The Love of My Life

Ladies and gentleman, I believe I may have found my future husband.

The other day I was standing at the deli counter at Central Market, minding my own business, ordering some ham and cheese, when a super cute guy came up to the counter next to me and proceeded to have the following conversation with the next available ham slicer:

Husband - "I need a half pound of prosciutto - what do you recommend?"

Lady - "Well, what will you be eating it with?"

Husband - "My fingers."

(Cut to me, choking on my Swiss sample)

Lady, with a slight chuckle - "OK . . . but what will you be pairing it with?"

Husband, dead serious - "Nothing.  It's pretty much going directly into my mouth when I get home."

He is clearly my soul mate.  I nearly followed him home.  Since I didn't, I basically have no choice but to stake out the Central Market deli counter until I see him again.  Maybe next time he'll get some white American cheese to roll up and snarf on in the car on the way home, and the deal will be all but sealed.

Shame, Shame

Before I begin this blog, I’d like to reminisce about an episode of Friends – “The One With Rachel’s Book.”  Joey takes a nap in Rachel’s bed (because The Duck ate her face cream, and puked on Joey’s bed and on the couch), and, in doing so, finds a naughty book.  The following exchange takes place when Rachel comes home:

Joey:  “Where are you going?  The vicar won’t be home for hours!”

Rachel:  (slowly turns) “Joey . . . where did you learn that word?”

Joey:  “YOU’VE GOT A DIRTY BOOK!”

The best part comes later in the episode, when Joey is dressed up in a bunch of hockey gear, and when Rachel asks what he’s doing, he says he’s dressed as a vicar, because he figures he’s something like a goalie.  Anyway, the point of this digression was to point out that Rachel Green read dirty books, therefore, what I did was totally acceptable.

After seeing it in every magazine, seeing it all over the internet on all the blogs, and reading about plans to make it into a movie, I had to see what all the fuss was about – so I read Fifty Shades of Grey.  I, who normally have no shame, am embarrassed by my actions.  Not because it was so smutty, but because it was genuinely so, so awful.

I have to tell you, I do NOT understand this uproar!

I get that people got into it because it was steamy.  Yeah, it’s filthy – so filthy in fact that I praise Jesus that my mother will never read it and see what I have seen.   But that’s really all it is!  I have no idea how this will get turned into a movie without just flat-out making a porno, because the entire story is sex sex sex.  Like, while it may be pretty hot at first, after a while it gets legitimately boring.

And I don’t claim to be some great well-read literary critic – I’ve read just as many garbage books as I have literary classics – but holy shit, this was the most poorly-written piece of crap I have ever muddled through.  I am honestly embarrassed for the lady who wrote these books.  They make the Twilight series look like goddamn Pride and Prejudice.  It is genuinely terrible people.  And I’m not even talking about the naughty bits – I am FAR more offended by the actual words written down on paper and the order in which they are used than the topic the words cover, because it is a crime on literature.  The audacity this woman must have to call this a book is astounding.

There are PLENTY of dirty books out there.  I mean, just check out your grocery store’s checkout lane, am I right?  I’ve never picked one of those up, but I have to figure they’re better than Fifty Shades.  And dozens of authors, legitimate authors, who write normal books, books that normal people actually read, add naughty elements into their books.  You have to know those are better.  So I am completely and totally baffled as to why the entire world has lost their collective shit over this book. 

In conclusion, you are welcome.  I have read Fifty Shades of Grey and shared my shame with you so that you may be saved from it.  If you’re into naughty books, that’s cool – I’m not judging for it.  But for the love of god, pick up a dirty book that won’t actually make you dumber as you read it.

Sarcasmo

And I Don't Even LIKE Cats!

Hey, remember last summer when I graduated from the LLM program at UT, and was super depressed over my inability to find employment?

Yeah.  That was really stupid of me.

Don’t get me wrong.  I am very grateful to have a good job.  I don’t intend on leaving my job any time soon.  I know I’m fortunate.   I like the work and it pays well enough to make student loan payments and shop at Pottery Barn.

