gayest sport ever.

2006-07-13T21:41:00.000-07:00

I had a revelation this morning as I was driving to work. Cycling is going to replace figure skating as the gayest of all sports. Before anyone gets all defensive, I have evidence.

Exhibit A: The outfits. One word on this topic. Spandex. Even worse. Head to toe spandex. I can understand the spandex if you are in the Tour de France but for the average joe it’s overkill. Who are you racing, spandex man? Huh, who? Do you need to shave 2 seconds off of your best time cycling down your street? I mean, honestly. If I had the time, and was willing to stop the car as I zipped pass you, I would totally slap you in the face.

Exhibit B: The fact that groups of “straight” men get together and wear matching outfits to go cycling. Just this morning I was driving to work and saw a group of 8 men wearing matching baby blue spandex outfits. BABY BLUE! No lie. Unless you are on a professional sports team, or are in the Olympics, matching outfits are a bit much. I don’t know any gay guys who would go out and buy matching spandex outfits and go ride bikes in them. In public. Even male figure skaters most likely only wear the outfits they do because they are forced into it by their three hundred pound, knee breaking Russian trainers.

I rest my case.

Why I am better than Spencer and Ben.

2006-06-10T21:37:00.000-07:00

This was an article that I found on MSN right around my birthday. I thought it was interesting and thought I’d post it on my blog so all my adoring fans could get to know me better.

Ps. I have added some of my own comments. They are in parentheses.

Read on to see which careers are best suited to spunky, chatty, versatile Gemini:

Journalist:
Naturally nosy (homo say what?! Nosy… Unless by nosy you mean wanting to know everyone elses business…then yeah I guess I am nosy…), Gemini will want to get to the bottom of any story or idea. This makes them perfect for the profession of journalist. They are wonderful writers(true), and can engage the reader with a compelling voice. No stone will be left unturned and facts will be checked thoroughly. Some will literally go to the ends of the Earth to get a story (if by ends of the earth you mean to the internet, then, yes I agree). As children they probably had ink all over their hands or sore wrists from typing at the computer (I can tell you one thing. If my wrists were sore, it wasn’t from typing.)

Translator:
Gemini is very proficient in languages, knowing at least two (Yup, I know English and the universal language of cute shoes.) They may have lived in foreign countries or at least have a fascination with them. These silver-tongued devils (as long as the silver comes from Tiffany I am fine with this) are very articulate and have a talent for the art of translation. They are able to glean the essence from one language into another with ease. They work rather quickly and think fast which is necessary for this career.

Talk Show Host:
The natives of this sign love to talk (yes), are lively and entertaining (yes yes), and have a gift for the art of conversation (a thousand times yes!). They are at home in many social situations and are never at a loss for words. This makes them naturals for the realm of broadcasting, and in particular radio and television talk shows. The only challenge will be to know when to pause and let their guests get a word in (since when do guests on talk shows have anything important to say anyway). Gemini is a naturally curious individual, who is constantly seeking to know and understand. (Watch your back Oprah. Watch. Your. Back.)

Public Relations:
Gemini is very agile at dodging bullets (there was this one time in Compton…and this other time when I was Keanu's body double on the Matrix) and creating spin. They can be manipulative and are talented at being the spokesperson. This makes a career in public relations perfect for them. If they have to organize a fundraising event or orchestrate a communications plan, they will multitask with flair and verve. Sometimes their heads spin completely out of control, but somehow they manage to pull it all together.

Novelist/Writer:
A Gemini novelist would have to work very much alone, but this is a great path to take. They get very caught up in the world of ideas and storytelling. It's better to craft a novel or a work of creative non-fiction than resort to making up stories to tell around the water cooler. At the office they would be considered a sociopath, but in the world of publishing, a brilliant writer. Gemini has an ear for conversation and gossip and will translate this into their work. Be careful what you reveal to a Gemini!

Marketing Specialist:
Whether tracking the buying habits of consumers or creating an ad campaign, this field is well suited to the big ideas of Gemini. They are fascinated by the behavior and habits of people (does fascinated mean almost always annoyed?), human nature, and statistics. If you want to know what colors will make you hungry and what scent will turn you into a hottie, ask a Gemini in this field. They are also very good at sales and presentations and the art of persuasion.

Copywriter:
Because Gemini understands the mind of the public so well, they can write copy that is very effective. Their agility with words is second to none. They are able to convey in a few well chosen-phrases, the essence of a product or an idea. Play on words is involved in this specialty area of advertising. Mercurial Gemini is able to pull concepts out of a hat (only if it’s “a say something hat!” and build a bull's-eye campaign. Most people would fear the blank page, but they consider it a challenge.

Tour Guide:
Gemini loves to ride at the front of the bus so they can talk to the bus driver (Ew! I have never! The only person I know who rides the bus is Spencer), so this job is a natural extension. They love to talk with their hands so they can easily point to landmarks and interesting sights along the way (Is that a Louis Vuitton outlet? STOP THIS BUS!). In their spare time they can compile all kinds of interesting facts to entertain their travelers. Some prefer water travel, and work in theme parks and on tour boats. For Gemini natives who prefer to stay in one spot, they can work in museums or historical sites as interpreters and guides. At any rate, they can indulge their gift of gab to baffle tourists.

Impressionist:
The best impressionists are probably Gemini natives. They can take on the personality of just about anyone. Masters of a host of accents and a repertoire of faces, they are able to amaze and entertain their friends for hours. To get paid for making fun of famous people would be almost perfect. They do it all the time anyway, why not make a living at it. All those years in school of mimicking their teachers and sitting in detention (I was always able to talk my way out of detention!) would be worth it after all.

Teacher:
This is the quintessential job for Gemini. They get to talk all day (Yeah, to children. BLECH!), read papers (Boring!), or mark tests all night (uhhh, no.) and pass on knowledge to young, impressionable minds. They get to influence young children by making them learn all kinds of trivial facts. The kids will have to memorize poems (WTF?) that will stick with them for years, and they will have to find the hypotenuse of a circle (whatever that is!). Gemini takes a certain amusement from making shy students face the class (torturing students would be fab!), and boisterous ones sit quietly.

Why I Hate TiVO...

2006-05-24T21:59:00.000-07:00

Late last night I was scrolling through the T.V. Guide menu on my TiVO (flipping channels is soooo passé!) and I came across a show called Pants Off Dance Off. Being curious I pushed the info button and this is what I read, “Shedding their clothes down to their skivvies while dancing to popular music videos for the chance to win bragging rights and some hard earned cash.”

I thought to myself, “Certainly this can’t be what the show is really about…” The show didn't start for an hour, so of course I recorded it. I am sad to report that the description was 100% accurate. For a chance to win $200 people can dance around to a music video and have the general public vote, American Idol style, and determine who was the best naked dancer.

Naturally, I watched the entire episode and realized that it’s not just attractive young people who are stripping to popular music videos. The have old men, old women, fat men, vagrants, mental patients, and even midgets…I am truly and utterly speechless…

I swear some of these people are homeless and bordering on mentally retarded. One woman, Savannah, was the dancing equivalent to William Hung. She shook her tootie to a random Nine Inch Nails song. Nine Inch Nails? Earth to Savannah! NIN is not dance music! As if her dancing wasn’t humiliating enough, the producers of the show ran the following caption while she was dancing, “Savannah is wearing a sexy purchase from Kmart’s lingerie department.” Insult to injury. Insult. To. Injury.

The most shocking piece of information is yet to come. TiVO categorized this show as News / Business. Again, truly and utterly speechless...

Ps. For those of you who don’t believe me, go to the website and prepare to be amazed. www.fuse.tv/pants. Don’t say I didn’t warn you…

Jaywalking: The new Crack.

2006-05-21T20:10:00.000-07:00

The vacation portion of my trip to Seattle started off a bit like a slasher film. As I was getting my luggage out of the taxi, I cut my finger on the rusty trunk. Immediately blood started gushing out of the cut on my knuckle. I pointed this out to the cab driver who looked at my finger, shrugged and said, “Hrumph.” He got in his car and drove away. Leaving me to bleed to death on the side of the road. My only hope of survival was to get up to Spencer’s apartment.

When I got into the apartment I show Doug my bloody stump of a finger and tell him to call 911. He looked at me and said, “I think you just need a band-aid.” What compassion! Turns out he was only partially right. I needed two band-aids! Although I didn’t bleed to death I’m sure I now have a myriad of diseases from that nasty taxi. Welcome to Seattle!

Once the finger situation was under control, and my life was out of danger, Doug and I decided to find some breakfast.

On our way to breakfast we had to walk past a construction site. There was a sign in front of the site that read, “Sidewalk Closed” and beside the fenced off area there were orange traffic cones. Between the cones and the fence there was an area that looked like a temporary sidewalk.

“We must be able to walk next to the fence,” I said as I stepped onto the temporary sidewalk.

When we are about halfway through the construction zone we can see a traffic cop waving his arm. It looked like he was shooing flies. He was roughly 50 years old and at least 475 pounds overweight.

“What’s he doing?” I say to Doug.

“Uhhhh, not sure.”

“Is he waving his arm at us?”

“Not sure.”

“Well, let’s just keep walking then.” I said

We walk the remaining half block to where the officer is positioned. Once we get within earshot, Officer MacUseless looks at us and our conversation goes something like this:

Officer MacUseless: “Identification please!”

Me: “Uhhhh, why?”

Officer MacUseless: “You were jaywalking!” By his tone he may as well have said, “I saw you rape and murder a nun while doing crack.”

Officer MacUseless: “Licenses!” We show our licences. “Can’t you two read? How many signs did you see that said sidewalk closed?”

Me: “Ummm, one I guess.”

Officer MacUseless (looking very smug): “Wrong!” He holds up his hand, fingers extended. “Three. There were three signs. You should know better than to walk in the street like that! If you were driving and saw a sign that said “Road Closed” would you drive on the sidewalk? Huh? Would you?”

Me: Here is what I wanted to say, “Weeeeelllll, that depends on how many drinks I’d had that night.” Here is what I actually said, “Well no.”

Officer MacUseless: “So why did you walk in the street?”

Before I could answer him, a younger Asian woman came walking along the same route we had just taken. The over-enthusiastic traffic cop stops her as well. “IDENTIFICATION!”

She looks at him and says in very clear English, “Why?”

“Because you were JAYWALKING!” He is really upset at this point. I would say he’s 90% of the way to having a full on Nervy B.

The woman looks at him, and again says in very clear English, “Well the sidewalk was closed and that looks like a temporary sidewalk.”

He looks at her and says, “Fine you can go then.”

I was stunned. Why was he letting her go? He turns back to us and says, “She was just following you! That Chinese woman probably can’t even read English!” Lovely. He’s not only an asshole, he’s a racist.

