Se7en

I guess I've been tagged to write up seven things no one knows about me.

Well, you asked:

1. I invented the word "rummage".

2. In 1973 I had a choice between quarterbacking for the New York mets or continuing my life as a three year old. I chose the latter, but was fired right about the time I turned four.

3. My favorite color is gunmetal jones.

4. I look very much like Paul Lynde when I'm not wearing make up.

5. I really don't need any badges, stinking or no.

6. Some people don't think there is a six. Well, there is.

7. I often dress my cats in hand knitted vests, which is criminal. They much prefer capes.

If you're reading this, consider yourself tagged.

Keystone Kommute

An all-zone ticket for the Tri-met busses and Max lines costs $2.30. When I have certain doctors appointments, I have to leave work early and take a half-hour, multiple zone ride to Beaverton, then walk nearly a mile to the office. Since the husband occasionally has to take Max to his office in Beaverton, we maintain a cache of all-zone tickets.

Since I had an appointment after work today, I was pleased that I managed to remember to grab two tickets before I headed off to work.

"Look at me," I thought as I tucked them in my back pocket, "with the thinking ahead, etc."

I was nearly at the bus stop where I catch the bus every morning, ready to board as I usually do with my Zones 1 and 2 bus pass, when I reached into the pocket of my brand new awesome hoodie and did not find the wallet that I had tucked into it four blocks ago.

Well, poo.

A neighbor I had greeted as I left the house this morning found my wallet whilst walking her adorable pointy dog, and she met up with me as I was retracing my steps. Wallet back in hand (and NOT in pocket), I headed to another bus stop, this one for a different line that is usually busier than I like. I prefer not to stand or sit next to anyone when I am commuting, as I try to avoid interacting with anyone, at any time.

Well, the bus was full of snotty young whippersnappers storing their weirdly irony-free Strawberry Shortcake backpacks on the empty seats next to them, and so I stood with all the other worker bees who really didn't want to start a ruckus with the rude and mopey teens and I didn't really want to sit by the guy who smelled like dog shit, anyway.

Skip forward to lunch. I'm off to the place down the street for an egg salad. Nervous that I'd lose my wallet again, I check my various pockets for my accoutrements: phone, iPod, wallet, bus ticket.

Ticket? I stop and discover that there is only one all-zone ticket in my back pocket.

Crap. How does something fall out of a back pocket? It's not like I spend my days hanging upside down from a jungle gym.

Well, having experienced missing a train because the stupid machine wouldn't print the ticket fast enough, I thought I'd buy my replacement ticket in advance from the machine at the stop before I picked up my egg salad. I carefully tucked my purchase into one of my front pockets and headed off to the sandwich place. I spent the rest of the day suddenly wigging out and checking all my pockets in a panic. Everything seemed to be in order.

Work continued and finally let me go. As the train approached the stop at its appointed time, I reached into my front pocket and pulled out my ticket. And it was then I noticed the note at the bottom that read "EXPIRES AT 2:14 PM".

Shit. I'd forgotten that tickets bought in the machines, rather than at the Tri-met office, expired after two hours.

Well, I still had the one that survived the trip this morning, but not wanting to have to buy another ticket for the return trip, I risked getting caught by a traffic cop and boarded the train without buying another ticket. I managed to get to my stop without incident. Huzzah!

So, I walked to my appointment, whined to my therapist, scored some sleeping pills and started my trip home. As I walked past the bus stop half way to the station, I checked the arrival table and saw that there was one due in two minutes. Well, wasn't that handy? I watched the silhouette of the bus lumber toward me, I reached into my back pocket. My empty back pocket.

Fuckity fuckerson! What? Why? Argh!

I dug into my bag trying to find my wallet, which of course had settled underneath every single thing I had in it, simultaneously reliving my sandwich purchase, trying to remember how and how much I had paid for it. Did I pay cash? How much did I pay? Did I have any enough left to buy another goddamn ticket?

Well, turns out I bought the egg salad with my ATM card and I had exactly 3 dollars-- three soft and crumpled dollars that are difficult to stuff into the bus fareboxes. The machine finally took my fare, but its initial resistance allowed the driver to lecture me for wearing a black coat while waiting at a bus stop at night while she handed me my transfer.

I sat at the transit center waiting for the train that would finally get me home, clutching my transfer with both hands, and I wondered where my lost tickets ended up. I decided that if they weren't found by an indigent person desperate to get to Gresham, I imagined they were riding the wind in poetic circles like a plastic bag in nineties a movie.