It’s just . . . that’s the problem.  Because I have a job that pays me well enough to afford Pottery Barn, I never have time to go to Pottery Barn.  It’s a wicked, dirty Catch-22.

Nobody warned me.  In fact, it was the opposite – get a job!  Be a contributing member of society!  Unemployment is for chumps!  My mother, especially, was VERY insistent that I find a job after graduating.  Actually, she was pretty insistent before I graduated.  I suspect having to live with her while I looked for a job was a contributing factor to such insistence.   Somebody could have given me a heads up that I was in for a seriously rude awakening.

I mean, jeez people – having a job is TEDIOUS, just on principle.   So many movies have come out that I’ve missed, and now I have to wait to watch when it’s available on Netflix or HBO.  I have to plan in advance to go to the grocery store – I can’t just hop out and pick up some milk whenever the whim hits me.  I’ll go on Thursday after work.   Working seriously cuts into my TV time – you wouldn’t believe how much stuff is stacked up in the DVR.  And just when the HELL am I supposed to go to Target?  I miss Target, you guys.  And get this – I’m expected to present myself as professional.  That means fixing my hair and doing my makeup ALL WEEK.  That is so many days.  And nobody said anything specifically on the subject . . . but I’m pretty sure sweatpants are frowned upon.  I miss the sweatpants almost as much as I miss Target.  Almost.  

Don't get me started on normal human tasks like cleaning and doing laundry.  I have the same argument with myself all the time.  On the weekdays, I get home at 7 and it's "I'm tired, I'll do it this weekend."  On the weekends, it's "I'm not wasting my weekend on that!  I'll do it after work!"  We didn’t get a month off for Christmas.  I was not able to schedule my hours on three days a week for half a day, like back in college.  I’m supposed to be there all week, which, like I said, is just so many days.  I’m left with two weekend days – which is not very many days – to cram in all the activities I used to leisurely spread out across five weekdays.  And I ask you – is there anything, one single thing, in this whole wide world, more depressing than a Sunday night?  I would submit that, in fact, there is not. 

Basically, what I’m getting at is, having a job has turned me into Garfield.  I hate Mondays.  My hair is falling out at an alarming rate.  I really, really want a nap.  I would sincerely love to ship some people off to Abu Dhabi, or at least kick them off the dining room table.  And for the love of all that is good and holy in this world, will somebody PLEASE make me a damn lasagna, because I have NO food in this apartment and there isn’t a grocery store visit on the schedule any time soon.

Sarcasmo

2011: Year in Review . . . or, 2011: You Suck at This.

Some of you may recall that last year, rather than make New Year resolutions, I made a list of demands upon the year 2011.  Some of you may have noticed that I did not do the same this year.  Some of you may be wondering why.

If you fit into that incredibly tiny crossover inside of that Venn diagram, let me tell you why – it’s because 2011 failed in epic fashion.  When it came to the handful of simple requests I made, 2011 completely, totally, enormously blew it.  Please, stroll down memory lane with me as I recall my demands (in blue, taken ver batim from last year's post), and review the many different ways in which 2011 sucked (in red).

Please note that there was no font to represent what can best be described as "shreiking rage" or "howler monkey" . . . so just imagine to the best of your abilities.

I would like a better Dallas Cowboys team. Preferably one without Tony Romo. But if you can find a way for him to get over his dreadful inconsistencies and his tendency to choke masterfully in any high-pressure situation, I will grit my teeth and bear his insufferable presence for the greater good of the team.

Right.  Way to go, Cowboys.  Way to do the exact opposite of what I wanted.

Continuing in the theme of sports, I would like for Drayton McLain and Ed Wade to get their heads out of their respective asses, and start putting together an Astros team that has a chance of staying above .500 (I’m not asking for a division championship off the bat – I can be reasonable). I’m willing to be consulted in an advisory capacity.

Well.  Ed Wade and Drayton McLain are out – which, at first glance, was good news, and at second glance, may actually be an all-out goddamn sporting disaster.  The Astros are moving to the American League – please, aside from revenue from Yankee fans, somebody tell me how this is a good idea.  The Astros can’t function properly in the National League, which is widely regarded as the lesser of the two leagues, and you want to toss them to the American League wolves?