As we are standing there listening to his tirade, I lose track of what he is saying because I am distracted by the appalling state of his teeth. They are the most lovely shade of mustard, and I honestly think that they are made up of more plaque than tooth. It’s as if nature has given him little plaque crowns over all of his teeth. Breathtaking, and not in a scenic vista kind of way. I want to give him a lecture about the proper use of floss, but decide against it.

Right about the time that I am going to say, “Look, if you are going to give us a ticket, give us a ticket. I am hungry, and very nearly had my finger amputated this morning on a rusty taxi, and I am in no mood to listen to a fat traffic cop lecture me on the dangers of JAYWALKING!” he let us go. I’m still not sure why he let us go, but he finally said, “You’re lucky I’m not giving you both tickets! Now get out of here!”

We went on our way. The next day however, we happened to be walking in the same area (on the opposite side of the street) and again saw our friend, Officer MacUseless. This time however, there were at least 15 signs that said sidewalk closed, and he had erected a fortress for himself out of traffic barriers and bright orange safety cones.

Ironically, even with all of these precautions there were still a handful of people walking down the faux sidewalk. As we passed by, I couldn’t help but notice that he was still waving his arms frantically in the air at the people walking toward him. Only this time, things were different. This time he had a whistle…

Wetlands, Schmetlands!

2006-04-20T22:44:00.000-07:00

I heard the funniest / scariest thing on CNN the other morning.

The newscaster was discussing President Bush, and how his Secretary of the Interior had resigned. Just prior to her resignation she declared that the United States has more wetlands now than we did in 1997! Good news right? Well that’s what I thought.

As it turns out the Bush Administration is counting water hazards on golf courses and swimming pools as wetlands.

Swimming pools and water hazards!!

I am so disgusted I can barely type.

God Bless Tay-Has!

2006-04-15T07:35:00.000-07:00

Last week I had the distinct privilege of spending an entire week in Texas. Before reading, please tease your hair so it’s big, poofy and preferable blonde. Put on your largest belt buckle, and a big cowboy hat. Bonus points if the hat has cow hide with the fur still attached…

I arrive late Monday night and check into The Hotel ZaZa. It was amazing. Super chic, very sexy. There was a big bed right in the lobby and a huge color changing chandelier. What is better than that? Not a whole lot. I check in, am shown up to my room by a bellman and discover I am starving. The only place open in the hotel at the moment is the hotel bar, Dragonfly.

I sit at a small table against the wall, order a Bellini and a Kobe Beef Burger. As I’m waiting for my food, an older woman sits down two tables over. She is wearing a very tight black dress with a halter-top. She is suffering from a condition I call “bra sausage.” Bra sausage is when a woman wears a bra that is way too small causing the excess boob that won’t fit in the cup to ooze over the top. Over the dress she is wearing a full-length coat with a HUGE faux fur collar. She has the requisite large Texas hair, has had at least one face-lift, and is wearing enough makeup for at least 3 of her old lady friends. I think I may actually be looking at the original Debbie, from Debbie Does Dallas.

As she settles in, I notice her staring at me. She then starts making comments in my direction, trying to engage me in conversation. I give her a half smile and nod instead of speaking to her, making a point not to make eye contact. Once you make eye contact with someone like this, you are doomed. Even from two tables away I can tell she is C-R-A-Z-Y.

The half conversation continues with further questions from granny porn star, the entire time staring straight at me. “I haven’t been to this bar in ages!” “There are always such good looking men here.” “You come here often?” “Are you from out of town.” Refusing to be tricked into actually conversing with this woman, I pretend not to hear her. Then it dawns on me. Debbie is trying to pick me up! Insert puking noise. I get the shivers now even thinking about it. Dinner has now turned into Operation Igonorez Vous Debbie.

I finally get my food, and start eating. The woman leans closer to me and says, “That burger looks so good. I wonder,” she continues, her voice dripping in innuendo, “if it’s always better if it’s thicker?”

Did she just ask what I think she asked? Thicker? Did she just say thicker to me? Wha! I have a sneaking suspicion that she is not talking about hamburgers. Can she really mean what I think she means? I look over and she is looking me up and down. Holy hell. Yeah, she means exactly what I thought she meant. I am so disgusted that I am afraid I may pass out. I don’t know what to do. What can I do to get this woman to leave me alone? Tell her I’m married? No that would only encourage her. Tell her I’m not into women who get a seniors discount at McDonalds? No, she has a knife on her table and I’d like to leave the bar alive.

Then it comes to me. I know exactly how I can get this dirty old blue hair to leave me alone. I take a swig of my bellini, point at my chest and mouth the word, “Gay.”

She stares at me for a second, then says, “I need to run to the ladies. Will you watch my coat?”

Thinking this is the best way to get out of the situation, I hurry and finish my food and run to the nearest shower. Her coat can fend for itself.

The next day I wake up with a migraine. Oh, the joys of traveling. Not having any migraine medicine with me, I decide to grin and bear it. I have clients to meet and I flew all the way to Texas to see them. No silly little migraine is going to keep me from doing that!

My first meeting of the day goes swimmingly. Everyone loves me, loves my shirt, loves my shoes, loves Sundance. It’s a love fest all around! I return to the parking garage, get into my car and attempt to leave the building. I think to myself, “Wow, there are a lot of pedestrians…” I can’t leave the garage due to the sheer number of people walking in the street. I sit there and wait. And wait, and wait and wait. I am trying to be patient, trying to ignore the pain behind my eyes, but my patience is GONE. I roll down my window and as I’m about to start screaming obscenities at the passers by, I look to my left and see the cop cars. Six of them. I look to my right and see a huge crowd has gathered in the intersection, completely blocking traffic. There are five more cop cars in that direction. I also notice about a dozen officers in full riot gear. Big plastic shields, billy clubs, and gas masks.

“This isn’t happening. This isn’t happening.” I realize I am smack in the middle of a protest. I had heard about these demonstrations on CNN. I know they have something to do with the American Government wanting to ship all the illegal immigrants back to where they came from. I know that these protests are supposed to be peaceful, but the S.W.A.T. team down the street has totally freaked me out. My head starts pounding, my heart is beating harder than when I tried on a pair of $950 Prada sandals, and I think I may pee my pants.

“SIR IN THE SILVER VOLKSWAGEN! YOU MUST LEAVE THE PREMISES IMMEDIATELY!”

One of the police cruisers has stopped almost directly in front of the exit to the parking structure I am trapped in. He is yelling at me over his P.A. system. I motion with my hand, trying to say to him, “Do you want me to run these people over?” He motions back saying, “Don’t worry jackass. They’ll move.”

I pull forward tentatively, glancing to my right at the large crowd of protestors. As I do I see one of the Hispanic kids take a swing at a police officer with an umbrella. All hell breaks loose. The cops grab the kid, handcuff him and take him away. The rest of the crowd starts screaming and lunging toward the remaining officers who start lobbing tear gas into the crowd. I immediately think that this is it. I’m going to die. I’ll be hit by a stray bullet. Friendly fire they will call it. It will all be very sad, and will of course make national news. Although my death will be tragic, it will end the conflict between the U.S. Government and the irritable illegal immigrants. I may even get some kind of medal and have a monum…“SIR. MOVE! NOW!”

I manage to weave my way through the crowd to my next meeting, which is only three blocks away. I pull into yet another parking garage, find a space and realize two things. I am 45 minutes early for my meeting and I feel like I’m gonna yack. Yup definitely gonna yack. I open my door and empty my stomach next to the car. The migraine and the excitement of the near death experience were just too much.

I decide to find another parking space. I don’t want to be parked next to my own vomit. That’s just trashy. I move up two levels and decide to take a nap to see if that will make the migraine go away. As I recline my seat and close my eyes, I think, “Good Lord, I am sleeping in my car, in a parking garage in the middle of the day. I am one step above homeless.” When I got back to my hotel that evening I sent my friend Tracy an e-mail telling her what had happened. Her response comforted my greatly.

“I spent most of my twenties puking and sleeping in strange cars. Is there something wrong with that?”

Words to live by.

I Hate Deer!

2006-03-24T10:16:00.000-08:00

I know that is a very politically incorrect statement, but it is true. I hate them. To me, a deer is like a giant rat with antlers. They shit in my back yard, eat people’s gardens and are a hazard to drivers everywhere.

Because I live and work in the mountains, I accept the fact that I am going to see the occasional deer. I also accept the fact that I am going to have to do some deer-dodging as I drive to and from work. However, I do not accept the fact that the deer have taken control of my neighborhood. Saturday evening I was driving to the grocery store and right there, in the middle of my street, there was an entire herd of deer. There were nine in total. NINE! Just standing in the middle of the street. It was like a deer cocktail party. They were just hanging out, waiting to run some poor person off the road. I think we should be alarmed that the deer are forming gangs, obviously with the sole intent of forcing drivers off the road.

As a concerned citizen, I am proposing that deer be hunted year round. It’s really much more humane if you think about it. If I were a deer I would rather be shot by some redneck and killed quickly, than run over by a car and left to bleed to death on the side of the road. It’s a win / win situation. The deer wouldn’t die horrible, bloody, disgusting deaths. They would stop wrecking innocent commuters’ vehicles. And their mangled, broken bodies wouldn’t be littering the sides of the highway making people sick.

Early last summer I was driving home from work and made a very disturbing discovery. I found out what the state does with the dead animal bodies. They load the carcasses into large open trailers and tow them to the dump. I had the misfortune of being stuck behind one of these trailers. I thought, “Certainly that can’t be a giant trailer filled to the top with dead animals.” Sure enough, that is exactly what I was looking at. As I got closer to the trailer I was able to make out bits and pieces of dead deer, moose and elk. A leg here, an antler there. A bloody eyeball stared at me.

As the trailer of death slowed for a traffic light, the smell of decomposing animal snuck into my car. At the very same moment the smell entered the car, the trailer in front of me hit a bump. All the carcasses slowly heaved upward and then slowly settled back down. As the mass of bodies shifted, one of the deer legs that had been sticking up into the air suddenly folded over into a right angle. The broken bone was sticking out, there was slime oozing from the torn flesh around the bone. The leg continued to swing and bounce as the trailer came to a stop.

I must preface this next statement by saying that I have a very strong stomach. Blood doesn’t bother me. I love shows that involve real life plastic surgery. Real Life in the E.R. on The Learning Channel is one of my favorite shows. I have driven past hundreds of dead deer in my life, and even driven through pools of blood from deer that had just been hit. None of this bothered me. I just thought, “Stupid deer…” and kept driving. When I saw that jagged broken leg, bouncing to and fro I almost threw up. I have never been so disgusted by something in my life. Not even Star Jones. And that is saying volumes!