Oh, the things you don't know

This is a "this is my husband" meme that I want to do (stolen from GolfWidow), but the husband is, in fact, dead set against releasing any personal information to anyone (not just on this blog-- in real life). Therefore, I will confuse my husband's answers to these questions with the answers from the imaginary husband ("Mr. Food Lady") my cat has. I'll let you puzzle out man from cat.

He is watching TV. What is he watching?
Talking heads (maybe the band, maybe not).


You're out to eat. What kind of dressing does he get on his salad?
Friskies classic pate. Sometimes bleu cheese.


What's one food this person doesn't like?
Friskies classic pate. Not ever not bleu cheese.


You go out to the bar. He orders ...
With apologies to the Dutch, Manhattan.


Where did he go to high school?
Ms. Thingy's Academy of Hissing and Pantlessness in Tumwater.


What size shoe does he wear?
(6 - 18)*3.5 +/- the square root of 4ac.


If this person were to collect anything, it would be ...
Books and wives (or vice-versa).


What is his favorite type of sandwich?
The kind that comes with bread.


This person could eat ______ every day.
This person does eat every day. It's crazy!


Favorite cereal?
Hill's KD trail mix.


This person wouldn't be caught dead wearing ...
A vest. He would like to die in a cravat, though.


Favorite sports team?
All sports teams are classified as either Phlyds, Tbones or Newmans. Right now, he's rootin' for the 'bones.


Who will he vote for?

Anyone but Palin (unless it's Michael). Jesus, even an imaginary cat can see that bitch is crazy. Lord make a way, my ass.


What is his sign?
He has two:




What is something you do that he wishes you didn't?
Ruffle his fur and tell him how cute he is.

How many states/counties has this person lived in?
2 States/4 Counties.

What is his heritage?
Welsh, German and Tabby.

You bake him a cake for his birthday. What kind do you bake?
I don't bake, so... Ooh, someone else brought cake? Cake! Caaaaaaaake! Cake please!
Caaaaaaaaake!

Did he play sports in high school?
He played scratching post in the band.

This person could spend hours ...
Sleeping. Wait, that's me. So, sleeping with me!

He wants a new ...
Catbox.

The CD I would probably find in his vehicle is ...
Comedy

What can you do that will guarantee a laugh from him?
I can't comment on the allegation that we smoke catnip.

Does he get along well with his family?
Everybody loves him. Everybody.

If money wasn't an option, I would buy him ...
...a monkey (haven't you always wanted a monkey?)

I am a horrible person

...but I can't be too scared by weather they've named "Gustav".

With this attitude, I expect to be killed by hurricane "Skippy".

Commercials I hate

To the chagrin of the husband, I like to talk back to the television. I mock the timelines on Cold Case, I yell "go, buddy, go" during sports exhibitions, I yell out the answers playing along with game shows.

I save my loudest exclamations and my snarkiest snark for commercials. I don't know why, but I require consistency and common sense from the ads that are trying to shill their potions and widgets. I do, in fact, think of these things whilst browsing the corner shops. Here are the worst offenders:

1. The Oregon Lottery

(Damn if I couldn't find the spot online. They show it all the fucking time-- how is it not on You Tube? I guess I'll have to describe it to you without being too biased. I must be patient; my wrath will out soon enough.)

Scene: A man is standing on a street corner in the financial district of an unknown city. He holds an upside down fedora in his hand. A businessman in a suit walks by and the first guy holds out his hat. The businessman waves him away. Next, a well dressed hipster walks by and hatman reaches into his fedora, pulls out a wad of cash and hands it to the guy, who is confused, but takes it anyway. This continues for three or four more people. As the camera focuses on a woman in a business suit staring wide eyed at the man while talking on her cell phone, the lottery logo comes up along with their catchphrase "What will you do?"

Why do I hate this commercial? Because the lottery winner is handing out cash in the *financial district*. You know, the one filled with people who already make wads of cash? The majority of the people walking by and taking the cash are white, distinctly vice-president-of-marketing type men. This just kills the democratic socialist in me. Why would you give money to people who didn't need it? Could he not find more needy people? Not even homeless people, necessarily--because lord knows we don't want to reward the indigent and down on their luck-- but maybe students? Parents with large families? Maybe a barista or a cashier at Ross? Hell, I'd even look past my distrust of religious charities and accept a fucking Salvation Army Santa. Jesus, you don't need to give money to The Man. The Man squeezes plenty of money out of us already.