And, AND – please excuse me while I RAGE – the new owners want to change the name.  What the actual fuck, guys.  Billy Doran played for the ASTROS.  Mike Scott and Nolan Ryan played for the ASTROS.  Craig F’ing Biggio played FOR THE ASTROS.  Changing the name might give the team a fresh start but it’s also a giant step away from its history.  A giant step in the wrong direction.  If you ask me.  Which, I assume you did.

I would like the world as a whole to master the ever-so-tricky-and-evasive distinctions between your/you’re, and there/their/they’re. If you can work in an understanding of the difference between plurals, possessives, and plural possessives, that'd be one hell of a bonus.

Fail.  That is all.  Fail.  If anything, MORE people confuse your and you’re, and use apostrophes to make things plural.  God, it makes me so crazy I can’t even function.  Failure on education, failure on humanity, failure on 2011.

I would like to see more big, fun celebrity comebacks. Remember Andrew Keegan? Whatever happened to Jonathan Taylor Thomas (aside from that rumor 5 years or so ago that he’d died)? More Macauley Culkin in 2011, yes? Black Swan already gave Winona Ryder a boost – I’m all for more of her special brand of crazy.

Tim Allen?  Really?  You read this request, and that’s who you decided to boost back?  You suck, 2011.

To make room for these comebacks, several celebrities should gratuitously take a step back. Like, oh, I don’t know, Gwyneth Paltrow maybe? Seth Rogen? Jonah Hill?

JONAH HILL WAS NOMINATED FOR A GODDAMN OSCAR.  There is something so inherently wrong with hearing the words “Oscar nominee Jonah Hill,” which we will now be stuck with for the rest of all forever.  Thanks a bunch, 2011.

I want to see less children being exploited as “musicians.” If you haven’t hit puberty, no record deal. I’m looking at you, Bieber.

I know!  Why don’t we get Justin Bieber to host SNL!

Blarg.

More genius marketing campaigns like Michael C. Hall for Dodge, Robert Downey Jr. for Planters Peanuts and Kyle Chandler for Lays. Yeah, it’s probably beneath them to be pimped out in such a fashion, but I think it’s fun. And Friday Night Lights is ending, and the second Sherlock Holmes movie isn’t coming out forever, so I’ll take them where I can. Besides, it totally works – I will absolutely eat Lays potato chips if Coach Taylor tells me to. How about Johnny Depp for Chiquita Bananas? Hugh Jackman for Frosted Flakes?

Once again, 2011 – Tim Goddamn Allen?  For Campbell’s Soup and Chevrolet?  Two wholesome, American companies went ahead and hired a recovering alcoholic and recovering general screw up?

I would like for somebody to give me a good job. My mother would probably like this too. She’s quite insistent that at some point I have to stop going to school and start contributing to society. I promise I’m qualified. I’m very good.

Fine. 2011 got one right.  Don’t get excited.

The Office should be cancelled. They’re just embarrassing themselves at this point.

So, The Office is not only still on the air, but Steve Carell left, and now Dwight is getting a spinoff?  So basically, you decided to make The Office worse, and then make ANOTHER show to suck?

Good job, 2011.  I have no choice but to believe you are deliberately fucking with me at this point.

Tim Gunn should get a judge’s seat on Project Runway. He’s always right.

Congratulations once again on doing the exact opposite of what I’ve requested!  Instead of giving me a Project Runway with Tim Gunn as judge, you give me a Project Runway with no Tim Gunn at all!  

MTV needs to go away. I won’t go into a rant about how it’s not even about music any more, but for god’s sake, if they’re only going to show TV shows, they don’t even show good ones. Jersey Shore alone is responsible for making the nation at least one degree trashier, and not in a good way. The President of the United States gets asked about Snooki – we are in a handbasket going directly to hell, do not pass Go, and do not collect $200. And do not even get me started on Teen Mom.

I can’t even.  I don’t even have the energy at this point.  Just . . . screw you, 2011.  Screw you.