My Love Affair with Shopping

2006-02-26T18:15:00.000-08:00

Everyone has something they can do, and no matter what, it will relax them. Some people meditate. Others will bake, read, sew, have sex…whatever. That is all well and good, but for me that outlet is shopping. I don’t even need to buy anything (although I do enjoy buying things) it is just the act of shopping that makes me smile. Wandering aimlessly through the stores, dodging pushy salespeople, thinking I have won some cosmic game if I can stay in a store for any period of time and not be harassed by some teenage worker. I love checking out the latest styles. Stopping every few racks, touching a shirt, feeling the fabric, noting the pattern and the price, then moving on to the next rack to repeat the process.

Ever since I was a little boy I have enjoyed shopping. I vividly remember asking my mother for a dollar and walking to Stewarts. Stewarts is the East Coast equivalent of 7-11. Before buying anything, I would browse the candy aisle, check out the potato chips, look at the automotive supplies. I’d usually end up buying an ice cream sundae, but not until I had perused all offerings in the store. It just didn’t seem right if I didn’t know the contents of the store before leaving.

As I got older my shopping became more specific. I would leave the house to shop for specific items to answer a specific shopping craving. Shoes are my number one quarry, but other times I will only look at kitchen items. Or office supplies. Home accessories like mirrors or end tables are pretty high on the list as well. Whatever stress I am having, there is a certain type of shopping that will alleviate it.

On Saturday, tragedy struck. This is the type of tragedy that will happen to each and every one of us at some point in our lives. But, when it happens you feel as if God has punched you in the stomach and said, “I hate you. You are old.” I found a grey hair. Yes, a grey hair. In my goatee. On the lower right part of my chin. One single grey hair. At first I tried to convince myself that it was really just a blonde hair. Because there is nothing wrong with blonde. Millions of people actually go out and pay to become blonde. A stray blonde hair isn’t something to be upset about. It’s actually something to be happy about! Upon closer inspection, even I couldn’t persuade myself that the hair was blond.

My first thought was of my mother. I remembered being in the car with her when I was 10ish. I looked over and said, “Hey. I see a grey hair!” To me, this was something exciting, something out of the norm and needed to be brought to her attention immediately. My mother reacted as if I’d said; “There’s a spider in your hair!” Her hands went to her head, “WHAT? WHERE! WHAT? Well, pull it out! PULL IT OUT!!!” I remember being kind of afraid of her as she shook her head in my face screaming, “PULL IT OUT! GET RID OF IT! EWW! EWW! EWW!” It wasn’t until some 17 years later that I understood what she was feeling.

My first plan of action was to do just as my mother did. Pull it out. Naturally I couldn’t find my tweezers. With no tweezers, the next best option was my fingers. No good. I couldn’t get a grip on just that hair, and unless I wanted a bald patch on my chin, and a missing chunk of skin, I was going to have to find another way. I thought about coloring it in with a Sharpie, but the only Sharpies I had were lime green and fuchsia. I’ll admit though, I did think that a lime green chin hair would be kind of fun…

With no options for getting rid of the offending hair, I found myself in the car. Driving to Salt Lake City. I HAD to go to Nordstrom Rack. I just knew that the shoes I had been secretly desiring were there waiting for me. On my way there I sent a text message to a couple of friends informing them of the bad news. I immediately received phone calls offering condolences. Then they would ask, “What are you doing now?” I replied, "Shopping." They laughed and said, “Naturally…”

After I heard this sentiment for the second time, I realized why I love shopping so much. For me it is a celebration of my success. It is something I have total control over. So what if I have a grey chin hair. Armed with the power of Visa I can spend $2,000 on shoes! Can you do that grey chin hair? I didn’t think so. So watch your back little grey hair, because as soon as I find my tweezers you are toast!

Here comes Peter Cottontail...

2006-02-16T12:22:00.000-08:00

Today marks the two week anniversary of a very tragic event. My co-worker ran over a little bunny in the canyon. On her way to work, she was driving along and the bunny, from this point forward we shall call her “the victim” hopped into the road and stopped in the middle of her lane. Carrie, upon seeing the victim, had only seconds to decide on a course of action. She evaluated the situation, and determined that her car had enough ground clearance to miss the victim. She kept her speed constant at 70 mph, lined her car so the victim would go right between the tires, and ran straight over the bunny. It became very evident, very quickly that her car was not, in fact, high enough off the road to clear the bunny. She heard a loud “THUMP” and Mrs. Bunny was effectively decapitated.

Well I thought that this was perhaps the funniest story I had heard in ages! I laughed and laughed while Carrie cried and cried, which only made me laugh harder. So to make her feel better I made the following card for her:

Way to go Killer!

Before

After

And who says I'm a bad friend...

Chuck it out the window!!

2006-02-13T21:54:00.000-08:00

I found out this past weekend that I am going to be an uncle. This is very exciting news, and I know that my little sister is thrilled. As is my mother, who will hopefully stop harassing me to have children of my own, which for obvious reasons will never, ever happen.

As I was thinking of what kind of mother my sister will be, I remembered something that happened when we were in high school.

Kerry was enrolled in a home economics class, where one assignment was to care for an electronic baby for 24 hours. The baby was programmed to cry at certain times and each time the baby would cry you had to find the appropriate key to soothe it. Each key was to be inserted into the baby's back and symbolized a different need the e-baby had. One key was for hunger, another for attention, a diaper change, etc… There were about 10 keys in all. If you neglected the baby and it cried for too long the computer inside the baby recorded the neglect and reported it back to the teacher. If you neglected the baby too often it would die, resulting in an F for the assignment.

My mother and I thought the baby wouldn’t make it through lunch. Miss Kerry doesn’t have the greatest amount of patience and we thought for sure she would shove the baby in her locker after it cried one time, effectively killing it. So, when Kerry arrived home that afternoon and the baby wasn’t broken in half, we were quite surprised. She told us that the baby had barely cried at all during the day and that she was actually having fun. She also told us that the person who had it before her forgot it in the car, and killed it. Which we all thought was quite hilarious. “I think I’ll really like being a mom.” Kerry told us, fake baby on hip. Famous last words.

We made it through the evening and the baby was remarkably well behaved. It only cried a few times, and she was able to get it to quiet down quickly by selecting the correct key.

The proverbial shit hit the fan however around 2am. Every 15-20 minutes the baby would start to cry. It must be noted that the e-baby didn’t cry like a normal baby. It didn’t make cute, cooing, look how adorable I am cries. Oh no. It cried as if an air raid siren had been hidden inside it’s little plastic body. When that baby cried the windows shook. Nothing, and I mean nothing could prepare you to be woken by that hideous screaming. The wailing would wake up everyone in the house, and after each awakening my sister grew less and less patient. I must admit, I secretly fantasized about "forgetting it it in my car" until morning.

Around 4am, the baby cried again. All of us lay in bed, fingers in ears, waiting for her to shut the baby off. We could hear my sister moving around in her room, hear her fiddling with the key ring, desperately trying to find the appropriate key to quiet the screaming machine. Nothing seemed to be working. Over the din, we could hear my sister talking, very faintly, to the baby. We strained to hear what she was saying, and could faintly hear the menacing whisper, “If you cry one more time, I’m going to throw you out the window…I dare you. Just one. More. Time…”

From the other room, my mother yells, “Kerry Marie! That is awful!!”

“Well I can’t stand it anymore! This stupid thing has been crying all night long! I hate it! I am tired and all I want to do is sleep!” I imagine her shaking the baby as she is saying this, while stabbing various keys into it’s back.

With that said, welcome to motherhood Kerry Marie! And to my in utero niece or nephew, please try and keep it down after 2am. Nobody wants to see you chucked out a window.

And the burning man...

2006-01-30T18:02:00.000-08:00

Now I must say that when you are lighting the pilot light for the first time, and you see this picture, it does not give you much confidence in your ability to walk away alive...

Death by Construction

2006-01-23T21:08:00.000-08:00

Construction Day 1.

I am living in Bosnia. The builders of my house have been working on the foundation for one day and already I feel as if I have been magically transported to a third world country. I was woken this morning by the sound of jack hammers and construction workers talking about killing deer. This was followed by snippets of conversation discussing the merits of putting a lift on a 4-by. The rough translation of “4-by” from White Trash to English is pick up truck. I found listening to them enlightening, and that the stereotype for construction workers was dead on.

First thing in the morning, I had two construction workers in the house putting plastic over my basement door to keep construction dust out of the house. I am nothing if not curious and it occurred to me that these two worker bees had been inside every house in my neighborhood. So I asked, “So of all the houses that you’ve seen in the neighborhood which is the nicest?” Keep in mind the correct answer would be, “Oh! Your house is by far the best we’ve seen!” I don’t know what I was expecting them to do. Fall over and start gushing about how spot-on my decorating was? Ask me where I found my sheep skin rug? Ask, “Those colored vases are amazing! Did you get them at Pier One?” I certainly didn’t expect what happened next. The trashier of the workers looked around for a second and said, “Uh, not this one.”

I was speechless. “Not this one.” What did that mean? And what did some butt crack baring construction worker know about style? Clearly not a whole lot. He was sporting a mullet, wearing a camouflage jacket and a baseball hat that read, “Want to jingle my balls?” Clearly a thoughtful Christmas gift from his girlfriend, Staci The Stripper. Apparently my house was lacking the deer head on the living room wall, and the talking electronic bass in the entryway.

Moral of the story: I hate construction workers.

That evening I came home to a total nightmare. Apparently Mr. Jingle My Balls wasn’t very proficient with his staple gun as the plastic he stapled over the door to the basement blocked out zero dust particles and the entire interior of my house was coated in powdered cement. It was so thick on the floors that I was leaving footprints wherever I walked. The dust covered my couches, TV’s, tables, chairs, counters, silverware, clothing, glasses and anything else that wasn’t sealed in a zip-lock baggie. I felt as if I had walked into a house in Pompeii and peered around looking for the mini volcano that had spewed ash all over my house. I immediately called and left a message for the homebuilder responsible for the mess. Then I left another message, and another message, and another. Each gradually growing angrier.

Message 1, “Um, hi. This is Chris calling and there seems to be dust all over the interior of my house. If you could call me back to discuss, that would be great. Thanks!”

Message 2, “This is completely UNACCEPTABLE! I can’t even begin to describe how dirty this place is. You WILL send someone over to clean it up ASAP!!! BYE!”

Message 3, “I don’t know what you $#@%ing people don’t understand about my last two messages, but this place is a &(*$#)ing mess! I CAN’T LIVE HERE!!!”

