Monday, October 14, 2013

I Don't Want to Live on This Planet Anymore

I took a friend out for the best pizza in Berkeley today and two glasses of wine later discovered why I shouldn't go into gaming stores buzzed.  It's worse than Target.  Of course, I really needed the What Would Jesus Wear? refrigerator magnets.  Also games called Hungry Hungry Hipsters and Mongolian Goat Rodeo, because who doesn't need those?  I'm not even really sure what they're about; I just know I need to play Mongolian Goat Rodeo very soon.

After stocking up on bacon band-aids, we went to the Halloween store and I discovered that I'm old.  I came to this realization while wandering around aisles filled with sexy nurses and slutty vampires.  You know, the usual.

And then I stumbled across a few things that lead me to believe that the whole "slutty X" costume genre has really gotten out of hand.

Exhibit A, slutty Pikachu:

OK, whatever.  It's Japanese and fairly tame as far as Japan goes.  There are no tentacles in places that shouldn't have tentacles, so I'm pretty ok with it.

Exhibit B, slutty Nemo:

Not only is this far sluttier, but also sadder at the same time.  Finding Nemo is a Disney movie for children!  Also, what self-respecting woman, preparing for Halloween, says to herself, "I want to dress up like a fish and/or beloved children's character while at the same time look like I'm about to take the main stage at the Pink Pussycat Cabaret."  Somewhere, there was a brainstorming session where someone had to have said, "let's put a woman in a fish suit." And someone had to have replied, "Yes, but let's make it a sexy fish suit."  It's things like this that make me lose faith in humanity.

You'd think that the sexy fish costume would be the worst thing I saw, but you'd be terribly mistaken.  I present to you Exhibit C, sexy Beetlejuice:

This is the costume that made me have to leave the store.  Sexy Goddamn Beetlejuice!  Are you kidding me?!?!  Anyone old enough to know recognize this costume is too old to wear it.  And anyone young enough to wear it is far too young to be hit on at a costume party by anyone old enough to recognize it.

You know what I'm going to be for Halloween this year.  Spinelli from Recess.  Not slutty Spinelli.  Just regular freakin' Spinelli from Recess.  And I'm going to be damn cute!

Lesson 15: Go ahead and be a big ol' slut for Halloween, just avoid dressing like a fish or Michael Keaton.

Friday, October 4, 2013

The Target Conspiracy

I think Target is trying to do me in. 

Here's a scene that happens more often than I care to admit:  I wake up early-ish on a day off.  "You know what would be awesome?" I say to myself.  "Coffee and fabric shopping!"  "You're a genius," I reply, because it's totally ok to talk to yourself.  And so off I go to have an overpriced coffee beverage and scrounge the sale racks at Hancock's for linen.  Coffee acquired, I find that the fabric store doesn't open for 20-30 minutes.  Whatever shall I do?  Oh look, Target's right there.  I could go and browse for a few minutes before Hancock's opens.  Nothing can possibly go wrong with this plan.  And that's exactly what they want you to think!

That very scenario is how I wound up with Millennium Falcon, Green Lantern, and Ramone's t-shirts, because I'm awesome like that.  So I was in Target recently with my friend, Enoch, who is my enabler in this sort of situation.

Enoch: Ooh, look!  They have Pink Floyd pajama pants.

Me: I don't need those.

Enoch: Why not?  That's exactly the kind of thing you need.

Me: Guess.

Enoch: Because you already have Pink Floyd pajama pants.


I got them at Target.  Don't judge me.  I have a problem.

I eventually left Target $71 later, but now I have Saved by the Bell underpants. 

Saved by the Bell.  Underpants. 

How did Target know I needed these?

Lesson 14:  You need Saved by the Bell underpants.  Also Ninja Turtle panties.  Because inside, you're twelve.

Wednesday, September 25, 2013

Stupidity is Painful

I'm just going to take a few minutes tonight to rant about some idiots I've encountered lately.  Because apparently it's been raining dumb around here.