There you have it, folks.  That’s why I didn’t make any demands on 2012.  I’m afraid of what horrors I would reap.

Sarcasmo

Chuck E. Cheese is the Root of Terrorism

The other night, my mom received a text message from a family member talking about being at Chuck E. Cheese, then going home for dinner, and commented to me about the unfortunate situation of being at Chuck E. Cheese.  Hours later, after we had conversed about literally many other things, the following conversation took place:

Mom: “I wonder whose birthday party they were at?”

Me: “Um – the hell are you talking about?”

Mom: “She said they were at Chuck E. Cheese, and then going home for dinner.  Nobody just goes to Chuck E. Cheese, so I assume they’re at a party.”

Me: “Untrue.  Used to go to visit the rat with Heather and the boys alllll the time without eating there or attending parties.  Good way to get out of the house in bad weather or just to do something different.  In fact, that’s how I got stopped by airport security that time.”

Mom: “Um – the hell are you talking about?”

Me: “Oh.  Did I never mention that?  Yeah.  That is a thing that happened.”

So, rewind several years.  I lived in Cincinnati with my cousin Heather, her husband, and 3 kids during the summer between my junior and senior years of undergrad.  Best.  Summer.  Ever. 

Like I said above – every now and then, Heather and I took the boys just to play around at Chuck E. Cheese.  On one occasion, she purchased what she thought was 30 tokens, but what turned out to be $30 worth of tokens.  Whoops.  Neither of us was in the mood to put in a marathon session at House of Chuck, and quite frankly, the giddy gleam of insanity in the eyes of the then-six and three year old boys over the prospect of SO MANY tokens was fairly terrifying.  So I figured, no big deal – I’ve got a small bag inside of my purse, I’ll pocket the extras and we’ll use them next time.   There were more tokens than space in the bag, so they were crammed in pretty tight – no room to even jingle about!

Fast forward.  Like, weeks forward.  We were flying back to San Antonio to visit for a week or so.  And let me just tell you – two adult women, taking a six year old boy, a three year old boy, an infant boy, the double stroller and everybody’s respective carry-ons, was an Event with a capital E.  That’s ten pairs of shoes and two sets of hands with the ability to tie.  We may or may not have also been smuggling a small animal.  Anyway - the point is, we were BUSY.  People and babies and backpacks all over the damn place.  The last thing in the world you want to hear in such a situations is . . . 

“Ma’am?  There is something suspicious in your bag that we can’t scan through and we need you to step over here so we can search more thoroughly.”

Awesome.  Of course.

I immediately thought, “OK, what did these tiny little turdburgers slip in my purse?  A toy gun?  Bullets?  A machete?”  I was a teensy bit nervous.

One by one, they took everything out of my purse.  If anybody knows me, I have a big purse.  This was going to take a while.

Then they took out a small, obviously heavy bag.

Oh, for the love of all that is good and sacred in this world.  I forgot about the sack full of goddamn Chuck E. Cheese tokens.

Very Large Intimidating Security Man Digging In My Purse: “Ma’am, what’s in this bag?”

Embarrassed As All Hell Me: “Ahem.  Erm.  Well.  Chuck E. Cheese tokens.  A lot of them.”

Slightly Confused Still Scary Security Man: “ . . . I’m sorry?”

Only I Could Manage This: “Me too.  I am so sorry.  That is a bag stuffed full of game tokens for Chuck E. Cheese and it is probably the reason you’re having trouble scanning my bag and yes I imagine a giant misshapen chunk of metal would look suspicious on your screen and please let me get on a plane now and pretend I wasn’t this stupid.”

Bemused and Scary Man in Uniform: “Carry on.”

And God love Heather, after that summer she let me come live with her for three years while I went to law school.  And it never seemed to bother her that she was harboring a suspected terrorist.