Message 4, “LISTEN $#%*&, YOU BETTER *&$##ING CALL ME BACK OR I’M GOING TO #@$%&*ING BURN THE @#$*&ING PLACE DOWN AND BLAME THE @!#$%$#ING CONCRETE DUST!!” This message was left while I was in Home Depot and I’m pretty sure I introduced numerous children to the F word. Oops.

They finally called me back and we had a “Come to Jesus” about the state of the house. I’m sure they think I am a total psycho, but I don’t care. My immaculate house was covered in concrete dust and god knows what else. I’m sure that an integral ingredient in concrete is horse bones and dead mafia bosses. In my mind the entire house was coated in the remains of Mr. Ed and Jimmy Hoffa. Lovely.

Here is what my house looked like:

Construction Day 2.

The next afternoon they came and cleaned. I secretly wished for a whip and a bullhorn to get them to clean faster. Oh, and a pair of those plastic cleaning gloves with the fur trim around the wrists like those British ladies who have the cleaning show on TLC. In the end they did a good job.

That evening I decide to take a nice hot bath. Bossing around the help is hard and sweaty work. I turn on the faucet and start filling the tub. The water stays icy cold. I immediately think that a gas line has been broken and call the gas company. To say they were unhelpful would be an understatement. The call went something like this:

Me: I think I have a gas leak.
Unhelpful Gas Worker: Do you smell gas?
Me: I don’t know. What does it smell like?
Unhelpful Gas Worker: Gas.
Me: Uhhh, OK. Well I don’t know if I smell gas as I don’t know what it smells like…
Unhelpful Gas Worker: It smells like gas. You would know if you had a gas leak. You’d smell the gas.
Me: Um. Okaaaay…
Unhelpful Gas Worker: Goodbye.
Me staring at the phone: You’ll feel really bad when I die a fiery death later tonight!!! Jerk.

I next call my landlord. He tells me that the pilot light has probably been blown out. My response is, “And???” He then informs me that I can go into the basement and relight the pilot light on my own. I couldn’t have been more shocked if he had asked me to change the oil in my car. He gives me brief instruction on how to light the pilot and then says, “Good luck!” before hanging up the phone. Just how I wanted to spend my evening. Playing with gas and an open flame. In my mind I am imagining myself being burned beyond recognition.

I descend the stairs into the basement and notice first that there are huge holes cut into the basement floor. At the bottom of each hole is a muddy puddle. There are six of them, all roughly three feet square. In the spaces where there weren’t holes there were piles of concrete, dirt and large stones. I immediately go back upstairs and find my least favorite pair of shoes, grab a long candle lighter and a flashlight and go back downstairs. I get back to the hot water heater and realize that I am going to have to sit on the floor to light the pilot. I go back upstairs to put on my least favorite pair of pants. I also grab a diet coke as I’m sure this is going to be thirsty work. And a chocolate.

I am now sitting in front of the hot water heater on the dirty floor. The very first thing I notice is the picture. There is a large picture on the front of the hot water heater of a man totally engulfed by flames. His little stick figure legs are trying to run away, but the fire is all around him. I start to think that a cold shower doesn’t sound all that bad. Anything would be better than being barbequed in my basement.

I find the instruction manual and get to work.

After about 45 minutes I realize I’ve been attempting to light the top of a screw. Which in my defense looks exactly like the picture of where I am supposed to place the flame. When I finally find the actual pilot light it’s nowhere near where they showed it in the instruction manual. Once found, I realized my lighter is not long enough to reach the pilot. I go back upstairs to find long items that I can light on fire to reach into the depths of the hot water heater. Some candidates were: A few pieces of my broom, some fettuccini noodles, a long strip of cardboard, and a candle wick that I pulled from a candle and taped to a shish-k-bob skewer. With my supplies in hand I was ready for battle. As it turns out, dried pasta is not very flammable but does melt well. Ditto for pieces of the broom. The cardboard must have been coated with some kind of non-flammable substance, as I could not even get it to smolder. The winner was the candlewick / skewer combo.

The first time I got the pilot lit I almost pooped my pants. The pilot makes a popping noise when lit, and I thought this was it. I was dead. That first pop would be followed by a massive explosion, blasting my burning body out of the back of the house to be eaten by the mountain lions and coyotes that live in my back yard. Since I jumped, the pilot light stayed lit for perhaps 2 seconds. My next attempt was successful, and I consider myself lucky that I didn’t blow up the house.

I’m sure the coming weeks will be filled with other fun experiences for me. The ones I’m most looking forward to are: The Loss of Electricity. The House Collapsing While I Sleep. No Heat. No Water at All. And, if I am really lucky I’ll get to relight the pilot light about a dozen more times. Kill me now…

Words of Wisdom...

2006-01-10T09:54:00.000-08:00

This is from a book titled Fraud, written by David Rakoff. Words of wisdom we can all use at some points in our lives…

“Sheila taught me a survival technique for getting through seemingly intolerable situations – boring lunches, stern lectures on attitude or time management, those necessary breakup conversations, and the like: maintaining eye contact, keep you face inscrutable and mask like, with the faintest hint of a smile. Keep this up as long as you possibly can, and just as you feel you are about to crack and take a letter opener and plunge it into someone’s neck, fold you hands in your lap, one nestled inside the other, like those of a supplicant in priory. Now, with the index finger of your inner hand, write on the palm of the other, very discreetly and undetectably, “I hate you. I hate you. I hate you…” over and over again as you pretend to listen. You will find that this brings a spontaneous look of interest and pleased engagement to you countenance. Continue and repeat as necessary.”

A Man Can Dream...

2006-01-06T21:27:00.000-08:00

On the eve of the New Year, after ringing in 2006 in my Jeep, I had the greatest dream…

The dream starts with me standing on a stage wearing the same outfit I had been wearing for New Years. I hear a voice yelling in my direction, “You! Hey you! You can’t wear that! Go home and change. NOW!” In the dream I look down and realize in horror that the outfit I am wearing, although trés chic, is trés inappropriate. I feel as if I’ve shown up for a pool party wearing a tuxedo. However, I haven’t the faintest idea why I feel this way.

The Voice comes again. “No no no! I said you can’t wear that!” It all comes clear to me in that moment why I can’t wear jeans and an argyle sweater. I am a back-up dancer! Yes, the very same as Brittany’s baby daddy. One of the few and the proud. And we are getting ready to go on stage! In the dream the artist I am back-up dancing for is not clear, but it is definitely a type of Janet Madonna Christina Simpsonulara clone.

I run off stage and back to my house (apparently in my dream back-up dancers are required to provide their own costumes. Lame!) and change into what I think is a more appropriate back-up dancing outfit. The outfit consists of gym shorts and a long sleeved white t-shirt under a graphic print t-shirt. I know, I know back-up dancer outfits usually consist of mesh and chains, but in my dream gym shorts and t-shirts were IT!

I get back to the stadium and realize I am late, and have missed the first half of the concert. They won’t let me on stage in the middle of a song so I have to wait. I remember in the dream critiquing the other dancers on stage while I was waiting my turn to shake my thing. Even while sleeping I am apparently thinking mean things about people…go figure.

The second part of the concert begins and I run onstage and start back-up dancing my little heart out. And I must say my friends, I was GOOD! Great even. I shimmied when I should shimmy, hip thrusted at all the right times and even did some flips. I was dancing circles around everyone else and I knew I was the best back-up dancer there ever was.

The next morning, back in real life, I woke up with no recollection of this dream. I get out of bed, and on my way to the bathroom notice that my legs are really sore. Just having woken up, this didn’t make any sense. It isn’t until I see the t-shirt I wore in the dream lying on my closet floor that I remember my night in the spotlight. Every detail came back with sudden clarity. As the details of the dream filtered back, I was at first very embarrassed. I think I even blushed. But then I remembered how good I was in the dream. How I was the envy of every other back-up dancer on stage. Even as I write this I can still recall the feeling of absolute power that only a back-up dancer can know. It still does, and likely always will, make my breath catch in my throat…

The Hols of Chrimbo

2005-12-28T22:47:00.000-08:00

Happy Holidays my friends! I can still say that right? Hanukkah is still going on. New Years hasn’t happened yet. Our sad, dried out Christmas Trees are still shedding dagger-like needles into our carpets. Yeah, I can still say Happy Holidays.

This Christmas was one I have been anticipating for a while. My very best friend in the entire universe (including Pluto) came to visit for Christmas. We ate lots of treats, watched every episode of The Office at least once, ate more treats, moaned about our sick tummies, and decided the only cure for sick tummies was more treats. Treats that were tainted by the overpowering taste of Chloraseptic Throat Lozenges. Eating a Chocolate Chloraseptic Peanut Butter Cup is not nearly as tasty as it sounds… Allow me to elaborate:

Tuesday: T minus 24 hours until arrival of best friendy. I notice a slight scratchiness in my throat. Immediately go to the grocery store and buy the following to combat potential sickness:

Echinacea
Chloraseptic Throat Lozenges
Chloraseptic Throat Spray
Robitussin
Vitamin C
Airborne (this crazy new fizzy pill thing that supposedly keeps you from getting sick)
Nyquil
Dayquil
Advil
Tylenol Cold and Sinus
Orange Juice

In combination I call this barrage of cold fighting medications Operation Shock and Awe.

Tuesday evening: Take one of each of the above listed cold fighting remedies. Shock and Awe round one.

Wednesday morning: Wake up with a full-blown sore throat. Can hardly swallow. Immediately take round two of Shock and Awe. Go into full party planning mode, as I am hosting the party of the century Thursday night.

Wednesday afternoon: Convince myself I have bird flu and look up symptoms on the internet. Oh Lord. I really do think I do have bird flu now. Main symptoms are: fever, cough, sore throat, sore throat, sore throat, muscle aches, eye infections, pneumonia, severe respiratory disease... Stop reading at this point. Feeling faint. Round 3 of Shock and Awe. Take 4 hour nap.

Wednesday evening: Pick up Ang from the airport. I feel like a giant piece of poo. Like on that movie Weird Science when the main character's mean older brother gets turned into a giant pile of poo. This is how I feel. Get home, round 4 of Shock and Awe. Add gargling of warm salt water to Shock and Awe.

Thursday morning: Trouble breathing through swollen throat. Drink lots of water and suck down about 14 lozenges. Shock and Awe round 5. Add hot water with Lemon and Honey to Shock and Awe. As this is possibly the most disgusting thing I have ever had to drink, this only lasts one round of Shock and Awe.

Thursday afternoon: Getting house ready for party. Shock and Awe seems to be having a positive effect.