Next?

B) The Oregon Lottery, again

Scene: The outside of a single bathroom stall. Everything is plated in gold. A woman comes out of the stall and climbs into a gold plated golf cart. The camera follows the woman as she drives down a long hallway-- also gold-- until she comes to a similarly plated basin, where she disembarks from the golf cart and proceeds to wash her hands. The lottery logo and catchphrase come up on screen.

Seriously, how gross must that golf cart steering wheel be? Every time that commercial airs, scores of molysmophobiacs convulse and die.

Wait, there's more!

III. AT&T - Alter-ego Hong Kong Greeting





"He's not going to answer because he doesn't have AT&T"

And whose fault is that, you think? Could it be... the VP of Sales' fault for choosing to save money by providing the sales team with inadequate communications service? Maybe we can blame the boss who neglected to give his salesman important information like the pronounciation of the best client's name? Jesus, any company that relies so heavily on an individual employee's choice of phone provider and ability to learn a complex language like Chinese deserves to have their business fail.

I will leave you on an upbeat note, for once, with my favorite commercial so far this year (it's one of a series of commercials that are all pretty great):




Yoinks and away, indeed.

"Show us your wanger!"

Ever since That Guy hollered the first demand for Freebird!, there have always been assholes who yell out stupid things at shows. I can't pretend to understand what they're thinking when they reach a lull in the performance and decide that they simply must prove to their favorite star that they are, in fact, a fucktard of immense proportions; maybe they think they're special? That they're witty? That the hero on stage will stop the show and invite them onto the stage for a duet? Whatever, dipshit.

I'm sure they have been at every show I've ever been to, but only recently have I felt that an appropriate reaction on the part of security would be to take them outside and have them shot.

OK, so maybe my inner Ceauşescu has been more prominent recently, but how else are all those "that guys" (male and female) going to learn?

Maybe we can just shoot that first inappropriate yeller. Take 'em up on stage, make a big deal out of them and whack. It's win-win: they get the attention they apparently crave and we get someone to serve as an example.

What prompted this was the Kids in the Hall show last night. It was great (as expected-- although no Simon and Hecubus this round). Most of the show was new material. This was my fourth time seeing them live (I don't mean to brag. No, wait. I totally do), and in the past only about 40% was new. And, when the stuff isn't new, some people take that as an invitation to yell out the punch lines ("Hyuck! I'm crushing your head, you! Heh heh heh *fart*"). When the stuff is new, it tends to dazzle the yellers into temporary calm. Then a comedic pause comes up and they start to holler about loving Dave and, in the case of the douchebag in front of us, "Show us your wangaa!"

Does anyone even know what that means? I'm pretty familiar with most of the KITH oeuvre and I've no idea where this came from. Someone please: enlighten me.

This dude, one row up, also threw up the rock 'n roll hand sign every now and then, but fuck if I could find any rhyme or reason to his flailing salute.

You know, nothing makes me want to throw a rockin' signal more than Buddy Cole.

This winner was so obnoxious, the guy sitting next to him actually got up and moved to an empty seat nearby. And then? This loser? Actually turned around and yelled "shut up" at another douche who yelled something about loving Mark McKinney. His poor girlfriend, she ended up showing us her dick.

(See what I did there? Huh? Get it? Oh.)

A Parade of horribles

I keep starting entries about Canada, but I can't finish them. Instead, I have a few questions for you:

Do you get the Sunday Paper?

Does it carry Parade Magazine?

Have you read Walter Scott's Personality Parade?

If so, you may have noticed that the questions all seem to be written by either publicists or the functionally retarded. And leading that charge is the man with the answers, Walter Scott.

The following will prove to you that Walter Scott had better watch his back, because I am ready to write. That. Column.

Q: Marilu Henner may not have won The Celebrity Apprentice, but her high energy and good nature won me over. What's the secret of her vitality?

A: Marilu is on record as saying that she stays young and vibrant by eating a diet rich in fiber, vitamin C and the babies of the rich and powerful. I'm sure her diet will continue to keep her hydrated and healthy as she writes her follow-up to her latest best seller Wear Your Life Well.

Q: Are the women on CBS's Survivor required to wear skimpy clothing?