First, a few days ago at work, I had this interaction:

Me:  I'm going to lunch. (Not asking permission, just making a statement)
Acting Section Supervisor: Are all your patients gone?
Me: Nope, they're all sitting out in the waiting room.  I figure if they're really sick they'll still be there in an hour when I come back.

See, I've decided that when I'm asked a question that the asker already damn well knows the answer to, I'm going to come back with whatever they don't expect.  Perhaps eventually they'll get the point.

Then today, I had a missed call on my phone from a Houston number and called it back within 5 minutes of the call.  It's a cell phone and returning the call took nothing more than touching the missed call notification and then the call button, but when the guy answered, he tried to tell me that he didn't call.  So I took a minute to explain to this guy how cell phones work and eventually conceded that elves might have snuck into his pocket and called me without his knowledge.

Finally, tonight I stumbled upon this article about a woman who is making her boyfriend 300 sandwiches so he'll propose to her.  Cue the rage.  Now I certainly don't mind cooking delicious food for someone you love.  This isn't some overly sensitive rant about women needing to rise up in rebellion and force men to make their own damn sandwiches.  Sandwich Boycott 2013!  If I'm making myself a sandwich, I'll make a man one too.  If he's sick, he gets a sandwich.  Nope, the part I take issue with is that he put a price on their engagement. 

If a man wants to marry me, a simple question will do fine.  Put a condition on it, and the deal's off.  "I'll only marry you if you do these things."  What a load of shit!  You either want to get married or you don't.  Making your potential fiancee jump through hoops is degrading and offensive.

Lesson 13: If you like it, just put a ring on it.

Tuesday, February 5, 2013

Adventures in Bureaucracy

Nothing can mire you in bureaucracy like moving from one house to another, especially if you're moving within the same city.  I had some bad luck and misfortune in December that resulted in A: a lack of blog writing and B: needing to find a new place to live ASAP.  For a while, I thought I was going to have to move into a storage unit and rely on the kindness of my friends, but luckily fate smiled upon me and I found a groovy 70's-style home on Lois Lane.  The address kind of sold it.

I've been trying to transfer my water service this week, a process that should be freakin' simple.  "Hi, I need to move my service from here to there.  Thanks."  That's all it should take.  No, that would be far too easy.  It would seem that the phone number to the city water division is a closely guarded secret.  Apparently, you need to call City Hall on the Batphone and give the secret password then have a pizza with extra onions sent to the Superintendent's cable guy.  So I do all that just to be told that I need to come in  to City Hall.  Super.  I live for this.

I go down to City Hall and talk to the cashier.  Of course it can't be as easy as "stop my service here and turn it on there."  Where's the fun in that?  Nope, I get two sets of to shut it off and one to turn it on.  And of course, I can't pay my bill while I'm there.  I have to wait until they send me one in the mail.  Brilliant.  So now I have two pages front and back to fill out, which should be simple enough,  but of course it's not.

Name on bill: they want my actual name or the name that appears on my bill which is, naturally, Chalet Rittenday.
If renting, provide a copy of current lease: Really?  I can't even find a bowl for my Cheerio's and you want me to produce my lease?

I think the water service took lessons in customer service from Comcast who, incidentally, called me today.  They're like an ex who doesn't understand that we're broken up.

Comcast:  Why did you leave us?!?!  Was the bill too high?
Me: It was, but that wasn't what did it.  I left because of your shitty customer service.
Comcast:  Would these special offers make you come back to us?
Me: Cutting me a deal won't do it.  In fact, if you were to pay me to use your services, I still wouldn't return.
Comcast:  Are you seeing someone else?
Me: I am.  And we're very happy together.
Comcast:  They'll never love you like I will!

Now I'm left with the wonderfully tedious task of unpacking an entire housefull of crap.  You know, with all my abundant free time.

Lesson 12: You gotta cuddle that bitch.  Bitches love cuddles.
(This has no relation to the post, but was the most memorable quote from moving day.)

Sunday, February 3, 2013

I'm From Texas; Here's Your Casserole

The other day, I got a text from my friend Gwyn.  Her father had gone to the ER and was getting admitted to the hospital.    Now, where I'm from, there's only one correct response to that situation: Casseroles!   Gwyn, a California native, did not seem to be aware of the proper protocol and tried to get between a Texan and a mandatory casserole delivery situation.