Thursday right before party: Round 6 of shock and awe. Add many glasses of wine, martinis and lots of treats to Shock and Awe at this time. Best I’ve felt in three days…

I wake up Friday morning after a sleepless night. A little known fact. The average person swallows every fifteen minutes while sleeping. I know this because every time I swallowed in my sleep I would sit bolt upright in bed, feeling like someone had just punched me from inside my throat with brass knuckles. This happened all night, every fifteen minutes. Like clockwork. Sleeping sitting up was slightly better. This extended the sleeping time to roughly 45 minutes between throat grenade episodes.

I decide to go to the Doctor, and he adds Codeine and Naproxin to Shock and Awe. Come home and sleep for about 3 hours. Wake up and decided Shock and Awe may not be doing me any good so I stick with Chloraseptic Throat Lozenges, Icy Cold Diet Cokes, Codeine and holiday treats. I had at this time become convinced the sore throat was being caused by an evil little gnome living in my throat, poking me with little gnome forks, shards of broken glass, dried pine needles from my Christmas Tree and various other sharp objects. I also had the distinct impression the evil little Gnome, let’s call her Paige, was collecting the codeine I was eating like candy and building a little codeine palace with the pills, as they had zero effect on the pain living in my throat. I tried to placate her with endless consumption and variety of holiday treats, but nothing worked. The only refuge from the pain was constant sucking of lozenges followed by sips of frosty bevies.

Needless to say, I was sick the entire time Angela was here. Evil Paige the gnome did her best to ruin the Chrimbo Hols, but I am proud to say she failed. Even though I felt like I was swallowing broken lightbulbs for the majority of Ang’s visit, we still had a blast. We ate lots of good food (mine seasoned liberally by lozenges), watched good movies, went shopping, did a little snowboarding. We also uncovered our secret desire to become Geisha. I secretly think Ang fashioned a Kimono out of her bedding while I was sleeping and practiced being Geisha in her room late at night. We learned that eating our weight in chocolate is fun for no one. Discovered that sending each other instant messages while sitting on the same couch was way more hilarious than actually talking to each other. Most importantly we learned once again that the true Spirit of Christmas is this: She who gets the most preeeesents is the winner.

Dancing Queen.

2005-12-19T15:58:00.000-08:00

Friday marked a first for me in a very long time. I went dancing. For those of you who know me, you know I hate to dance. It’s not that I can’t dance, I just don’t enjoy it. At all.

Friday night proved a hypothesis I had been testing. Give me 2 martinis and I can be talked into anything. Including going to a dance club. We ended up at some club in Salt Lake. The name of the club is not important, since they are all pretty much the same. Dark, musty, smoke filled spaces with thumping bass, writhing bodies and flashing lights. You’ve seen one, you’ve seen ‘em all.

I was with Sho, who is a true dancing queen. She can do things in heels I can only dream of doing in sneakers. As we were paying our cover charge, she was shaking she was so excited to dance. Once inside, she made her way directly to the dance floor to shake what her momma gave her. Myself, I found a table on the edge of the dance floor to keep an eye on my group, and settled in for a night of people bumping into me on their way to the dance floor. A night full of, THUMP followed by “Sorry dude.” Not exactly how I had hoped to spend my Friday night. At this point I am checking out the other patrons of the club, and judging them accordingly. Girl in pink should not be wearing a tube top. Mr. Back Hair needs to put his shirt back on. Is that girl doing yoga on the dance floor?? I typically have rude commentary running through my head. Like a stock ticker, only much funnier. However, when I am forced to do something I really don’t want to do my judgmental gene kicks into overdrive.

I glance back to the dance floor, scanning for Sho and see her making her way up onto a stage. I notice that the ugliest woman I have ever laid eyes on has offered her a hand. Sho takes the proffered hand and proceeds to dance her little heart out, next to the very ugly woman. As I am watching them I notice something disturbing. Something I would have noticed much more quickly if I had not followed the two martinis with two rum and cokes. Said very ugly woman has an adam’s apple. From what I’ve been told, women do not have adam’s apples. Realization dawns on me slowly. My eyebrows raise, my mouth drops open. Sho is dancing with the worst, most obvious drag queen you can imagine. Even worse than football players dressing up like women for Halloween. Now I don’t have any issues with drag queens usually. But honestly, if you are going to dress in women’s clothing, at least do it well.

I start waving my arms frantically to get someone’s attention. This situation is not one I can mock all by myself. This requires the mockery of a group. Something this hideous must be shared with friends. Michael sees me flailing about and comes over to where I am sitting.

Me: Uhhhh, who on earth is that dancing with Sho?
Michael: HOLY HELL! That is Tragica!
Me: Tragica?
Michael: Well I think he/she goes by Candy, but we all call her Tragica. She is infamous in Salt Lake City.

As it turns out, Tragica (so dubbed by my friend Spencer) is a 40 year old construction worker by day, drag queen by night. And I can’t stress enough how poorly done up she was. Frizzy blond wig that kept slipping down revealing male pattern baldness. Tight black tights. Short, white pleather mini-skirt. High heels, naturally. And what drag queen would be complete without a 5 o’clock shadow. Tragica was a walking disaster.

I’m afraid that Sho has been dethroned as the dancing queen of Salt Lake now. She must pass her scepter and crown to the one and only Tragica. Long live the queen…

When you gotta go, you gotta go...

2005-12-09T18:35:00.000-08:00

Today marks the opening day of skiing and snowboarding at Sundance! As part of my job I was forced to go out and investigate the current snow conditions. This was a great sacrifice for me. How cruel to make me snowboard when I should be sitting in front of my computer working. I’m sure you feel my pain. And I hope you can detect my sarcasm.

While out snowboarding today I was reminded of an experience I had a few years back. It was again opening day, and again I was out “doing research” on the slopes. While riding the lift I saw a mother and child skiing down the mountain toward us. Watching them, I felt an anxiety common to all skiers the first day of the season. You just want to be on the snow! The conditions were unbelievable! Fresh powder. Sunshine. No wind. In a word, perfection. The kind of day you pray for all season long. The mother’s skis were making the noise every mountain sportsman loves. Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh, as she carved down the mountain, Little Billy behind her in a matching Spyder outfit. If we were filming a promotional video, this is the image of Sundance we would want to capture.

However, Little Billy had another idea. They were about 30 yards from where our chair was slowly creeping up the mountain, and the little boy stops. His mother stops about 15 feet downhill from where he is now taking off his jacket. She calls up to him, “Honey? Are you hot?”

The little boy replies, “Nooooo Mommmy. I have to pooooopy.” Off comes the jacket, followed by the hat, gloves and scarf. And then he starts going for the pants.

The mother at this point is frantically trying to ski uphill, screaming, “Honey NO! NO! Wait! WAIT! Oh shit, oh shit.” I didn’t know uphill skiing was possible, but this mother was giving her all to prove me wrong. She was still about 5 feet away when the pants finally met the snow. In one fluid motion, the little boy squatted and defiled my perfect mountain. Right there under the lift line, on the perfectly white snow, Little Billy pooed.

The mother redoubled her efforts to reach Little Billy, and made it to him just as he was finishing his business on the mountain. She frantically pulled up his pants, grabbed his clothes from the surrounding snow and looked around. The only people who witnessed this event were creeping slowly by, 30 feet above where she was standing. She looked up at us, gave an embarrassed smile, and proceeded to bury Little Billy’s crap! After the land mine was completely covered, she picked up her son and skied out of sight.

I turned and looked at the friend sharing the chair with me and said, “Uhhhh, let’s maybe avoid that run today…”

“Yeah,” he said, wrinkling his nose. “Maybe even for the rest of the season.”

Glossary of Chris

2005-12-05T10:16:00.000-08:00

Here are some of my favorite acronyms and phrases.

The S: This is short for saying sex. Ex: Don’t have The S with strangers.

J: Jewish. Ex: My friend Shoshuna is J.

Less Active: A guy you can tell is gay, but is in denial. Derived from the Mormon use of less active which is someone who is a member of the church, but not practicing. So a less active gay guy is a guy who is gay, but not practicing. You can also use the phrase Pink Elephant.

Triple D’s: Triple Details. Nothing to do with boobs you pervos! Ex: Give me the Triple D’s from your date on Saturday.

Nervy B. Nervous Breakdown. Taken from my favorite series of books. Ex: I am going to have a Nervy B if someone doesn’t shut that kid up!

F.T.L.: French Toast Look. We came up with this after a friend asked a waiter at a nice restaurant if they served breakfast. He said yes, and she asked to order the French Toast. He gave her a look like she has just announced that she had a dead baby stuffed in her purse. Turns out they only serve French toast during breakfast hours, not for dinner. So anytime someone says something particularly dim, or is just being plain old stupid they get the dreaded F.T.L.

Doll: I use this word a lot. It comes in handy because I don’t have to remember anybody’s name. Ex: Hey Doll, pass the salt. Hey Doll, I can see your undies. Hey Doll, you have a bat in the cave! Bat in the cave!

Hamburger Soup: Someone who is in a particularly bad mood. Courtesy of Angela. She had a Nervy B one day because all she wanted to eat was Hamburger Soup. Legend has it she had a total meltdown, so now anytime someone is a very bad mood they are considered to be Hamburger Soupy. The only rememdy to hamburger soup is cupcakes.

Missy: Stupid girl with big poofy blonde hair, lots of makeup, no brains and tight pants. Mainly found on college campuses. Ex: That stupid missy almost ran me over with her VW Bug.

Bizzo: Cross between bitch and ho. Ex: That old lady is a bizzo.

The Devil's Playground

2005-11-30T20:37:00.000-08:00

I just had a very interesting conversation with my mother regarding religion. Specifically why she decided to join the Mormon Church. I have always wondered what made my mother (who was raised Catholic) decide to get involved with the least traditional of Christian sects. The conversation went something like this:

Me: So why did you decide to become Mormon?

Mom: Well, I always felt like I needed to give you kids a good religious foundation. So you could learn about God and Jesus.

Me: OK.

Mom: Oh, and when I first met the missionaries there was a lot of devil worshipping going on in the area.

-Side Note- Growing up we lived in a city called Scotia in upstate New York. As you drove into Scotia you passed a sign that reads, “Scotia, A Village of Fine Homes.” Scotia was not a place you would ever EVER associate with children sacrificing cats and such in the basement. How my mother had her finger on the pulse of the devil worshipping community in any event is beyond me…

Me: Come again?

Mom: Yeah, there was lots of devil worshipping, and I just wanted you kids to know that there were other options.

Me: Other options than devil worshipping?

Mom: Uh huh. I just thought you needed to know that you didn’t have to worship the devil. There were other good choices for religion out there.

Me: So you joined the Mormon Church because you were afraid Kerry (my sister) and I would become devil worshippers.

Mom: I just wanted you to know that you had other options.

Me: Other than devil worship you mean. Were you really worried we were going to become Satanists?

Mom: Well I just think it’s important to know there are other options.