Sarcasmo

Deliver Us From Tebow

I don’t want to get in to religion with you guys.  I really, really don’t.  Most of you really wouldn’t like what I’d have to say.  I do take pride in that I actually have researched and given thoughtful consideration to several different religions before settling my beliefs, and I am open to conversation on the topic.  I absolutely do not judge people on the basis of religion, but it genuinely surprises me how often people try to be staunch, stubborn supporters of their respective religions, yet they really know nothing about them.  But this isn't a post to start a debate about various religions and their merits, and I promise you I am not trying to start an argument.

That said, I am almost 100% certain that in no religion is God or Jesus portrayed as a frigging genie that comes out of Aladdin’s lamp to grant you wishes when you ask nicely.  

I don’t care what Saturday Night Live told you (in what was one of the best sketches they’ve done in years, just FYI), Jesus does not win football games for the Denver Broncos because Tim Tebow asks him to. 

I have nothing negative to say about The Good St. Tebow himself.  He is free to believe whatever he wants, however hard he wants to believe it, I’m only interested in how he plays football.  But for Pete’s sake people.  He might have prayed harder and longer than most of us, but I’m still pretty sure that no religion magically grants him a direct line to Jesus to ask special favors for himself.  Some of the reactions to Sunday’s game seriously alarm me.  People actually believe that the Broncos won because Tebow chats with Jesus!  Where do people even learn that this is a possibility?!

It’s getting a little out of control.  It seems like nobody realizes that there are ten other guys out there on the field with Timmy T, and quite frankly, I am completely bored with hearing about him like he’s the second coming.  He’s good, but he’s not THAT good, not by a long shot.  That one set of footprints in the sand isn’t Tebow carrying an entire football team on his back.  I respected the hell out of Ben Roethlisberger when he was interviewed last week about playing Tebow, and he answered by saying he wasn’t playing Tebow, the Steelers were playing the Broncos. 

I don’t want to take away from the Broncos win Sunday, even if I, as a Steelers fan, am a tad bitter.  Alright, fine, I’m a shit-load-crap-ton  bitter.  But while that OT pass from Tebow was glorious for sure, let’s call a spade a spade – if you want to credit holiness for the Broncos win, it was the holiness of the Steelers’ offensive line (see what I did there) that really sealed the deal. 

And, anyway, aside from all that?  If God was a genie that popped out of Aladdin’s lamp, that would make him Robin Williams.  And everybody knows damn well that if anybody here on Earth is God, it’s Morgan Freeman.

Sarcasmo

Hamlet Makes a Terrible Bedtime Story

Probably this isn’t want Shakespeare had in mind . . .

But . . .

To pee or not to pee.  That is the question. 

Every freaking night it’s the question, and I still haven’t mastered it.

You know what I’m talking about, don’t act like you don’t.  You do your nighttime routine, whatever it may be, and you get in bed.  You wallow into your little you-shaped indention in your mattress (your “Jennifer-hole,” as I like to refer to mine), and burrow under the covers like a molerat.  And then . . . you start thinking you kind-of-maybe-might-sorta-have-to pee.  And the debate begins.

On the one hand, it’s not an urgent type of thing.  You know you don’t HAVE to get up right now and handle things.  You know that even if you did, it would probably take forever to actually coax your pipelines into commencing operation.  PROBABLY it won’t be an issue until morning.

Or it will wake you up in an hour and become a lot more urgent real damn quick.  Maybe you should just get up and handle it, seemingly unimportant though it may be.  But jeez . . . it’s just starting to get warm and cozy.  That new down comforter is super comfy.  Just forget it.  Roll over and go to sleep, it’s not that big of a deal.  Just go to sleep.  Sleep, dammit.  Stop thinking that there is a slight chance you might have to kind of tinkle, and just sleep.

Youdon’thavetopeeyoudon’thavetopeeyoudon’thavetopee.  Just sleep already!

Except you CAN’T.  There’s no forgetting it, no ignoring it. 

And now, not only do you have to pee, and not only have you forfeited your hard-earned cozy spot and subjected yourself to cold tiles and cold porcelain, but you just wasted 30 minutes of your life arguing with yourself about it, when you could have just taken care of business when the idea first occurred to you.  You could have been sleeping this whole time, you fool. 

Sarcasmo