Me:  I'm going to make you a lasagna!
Gwyn:  That's ok; sure Dad'll be fine.
Me:  Still, you need a lasagna.
Gwyn:  That's kind of you to offer.
Me: GODDAMN IT GWYN!  Give me you address so I can bring you delicious lasagna!
Gwyn: Fine.

See, when someone has had a major life event (hospitalization, birth, death, move, whatever) friends should bring one dish meals that reheat easily.  It is also acceptable to show up and clean a part of their house, particularly for new parents.

And so my cousin and I spent the next morning making a delicious vegetarian lasagna (because in California, every family is required to have at least one vegetarian.  It's a law).  We also made some garlic bread and chocolate chip cookies, because everything can be made better with chocolate chip cookies and then we trucked halfway across the San Francisco Bay Area to deliver them.

Gwyn eventually realized the magic of casseroles delivered to your door (and of chocolate chip cookies, which barely lasted two hours).  With a family member in the hospital, anything to take mundane tasks out of the picture is helpful.  Well-wishing friends often send all kinds of messages saying, "please let me know if you need anything" or "let me know what I can do," but most people won't say, "as a matter of fact, here's what you can do."  This is why Texans and Southerners will show up with casseroles or drop by to clean your kitchen.

Lesson 11: When someone's in the hospital, take the family a casserole.
Corollary: Shut up and take the damn casserole.

Sunday, December 2, 2012

Violent Peace-loving Hippies

So I had this exchange at work on Friday:

My co-worker (I’ll call her Ilene): Do you have any plans for the weekend?
Me: I’ll probably spend most of Saturday in Berkeley.
Ilene: Don’t get stabbed.
Me: I’m going to Berkeley, not Oakland.
Ilene: They don’t like the military in Berkeley.  Those hippies will stab you.
Me: …

Of course I relayed this exchange to the friends I was going to see.  About half of them went nearly apoplectic with laughter and another put that comment in the top 10 dumbest things he’s ever heard.  People in Berkeley are pretty dedicated to their “Live and Let Live” philosophy.  I could ride a tricycle down University Blvd dressed like a character from Rocky Horror while singing the best of Queen and receive nothing more threatening than an appreciative fist bump.  Possibly, if I went walking around in full service dress, I might attract a few protesters.  However, all I’d have to do is walk past an ethnic vegan restaurant and I’d be rid of them in no time.  “Get our troops out of Afghanistan!  Ooh look, that Himalayan place is all vegetarian and gluten-free.”

We demand that the Vegan Ethiopian Cafe also have a varied selection of craft beer.

(If you pictured Frank N. Furter singing Fat Bottomed Girls on that tricycle, you get a point.  You should probably keep track of those.  There might me more.)

Lesson 10: Those hippies will not stab you.

Monday, November 19, 2012

There's Nothing Like Free Bacon

Right now I am eating free take-out bacon in a Super 8 somewhere in Arizona half drunk with road fatigue.  So of course now is a good time to post a blog.  I'm not even sure where I am right now.  I can narrow it down to somewhere east of Phoenix and west of Tuscon.

This little 1200 mile excursion is just a practice run for my January cross-country tour.  I'll be driving from San Francisco to Nashville, visiting friends and family on the way and seeing part of the country before I move to England.  Oh, did I not mention that yet?  Yep, I'll be living in Suffolk, UK for about 4 years.  This may turn into a travelblog while I explore Europe.  Deal with it.  I'm going to drink Scotch in Scotland and Jameson in Ireland and wine in France and you're going to hear about it.

But back to my current road trip.  What the hell is wrong with people driving sports cars like they're geriatric stoners?  Drive your Corvette like it's a goddam Corvette!  I should not pass you in my 6 year old Focus.

And, yes, I checked my hotel room for bedbugs.  Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me.

Lesson 9: When your vision goes all wibbly wobbly, it's definitely time to go to sleep.