Me: Laughing hysterically.

I thought her reasoning was equal parts crazy, hilarious, and touching. While neither of us are currently involved in any church, some good must have come from my time as a Mormon. Namely I never became a devil worshipper. I suppose as a parent you have lots of things to worry about. I just had no idea that your children becoming devil worshipers was one of them.

Cliffs Notes for the Weekend, Part Deux.

2005-11-27T19:44:00.000-08:00

1. I learned how to modern dance. All you have to do is run around barefoot in tight clothing and find your most dull, boring friend (Astonishingly Dim Paige perhaps…) and get her to read from the phone book, as you run around aimlessly, flailing your arms. Or you can run around aimlessly while holding a sheet in the air between both hands. Or you can run around aimlessly with a group of your friends. Moral of the story: Modern dance blows.

2. Champagne, pumpkin pie and yoga are not friends. In fact, they are bitter enemies. Likewise for turkey, champagne and treadmills.

3. Never, ever invite two lesbian ex-lovers to Thanksgiving. Only invite the cool one. Enough said.

4. Taking photos in a snowstorm = no fun for anybody.

5. Ruth can put on a Thanksgiving Dinner like no other. There were two turkeys, and a ham for eight of us. That’s my kind of Thankgiving!

6. RENT, the movie, really did feel like it lasted 525,600 minutes.

7. I still hate musicals.

8. Made for T.V. adaptations of great books should also be left at Blockbuster. They can keep LL Cool J company.

9. Even though your camera phone may have a little mirror on it for self-portraits, never ever take advantage of this feature. It will only hurt your self-esteem.

10. Spencer and company are possibly the most hilarious people west of the Mississippi.

11. Angela is fab!

12. Big jerks in red jackets, with hair plugs and ugly, big haired, buck toothed girlfriends, will literally knock you out of the way to get a diet coke at the movie theater.

13. I think the dead mouse’s family is staking my house out for revenge.

Gobble Gobble

2005-11-24T21:44:00.000-08:00

On this day of giving thanks, I have decided on the one thing I am MOST thankful for. Drumroll please….I am most thankful to be living on a my own, no roommates, no dirty dishes left in the sink. No movie nights that start at 2am. Living alone is pure bliss. Looking back on life since I moved out of my mothers house, I have had my fair share of really crappy roommates.

Runner up for worst roommate is psycho Adam. Adam was Hispanic, closeted and in love with one of my other roommates. He would wait on him hand and foot. Get up early in the morning, sneak into his bedroom and sleep on the floor until he woke up so he could make him breakfast in bed. Bought him all of his groceries. Threatened to commit suicide once a week and kept an honest to goodness hatchet under his bed. I kid you not my friends. While living with him, I feared for my life.

I’ve also had drug dealer roommates, roommates who would only scream to each other from their bedrooms as a means of communication. Talking was not allowed. I’ve had roommates who had sex with people from the internet. Frequently. Roommates with giant chalkboards on their wall on which they would scribble random thoughts. Thoughts like, “It’s not my fault.” “Don’t blame your father.” One time he even wrote his girlfriends name on the chalkboard over 200 times. Like I said, I’ve had my fair share of bad roommates.

By far the worst roommate EVER was my roommate A.R.T. His name wasn’t actually A.R.T. but as he was Chinese, and spoke no English that was what I decided to call him. A.R.T. stands for Asian RoommaTe. I will be the first to admit I was not thrilled about having a Chinese roommate. I have always had a bit of a sore spot in my heart for Chinese people. My prejudice started when I was about 12 and visiting the happiest place on earth. Disney World. We rode the rides, ate the food, saw the shows. It was heaven. Until Splash Mountain. At the end of the ride, your log shaped car travels under a bridge. On the bridge are squirt guns that very closely resemble fire hoses. Fire hoses that pump out roughly a half million gallons of ice cold water. These cannons are strategically placed for the humiliation of those dumb enough to go on this ride. For two quarters you can cause a small child extreme and lingering trauma, a distaste for all amusement park water rides, and possible drowning. As we drew closer to the bridge I could see the Asian tourists and think, “Shit.” Next thing I know I am being hosed down by said tourists as they shout, “Get the fat one! Spray fat one!” Two things happened that day. 1. I forever swore off all water rides. 2. I gained a loathing for Asians. But just the ones straight from Asia.

So in moves A.R.T. Keep in mind, nobody told us about A.R.T. in advance. Our landlord just decided to move him in. Ps. The landlord at the time was a Japanese woman named…wait for it, wait for it…Fung Yu. No lie. Her name was Fung Yu. Anyhow, I come home from work and it’s Panda Express in my kitchen. The smell was indescribable. It was like someone had taken a rotting fish, smeared dog poo all over it, set it in the sun for a couple of months, then pan fried it. I nearly passed out. After opening every window in the apartment, I confronted the cause of the odor. Within a few seconds I realize he speaks no English at all. At this point I come to one of two conclusions. Either one of my roommates is playing a really cruel practical joke on me, or this is a new roommate. I was hoping for someone to jump out from behind the couch screaming, “You got PUNKED!” It didn’t happen.

My biggest issue with A.R.T. was the smell of his cooking. I would walk in the house every day to a different odor. Some would make me want to vomit. Some days I walked into the apartment and swore someone had just thrown a brick straight at my head. Others would make it impossible to breathe, and some would merely make your eyes water. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want to smell like this. I’d be known at work at “That stinky guy.” Nobody wants to be “That stinky guy.”

I eventually became a crazy person, and disabled our stove. Permanently. A boys gotta do, what a boys gotta do. Not two days later the smell was back. I didn’t understand. My confusion was overwhelmed by a sudden blinding rage. Where was it coming from? I became a man possessed. The stove was still disabled. The burners were cold. Was this smell karmic? Did the universe hate me so much that it would curse my apartment with phantom smells of kim chee? I sniffed and sniffed and followed my nose to A.R.T’s bedroom door. The smell was coming from his bedroom! What? How? What? Pounding on his door elicited an immediate response. Opening the door wearing nothing but white hanes briefs, yellowed from lack of washing, stood A.R.T. with an electric hot plate in his hand. I gave him the patented Chris Lavoie death glare. “You have two choices,” I said. “Either stop cooking in this house or I’ll beat you to death with that hot plate!.” I turned and walked away. Some sentiments cross the language barrier very easily.

A.R.T. was eventually evicted for not paying his rent. I would like to think I had something to do with it, but sadly I don’t think I did. Looking back at my time with A.R.T. I learned that sometimes the world plays mean jokes on you. Sometimes the world flips you an apartment sized middle finger, and says "Fung YU."

It is EXTREMELY URGENT that you read this post.

2005-11-21T09:38:00.000-08:00

It’s Saturday. I get a voice mail. It’s from my bank. Specifically a woman named Bethany. Bethany says, “Mr. Lavoie, it is EXTREMELY URGENT that you call me back today. Thank you.” She leaves her number and hangs up. I don’t get this message until 4pm on Saturday and my bank is closed for the weekend. What could Bethany be calling about? Has someone stolen my credit card number? I have been doing a lot of internet shopping lately. In the back on my mind I have wondered, “How secure is internet shopping, really?” Are they calling because I’ve missed a payment, bounced a check? Did they object to the wasabi colored faux fur throw I had purchased?

Did a burglar show up demanding only the money from my account? “I’m sorry Mr. Lavoie but he specifically said he only wanted your money.” I can hear the shrug of the shoulders over the phone. “There’s nothing we can do. So sorry you’re poor now. Ok then. Buh-bye”

What could they want?? My Saturday, my day of lattes, shopping, manicures and relaxation has been ruined.

First thing Monday morning I call the bank, expecting the worst. The phone call goes like this:

Me: Um, hi. My name is Chris Lavoie. Bethany left me a message.

Receptionist: Ohhhh. Yes. One moment.

In My Head: Oh no! Even the receptionist seems to know what I’m calling for. This is going to be even worse than I thought.

Bethany: Mr. Lavoie. I’m so glad you called me back.

Me: OK. Is something wrong?

Bethany: Oh, well, um I was calling because I wanted to know if you would be interested in donating money to Helping Soles, a charity for children with no shoes.

Me: Seriously?

Bethany: Uh huh.

Me: No seriously? That is what your message was about? The EXTREMELY URGENT message was about shoes for poor people?

Bethany: Yes.

Me: Hung up phone.

Talk about the girl who cried wolf. People should not be allowed to use the words EXTREMELY URGENT unless the matter truly is extremely urgent. Items that would fall into this category would be: Death in the Family. Threat of Nuclear attack. Outbreak of bird flu. A serial killer has broken out of prison. Shoes for homeless people, while unfortunate, does not fall into the EXTREMELY URGENT column in my book.

Bethany, if you happen to read this, not only did your little message not inspire me to donate money to buy shoes for children, it kind of makes me want to go and steal shoes from children. So, let this be a lesson, Bethany. An EXTREMELY URGENT lesson…

Once you go black...

2005-11-16T15:54:00.000-08:00

A couple of weeks ago I woke up and thought, “I want to dye my hair black.” I enlisted the help of Shoshuna, who recommended instead of going black, I go dark brown first. This made sense to me, so we buy the hair dye, and I proceed to dye my hair dark brown. I woke up the next morning and noticed in the bathroom mirror that my hair was back to normal. Thinking the color rubbed off onto my pillowcase I ran back into my bedroom, but the pillowcases were mysteriously dye free. All I can figure is that the dye absorbed into my head, and I now have a dark brown skull, which Vogue says is quite fashionable in Paris this year.

Fast forward one week, and I decide to dye my hair again. Alone. And this time I am going all the way.

The color I choose is called black leather. “Sleek…Bold…Dangerous. Do you dare go this dark?” the package reads.

“Oh yes I do dare,” I think to myself. "Bring it on, L'Oreal!"

I was however slightly concerned about the dye staining my scalp as there is not much hair on top of my head to hide a dyed black scalp. My friend Susan, who also dyes her hair black, offered me some sage advice. Before I share this advice, just let me say that I am normally a very rational person. I think things through. She tells me that Windex will remove the stains. “Windex?” I think. “Yeah. That makes sense to me.” Who knows why I didn’t question this line of thought further. This is not one of my proudest moments. It comes in a close second to the time I was making mashed potatoes with an electric mixer, which I accidentally unplugged from the wall. I walk over to the outlet, and plug the mixer back in without turning the mixers off. I inserted the plugs back into the wall and the mixers whir back to life splattering potatoes all over me, and the entire kitchen. Walls, ceiling, windows, floor, everywhere. All I can say about both situations is this: At the time it made total sense.