A: "Indeed they are," responded producer and host Jeff Probst, "You can't masturbate to dailies of starving contenstants wearing long johns." Be sure to keep that in mind when you watch the latest installments on CBS every Thursday at 8 PM. Who will be voted out next?!?

Q: I can't keep up with Rihanna's hairstyles. Why so many different looks?

A: Rihanna, fresh off her stunning performance at this year's AXE Body SprayTM Booty-tease with Jay-Z, tells us she is wanted in several states and is constantly on the move. "Also," her stylist Whizzah confided to us, "Rihanna has been looking for a sassy look she can use to invade Poland. We are working on her mustache next week."

Q: With so many young actresses making news for their bad behavior, would you single any out for their good deeds?

A: Ashley Simpson gives great head. Oh, was that not what you meant?

Q: I love PARADE's cover story on Mariah Carey, but I'm puzzled by the title of her new CD, E=MC2. Does it have something to do with Einstein?

A: You're fucking kidding me, right?

Evolution proved once and for all

Lord, beer me strength

This past Saturday the husband and I worked the Spring Brew and Wine Fest here in micro-brew friendly Portland, Oregon. This was my fourth year working it (so to speak), and apparently that's the only qualification to be tapped for a supervisory position, so I gots me introduced in the orientation, a different colored shirt and an inflated sense of self-importance.

Working at the brewfest is mostly just pouring a couple ounces of beer into a plastic mug and small talk. Supervising at the brewfest is basically spent covering for people who need a break or running around trying to find one of the two guys whose job it was to replace empty kegs (2 guys for 50 breweries in a 60,000 sq foot convention hall? Not. So. Easy.). The floor had been sectioned into 5 zones, each with a cluster of booths.

I have to say it was fun. The part I most enjoy is the pouring, talking to people about beer and whatnot. The good thing about supervising is that you can pour in more than one booth so, you know, there's variety. But you don't get to pour the whole time, and when you're not looking for the keg guys, there really isn't too much to do. It was interesting to see the way different people handled the supervisory "responsibilities".

There were four guys and me. I must have walked around my little island of booths 50 times. I got my people water and rags and ice. I made sure they got a lot of breaks. If I noticed any particular booth was busy, I'd jump in and help pour. Maybe it's the customer service rep in me - I wasn't just going to stand in a corner and wait for people to ask for help. Of the other four, three of the guys would pop by on occasion, bringing ice or towels unasked. They were good guys.

But then there was this one guy.

This guy showed up alone, which should have been warning sign number one. Then, as we were standing up in front of the group having been introduced as supervisors, he mimed what the person in charge was talking about (The leader: "Samples are one token and you should pour up to this line". This is what he does: He holds up 1 finger, then mimes pouring something into a glass. Then he draws a line in the air and points to the mug the leader is holding. Yeah, I know.)

I don't remember his name, but we all remember he was wearing a hat. At least ten times that night, I'd go up to someone in my group and they'd be all

"That guy in the hat just told me there wasn't any more beer.*"

"That guy in the hat said I was pouring too much."

"That guy in the hat is creeping me out."

OK, I said that last one, but it still counts. I don't what the hell he was supposed to be doing. I'm sure he had his own place he needed to be supervising, but he chose to skulk around MY quadrant.

About every 20 minutes he'd sidle up to tell me what I should be doing. That guy needs help. This booth needs ice.

What I should have been doing was kicking him in his presumptuous balls.

* No more beer?!? There were two people who had access to the room with the kegs, and guy with the hat was not one of them. They have a word for people who make shit up like that. It's called fucktard.

Superbug

A new sing along written to commemorate the test results of the culture done on the pus that was extracted from the gigantic abscess that was residing until recently in my right armpit.

(to the tune of "YMCA")



Uh-oh, what's that bump on my arm?
Why's it hurting, giving cause for alarm?
Jesus, more crap causing me harm.
Off I go back to the doctor.

Oh crap, it sucks I've got M-R-S-A!
They've just confirmed I've got the M-R-S-A!

Man that's just what I need,
Another illness to feed!
Once again I lash out - why me?

No sir, we don't get to share clothes.
I said, too bad - I just spent lots of dough
On new towels and Purel on-the-go.
Now I've got to go wash my hands

That's what you do when you're M-R-S-A
Been diagnosed with fucking M-R-S-A

It's infectious you see,
You do not want a hug.
It's a classified super-bug!

(fading out)

M-R-S-A
It's not so fun when you've got M-R-S-A