Back to the matter at hand. I go into my bathroom, put on an old t-shirt and slather jet black dye all over my head. Looking in the mirror I feel quite pleased with myself. I feel so independent, so free spirited. “Ooohh,” I think to myself, “Look how dark it is already.” I notice a little dye on my ear, wipe if off with a towel and notice a small stain. “Oh well. No worries, I have my Windex.” Squirt, squirt goes the Windex onto a paper towel. Rub, rub goes the paper towel on my ear. Sh*t, sh*t goes my mouth as I see that Windex does absolutely nothing to remove the dye from my ear! I look in horror at a head completely covered in black dye. I sprint to the shower and jump in, clothes and all, and frantically start scrubbing my head. I wash my head with shampoo, face wash, body wash, more shampoo, some soap and more shampoo for good measure. The entire time I’m thinking, “I’m so screwed. I’m going to look like that guy who sold spray-on-hair in the infomercials.”

Luckily, by the next morning the dye stains are much less noticeable. I’m thinking my extra absorbent head has sucked in the black dye, and mixed it with the brown dye. I’m fairly certain I now have a leopard print skull. After 4 more showers, and half a bottle of shampoo I have a normal looking head once again and fantastic black dyed hair.

Poo in the PURSE!

2005-11-09T10:25:00.000-08:00

This is a true story related to me by a friend that I thought was so hilarious that it must be added to the blog. STAT!

While at a party with friends, a woman needed to use the restroom. She asked where the bathroom was (down the hall and to the right) and went to use the facilities. She had to go number 2, and when she was all finished realized that the toilet wasn’t working. It just wouldn’t flush.

A few minutes later, the woman comes out of the bathroom and makes a b-line for her boyfriend.

“Poo in the purse.” She whispers. “Poo in the purse.”

“What?” Her boyfriend asks.

“I have Poo in my purse. We have to leave. NOW.”

The couple leaves the party. The boyfriend looking very confused, the girlfriend practically running with her arm straight in front of her holding the purse.

Everyone finds out later that the girl who used the bathroom was too embarrassed to tell the host of the party her toilet was broken, and she’d been forced to leave a little present in the bathroom for her. So, instead she fished her little present out of the toilet with HER HAND, and wrapped it up, mummy like, with toilet paper. After the little bundle of joy was properly wrapped up with an entire roll of toilet paper, she realized she had nowhere to put the poo mummy. Naturally she decided the best course of action was to put it in her purse.

Out of the bathroom she walked with King Poopenkhamen in her bag. Straight to her boyfriend, and then out of the party. To this day she still won’t tell anyone what she did with the poo.

This story demonstrates that no matter how old you are, no matter what your station in life, a good story about poo can always make you laugh!

Cliffs Notes for the Weekend

2005-11-06T18:23:00.000-08:00

1. Discovered tealights can double as firebombs. Am sending a box of them to the troops in Iraq on Monday.

2. Exterminated a colony of dust bunnies living under my dining room table. Still not sure where they came from as I vacuum like 3 times a week.

3. Dyed my hair black. Ps. Even if you only have a little bit of hair, it is still possible to dye it.

4. Shopped in Park City. Talked a friend into a buying a fab Coach purse.

5. Got lost trying to find Nordstrom Rack. Prevailed and found it and bought two great pairs of shoes.

6. Garnered good shopping Karma by giving away a great parking space. Because of this kindness found the above mentioned shoes.

7. Rediscovered my love of Bellini’s.

8. Watched my friend Sho ask the same woman two times, in two different places in the store, at two different times for help at Old Navy only to discover that the woman didn’t work there.

9. Found a dead mouse in my driveway. Nearly went into germ induced coma. Can you get bird flu from dead mice??

10. Accidentally drove over dead mouse in my driveway. Oh sh*t.

11. Re-learned that if LL Cool J is starring in a movie, that movie should be left at Blockbuster.

12. Dead mouse disappeared from driveway. I believe another result of good Karma from giving away a parking space. A really really good parking space.

The Vagina Monologues

2005-11-04T08:50:00.000-08:00

You know how the Chinese name each year after an animal? Year of the Rooster. Year of the Dragon. Well, for me, last month was Month of the Vagina.

It all started with a co-worker. She came in to work one morning and told me she had to ask me a question. “But you can’t react in any way! You can’t laugh or smile or make jokes or ask me any questions.” Curious as to what the question was, I agreed to the conditions.

Looking over her right, then left shoulder to be sure nobody was within earshot she asked, “What does this word mean?” From her pocket she pulls out a post it, and slides it across my desk face down. I pick up the post it, flip it over and scrawled on the small piece of yellow paper was the word. Before I say what the word was, I first have to say how much I hate this word. The word was poontang. I think I stopped breathing for a second and my head nearly popped from holding in the laughter. I had 3 million clever things to say and I had agreed not to say any of them! This was torture.

I looked up at her and said, “Go back to your desk. We’ll discuss this via e-mail.” I explained to her that it was a very crude word for girl parts. She writes back, “Which girl parts?” I write back, “If your body is a globe, South America.” She writes back, “Oh.” I type, "It's just as dirty as the "C" word." She replies, "What's the "C" word?" Oh hell. Then start the million questions. Why is it called that? Who made that word up? Why is it so dirty? On and on it went until finally I sent her to the authority on all things ghetto. Urbandictionary.com. I read the definitions first to be sure they would answer all of her questions, and with the exception of one entry that talked about losing car keys, they were spot on.

Fast forward to a week later and I’m sitting at a business dinner with a group of meeting planners. We talked about the usual things at dinner. Properties we’d worked at in the past, favorite hotels, least favorite hotels, our families, sex parties…Insert sound of a skipping record. WHAT? Sex parties? They are called different things around the country like “Slumber parties”, “Girls night out parties”, and my personal favorite, “F***erwear parties.” Basically a group of women get together, drink a load of wine, buy sex toys and pee themselves laughing. Sounds fun right? The true fun happens when the same group of women includes a male stranger (aka ME) in this conversation. I learned things about the female anatomy that I never wanted to know, and will never need to know. The worst part of all was learning about “The Man in The Boat.” For those who don’t know what “The Man in The Boat” is, I’m not sure even the urban dictionary will be able to help you.

Happy Halloween from the NAACP

2005-10-30T19:50:00.000-08:00

There are many things to love about Utah. The wonderful climate. Mountains with perfect powder. Friendly people. However, there are many things about Utah that leave me shaking my head. This Halloween I have noticed the overuse of a word in Utah that I am certain would not be so freely used anywhere else in the country. The word in question is Spook. I hesitate even to write that word on my blog for fear of being accused of being a racist. For those who don't know (a.k.a. my neighbors...) Spook is a VERY racist term for a black person. Arguably worse than the “N” word.

When I first noticed that people in Utah apparently didn't know what this word meant I was at a craft fair with some co-workers. One of my co-workers, Tracy, was in a little booth that sold home goods. She came out shaking her head and sent me into the same booth. Specifically to look at the doormats. To my horror there was a doormat that read, "Spooks Welcome." I felt like someone had just punched me in both my eyes! Was this a left over from the 50’s? I looked around the rest of the booth thinking I would see pointy white hats for sale, along with signs meant for posting by drinking fountains reading, “White’s Only!” Fortunately the booth did not have anything of the sort, and had a decidedly Halloween theme. They were not selling doormats to the KKK, they were just attempting to be clever. And failing. Miserably.

As the holiday approached I noticed the use of this word all around my neighborhood. A sign down the street proclaiming, "FREE! Safety tips for Spooks!". A sign in a window with big orange letters, "Spook children welcome!" The local ward posting signs on my door reading “Trunk or Treat. Spooks of all ages welcome!”

On the bright side, at least all the references to Spooks were friendly and welcoming. I saw no signs that read, “Die Spook, Die!”

For further enlightenment on the subject please visit: www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=spook.

Eat your heart out, Oprah!

2005-10-27T09:20:00.000-07:00

Last night marked the first monthly Sundance book club meeting, which I held at my new house. I have to admit the weeks leading up the book club were very nerve wracking for me. I worried that people would hate the book (we read Good in Bed, by Jennifer Weiner). I wondered what I would do if nobody wanted to discuss what they had read. What if I was the only one who actually read the book? What if nobody had a good time? What if everyone cancelled at the last minute? What if I ran out of food? What if everyone didn't like the food? As you can see, hosting a book club is not as easy and fun as you would imagine.

However, despite all the potential for disaster, I am pleased to report the first book club was a slam dunk! Everyone came right on time, most everyone loved the book, the food was great and the atmosphere social and festive. Each and every one of us had an opinion about what we had read. It wasn't just a group of people reading their favorite paragraph (I've been to that kind of book group before...YAWN). We analyzed, debated and had an actual discussion. Apart from the quality of the discussion, I was really struck by the quality of people I work with. I actually like everyone I work with. I enjoy spending time with them both in and out of the office. Don't get me wrong, we have definitely had the occasional bad apple, but they never last for very long.

The next book we are reading was picked by the one and only Susan, dollcake extraordinaire. We'll be reading "The Sex Lives of Cannibals” written by J. Maarten Troost, which I have been informed has nothing to do with either Sex or Cannibals, so it should be an interesting read!

As if to prove that the universe is constantly trying to maintain balance, I read in the November issue of Details magazine that short pants on men are actually now in style. The lingering nausea over the thought of men in short pants is indescribable...That’s what I get for having a great book club I suppose…men in pants that are too short.

God Bless America....Literally

2005-10-26T11:55:00.000-07:00

I was just walking through the parking lot and came across what is quite possibly the most disturbing bumper sticker I have ever laid eyes on. Even more disturbing than the time I saw a car with literally hundreds of yellow "Support Our Troops" ribbons all over it. The new world champion bumper sticker in sheer disturbingness reads, "God is not Red or Blue. God is an American." Now everyone please close your eyes and imagine me with my mouth hanging open, shaking my head in sheer amazement... Enough said.

Parenting 101

2005-10-26T08:35:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I had to go the Doctor. I hate going to the Doctor. It's always such a frustrating (because they make you wait FOREVER), degrading (you have to sit on the crinkly paper and get weighed) and generally irritating experience.

While waiting in the lobby for my appointment there was a very haggard looking woman there with her 4 children. I think the kids were trying to re-enact a scene from Lord of the Flies. They were running around, throwing magazines, hitting each other etc... Calling each other clever names like, “Poopie eater” and “Doo doo head”. The mother had finally had enough and grabbed one of the little kids by the arm and said, "If you don't sit DOWN RIGHT NOW, I'm going to tell the Doctor to stick a needle In. Your. Eye!" Can anyone say Mother of the Year?

Well that took the fire right out of that little boy. He sat right down and looked like he was going to cry. In fact, I felt like I was going to cry too. She was really scary. What kind of parenting is that? I know we all think those kinds of thoughts about children from time to time, but who actually says them? I must admit I was pretty grateful though for some peace and quiet and if it took the threat of a needle to the eye, so be it.

Shabbat Shalom!

2005-10-23T15:31:00.000-07:00

“The “J” party is cancelled.” Shoshuna looked a bit miffed to learn the singles mixer at the Jewish Community Center had been nixed due to lack of RSVP’s. Shoshuna is my new friend from Manhattan. She is hillarious, and to my knowledge the only Jew living in Utah County. She had talked me into going along for moral support.

“That’s a bummer.”

“Don’t be too sad though. The coordinator, Debbie, says they’re holding a “gathering” at her mother-in-laws house that same night. And we’re invited! You’ll come right?”

“Hmmmmm. At the mother-in-laws? I don’t know…”

“You have got to come. Don’t make me go by myself.”

This is how I found myself sitting next to Sho in her Jeep, traveling to Salt Lake for a party at a person’s house neither of us had met.

“So is there any topic I shouldn’t bring up,” I asked. “Any topics that are taboo in the J religion?”

“No topics I can think of. Anything goes. Well, except Hitler. Don’t talk about Hitler.”

“Duh.”

“It should be fun. They probably live in some massive house. There will be great, traditional Jewish food, probably catered, and hopefully some single men!”

Thirty minutes later we arrive at the house, and I must say the neighborhood and house were somewhat surprising. The front yard of the house was overrun with weeds and the grass was dry, brown and looked as if it hadn’t been mowed in weeks.

“You’re sure this is the right address?” I asked.

“Yeah. I checked it twice.”

As we were sitting there getting ready to go inside another guest arrived. He parked his car, got out and I noticed two things immediately. First he was wearing a yarmulke. Secondly he was a long haired man! There was a sick ponytail coming our from under said yarmulke. “Great, a long haired Jew. Maybe he’s single Sho. Perhaps you will meet your husband here tonight.”

“Sick doll. No way.”

We get out of the car and go inside the house. My first impression was that they had a lot of…stuff. Stuff everywhere. On the floor, on the couches, on the shelves. Everywhere there was stuff. It looked like someone had taken a bag of trash, put a bomb inside and let it explode. There were pictures all over the walls of old men with long white hair. They were all haphazard on the wall. It looked like someone wearing a blindfold had just tossed them toward the wall and they stuck.

After we were introduced to everyone we were informed that we’d be making Sukkah’s. Truth be told, I’m still not sure what a Sukkah is, but it involved threading plastic grass through a u-shaped plastic frame, and then hanging little plastic pumpkins with yarn from the pieces of grass. They ended up being centerpieces on the tables. Tres tres strange to my non-Jewish eyes. From the look on Shoshuna’s face, she was just as puzzled as I was.

As we’re making the Sukkah’s I overhead two women beside me talking about an old couple that was hit by a car while crossing the street downtown. I lean over and say, “Did the old couple die?”

“Shhhh,” the younger woman hissed at me. “Don’t say that word around the children! We spell those words. D.I.E. And yes the couple is D.E.A.D.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

She then went back to talking with the other woman. Not 13 seconds later I hear her say, “And I was at the store and they were all out of rolls and I was like what the f***.” I nearly fell off the couch. She could say the “F” word in front of children but wanted me to spell die? Whatever.

Dinner was set to start at 7:00 and we finally sat down to eat at 8:30. By this time I was starving. On the table in front of me was a paper place setting including a small plastic shot glass sitting in the center of my plate. “This looks promising.” I thought to myself. Also on the table was a platter of deviled eggs, with a strange mixture of raw baby carrots and pistachios in the shell in the center of the plastic serving dish.

I leaned over to Sho and said, “Are deviled eggs traditional Jewish food?”

“Uh Uh.” I could tell from her behavior that this was not a typical Jewish Shabbat dinner. I also learned that the little shot glass was for wine which would be blessed as part of the prayers.

While we’re getting settled down I’m handed a baby-pink yarmulke to put on my head. Now for anyone who has never had to wear a yarmulke, it is much more difficult than you would imagine. It’s like balancing a book on your head. You can’t move around too much or it will fall right off. I felt like I was newly enrolled in charm school. So on top of the strange mixture of carrots and nuts in front of me, I now had to worry about not flipping my pretty pink yarmulke into someone’s deviled egg.

Once everyone is seated the prayers began. First there was a prayer / musical number by all of the women present. Lots of wailing and waving of the arms. Very puzzling. Then everyone got up from their chairs and went around hugging each other. As I am not one for physical contact with strangers and desperately trying not to move around too much for fear of dislodging my yarmulke, I closed my eyes hoping everyone would think I was praying and leave me alone. Luckily I managed to avoid the hug squad. Next there was a prayer / musical number by a man with white hair. This prayer / song went on for AGES. Then all the men sang something. Then everyone around me started reciting something else. Then it was time to drink the wine. I’m figuring, wine in a shot glass = a wine shooter. So I took it like a shot. Completely forgetting the yarmulke, which flew off my head like a Frisbee when I threw my head back to drink the wine.

After collecting my yarmulke I lean over to Sho, “Do I have to put this back on my head?” I said, gesturing with the rose colored head Frisbee.

“No, you can take if off now. You only need to ke….”

“WE WERE ALL SLAVES IN EGYPT!”

WTF??? I look around and crazy white haired man just decided that it was the appropriate time to shout, “We were all slaves in Egypt.” No lie. I swear on the Bible and the Torah that is exactly what he said. I nearly choked on my deviled egg.

Following the declaration of slavery, they passed around the appetizers. As the plate came my way I became very confused.

“Hey Sho, are Chinese egg rolls a traditional Jewish dish?”

“Mm Mm.” With an emphatic shake of the head. “I don’t know what’s going on! This is like the Jewish twilight zone. I swear that this is NOT how a normal Shabbat dinner is! I promise!”

Dinner was just as horrific as I was expecting. There was a large bowl of what looked like steaming dog food, but was really beef stroganoff made with hamburger. “Sho, is Beef Stroganoff a traditional Jewish dish?”

Again the head shake. “Mm Mm!”

I took enough food to not look like a total snob, and pushed it around my plate enough so that it looked like I had actually eaten some of it.

“Hey Chris!” I look down the table to one of the other guests at our table. “Do you like bourbon?”

Bourbon? What? “Maayyybbbee.” Anything to make this night more tolerable. Before I realize what’s going on I have a bourbon and diet coke sitting in front of me. Come to find out there are two little things that make even the most horrific dinner party tolerable. Bourbon and Diet Coke.

After three more Diet Cokes and bourbon I’m feeling pretty good. That is until I see a woman’s entire breast as she’s trying to feed her baby. This isn’t even the worst part. She’s breast-feeding right next to my cashmere sweater! The thought of breast milk on my sweater almost made me hurl. The thought of breast milk period made me want to hurl.

I had had enough. “Sho, there is an exposed boob by my sweater. We are leaving!”

We pack our things up and step gingerly over the badly stained carpet, careful to avoid the dried bits of food that dotted the carpet like little land mines.

Inside the safety of the car I say, “So, um, that was interesting…”

“Interesting!? That was horrifying! That house was filthy. The food was bad, and not even Jewish. My mother would just die! She would have left. The only thing they could do to make that house even somewhat livable is take a match to it. Ugh!”

"And what was with that guy that kept talking to me in Hebrew! Hello, I no speaky the Hebrew!"

"He wasn't speaking Hebrew! He was hearing impaired!" I thought Sho was going to have a coronary she was laughing so hard.

Overall the night was a total bust. No good food, no single men, no nice house and a bunch of crazies. Oy!

Worse than a Mullet??

2005-10-20T21:05:00.000-07:00

What is the deal with men with long hair? I think they formed a secret union and decided, as a whole, to follow me around all day long. Everywhere I turned there was another long haired man. At work. The gas station. Target. Blockbuster. Then finally at WalMart. Long haired men all over the place. ICK. They were flipping their hair. Stroking their hair. Twirling it. Running their fingers through it. One guy even did the Cameron Diaz hair flip from Charlies Angels.

And everywhere they went I’m sure they were shedding. Probably shedding all over the produce. Getting a long hair in your food is bad enough. Naturally, you assume it’s a long girl hair. Now imagine it’s a long man hair! I’m getting nauseated just thinking about it.

Now don’t get me wrong, some guys can pull off the long hair look. Not many, but some. Brad Pitt for instance. But only in Legends of the Fall, not Interview with the Vampire. So unless you are Brad Pitt and starring in Legends of the Fall, do us all a favor and run, don’t walk, to Fantastic Sams.

Ps. On a whim, I decided to google “Men with Long Hair.” This is what turned up. http://the-light.com/mens/longhair.html. I read through this and almost peed my pantaloons!

Say WHAT?

2005-10-19T15:53:00.000-07:00

A couple of months ago I was taking out the trash and had a very disturbing run in with a little girl on a purple scooter. Just before said encounter I had purchased a new pair of fantastic red Crocs. For those who don't know what Crocs are, push the rock from under which you are living off your back and run, don't walk, to your nearest Nordstrom. They are possibly the most comfortable shoes know to man.

I was very pleased with my new shoes and was wearing them every chance I could. So as I'm walking out to the dumpster I see the little girl happily scootering toward me. I am feeling especially hospitible in my new Crocs so I say hello. (New shoes always soften my stone heart. Temporarily at least.) Typically I treat children as I would the homeless. Don't look them in the eye, and they will leave you alone.

Me: "Hello"
Little Girl: "uhhhh"
Me: "Hellllloooo." I am not going to let this little girl snub me!
Little Girl: "Your shoes are stupid."
Me: Totally speechless.

I nearly died! All I could do was watch her scoot away with my mouth hanging open. That little brat just told me I had stupid shoes! I had about 15 emotions hit me at once. First I wanted to hit her with my bag of garbage. Decided against that for obvious reasons. Next, I thought about swearing at her. However, calling a little girl "the C word" is somewhat frowned upon in our culture. My next thought was perhaps the most horrific. What if the girl was right? What if my shoes were stupid? Could it be possible. Was I so far gone that I needed a little white trash girl to tell me I had stupid shoes. After all, don't we all tell our parents how out of it they are in the style department? Had I crossed the line into bad shoe land without realizing? The line so many of our parents, co-workers and fellow Americans had crossed before?

NO NO NO! I had GREAT shoes. That little girl was just plain old evil. And even if my shoes were stupid, I had a right to wear stupid shoes. I am young, successful and have worked hard for my money, and if choose to spend money on "stupid shoes" that is my right. Hm! One thing I wouldn't spend money on however is a stupid purple scooter! So put that in your pipe and smoke it, little girl!