Lyrical Flashback

And so came the day when my defunct car charger forced me to rediscover radio and shattered any of my straggling illusions of youth.

Recently my one and only car charger (formerly known as the 'cigarette lighter') decided to go on strike, effectively leaving me with a much narrower scope of music options. Generally I plug in my iPhone to a radio adapter that allows me to play my own music through my radio. As a result of advancing technology, I have three CD's in my car: a 'Best of Led Zeppelin' CD that only spins in the player when it damn well feels like it (uh, like every twentieth time...otherwise to my great fury it doesn't spin at all), a comedy CD that I have listened to more times than I care to admit and the third is scratched beyond repair. As a person completely incapable of sitting with my own silences, I clicked on over to the radio.

"...you got to bet on yourself now staaaar, cause that's your best bet...."

"...Paint myself in blue and red and black and gray. All of the beautiful colors are very very meaningful, Gray is my favorite color, I felt so symbolic yesterday, if I knew Picasso, I would buy myself a gray guitar and play.......Mister Jones and me...!!"

Yessssss! Thankfully my antenna picked up my old standard Radio 104.1, a bastion of amazing music in an often dreck-y sea of mainstream pop and unintelligible rap. I cheerfully sang at the top of my lungs. Lyrics that still rattled around in my head and will probably take up precious brainspace until the day I die were actually being put to proper use! Synapses fired and neurons connected, my brain a flurry of activity!

"....and every time I scratch my nails down someone else's back I hope you feel it...well can you feel it! Well, I'm here to remind you of the mess you left when you went away....."

And then it happened. My crazy neurons demanded that a sense memory be paired with that particular lyric. All of a sudden, a swimming image was rapidly uploaded to my minds eye. Large, nearly empty 2 liter bottle of Mountain Dew in my hand. My friend bouncing over to the chunky black boom box at my shoulder. A flash of MTV News from a distant sleepover of the past....oh god Kurt Loder was hideous even then....the vague recollection that the year was 1995 and Alanis was up for 'video of the year'.

1995?! Hold up. I turned 13 years old in 1995. I'm 27 now. I have known the words to that song for more than half of the time I have spent on this earth.

Kids that were born in 1995 have never seen a kick-ass, mind-blowing music video on MTV (I know, because I check and the caliber has plummetted my friends. Gone are the days of puppets and clay-mation.) Sadly, these kids have never known the joys of a cigarette lighter in a car or even a life without facebook. I'm sure they have no idea who Alanis Morrisette even IS!!! OMG, they probably don't even know who Kurt Cobain is!

Realization - I. Am. Officially. Old.

After a small pity party in my car, I slowly came to terms with my newfound knowledge. I told myself that with age comes discovery of great music. A refinement of what one will grow to embrace and invite in as a part of one's life and soul. When I was 13 I was blissfully ignorant to the greatness of Nina Simone, the Ramones, Phish and David Bowie, among others.

It heartnens me to think that there is infintely more music to discover and to be made. Maybe I'm 'old', but I am certainly not deaf. Far from foiled by the situation with my dead car charger it has encouraged me to unearth my old CD collection and stock my car with old favorites. Reliving my youth is almost more fun the second time around.

Because now I know all the lyrics.

Amputation, Dehydration, Hiking and Hope - 127 Hours, A Review

After seeing the movie '127 Hours', I had one thought.

I must drink copious amounts of water as soon as possible.

The film did leave me with other lasting impressions, most of which I will share with you here. However, if you take nothing else away from this post, please know to bring a large bottle of water with you to the theater.

As trapped hiker Aron Ralston, actor James Franco gives a striking performance where he so convincingly portrays the effects of hopeless dehydration that I thought I might just be dying of thirst during my scant 90 minutes reclining in my cushy chair. Not really. (Kind of.)

In fact, Franco is the main and principal character in the film. At the start of the movie, Franco's Aron Ralston frolics effortlessly through the first twenty minutes of screentime. During this time, everything on screen is subject to his flirtatious and coy nature. He mugs for both his handheld camcorder and digital camera, charms a duo of females he encounters on the trail, and continually skirts the edge of danger.

His dashing smile and endearing quality embue him with a sense of sublime confidence. However, the inevitable happens. His arm becomes pinned to a large boulder, and the clock starts ticking. Aron enters 'survival mode', and the audience takes that journey with him. Grimly introspective 'real-time' moments are puncuated by historical flashbacks with a somewhat disjointed and schizophrenic feeling.

As a viewer, I rooted for Aron to free himself. To defy the odds and cut that damned arm off. Once the amputation became reality on screen, I cringed, buried my face in my popcorn bag and wondered out loud if I would have the fortitude to do the drastic and unthinkable. However as skilled as Franco is, I believe that more could have been done with the script.

Franco does a convincing job of making the dialogue spoken to a rock face enclosure and camcorder ring true, but we never actually witness him fostering a deep human connection. Therefore I felt somewhat unconnected to him. I left feeling more that the character is a unique wonder of the human spirit, like something to be observed in a museum, rather than a lone individual who embodies the strength every human has within them for greatness and survival. The film left me wanting to know more about Ralston's life, and motivated me to click on over to amazon.com after the ending credits and place the book that the movie was based upon in my cart.

So, should you see the movie? In a word - definitely. Franco's raw and lived in performance is worth the price of admission. For young men in Hollywood, I would argue that his talent and versatility is rivaled by few others. For the faint of heart, I would suggest an extra large popcorn to hide your eyes behind.

And, of course, don't forget the water.

Potent Quoteables - Now With Peppermint!

I was idly minding my own business last night, feeding gas into my car when my breath became visible for the first time this season. While I proceeded to make a fool of myself by attempting to create frozen breath smoke rings, the first strains of 'Jingle Bells' found a way through the rest stops PA system. My frozen breath conquests abruptly ceased and the air around my face became still.

OMG - CHRISTMAS!!!

I know, I know. I'm sure I'll be able to hear your loud, not-totally-unfounded protests from here. Those of us that revel in Christmas joy hear it every year. "It's not even Thanksgiving yet! GAH! Why do I have to hear about Christmas already?" To you Christmas-haters I say, "BAH HUMBUG!" Although, this response will probably get you riled up even more as I am coming back at you with a popular Dickensian Christmas insult, but I digress.

What that errant snippet of Jingle Bells got me in the mood to talk about is Christmas movies. In a previous post a few months ago, I hyped my favorite 'quoteable' movies. However, I neglected to consider all of the holiday/Christmas movies that qualify in this category.

Here is where they get their due.

Elf




Quoteable Moment: "Buddy the Elf, What's your favorite color?"

I seriously considered answering my phone like this for awhile, but saying 'Rainey the person' didnt quite have the same ring as 'Buddy the Elf'. Also, I am clearly not Will Ferrell. Second quote in consideration is where Buddy belches for about thirty seconds of screen time, but I don't quite know how to put that inhuman noise into type....

Bad Santa



If you are an adult with a slightly twisted sense of humor, I would place this in the category of Don't Miss. A depraved Santa who drinks, smokes, and commits larceny with the assistance of a foul-mouthed elf meets a roly-poly young kid. Cue bouts of debauchery and redemption.

Quoteable Moment: "Want me to make you some sam-wich-es?" says the kid who constantly offers to make 'Santa' a meal.

A Christmas Story



Quoteable Moment: "You'll shoot your eye out kid!"

Personal Quoteable Moment: I'm a sucker for characters who pronounce things in an unorthodox manner, especially as I then am prompted to use that pronunciation as my new official way to say that word. When the dad does some ogling of the crate that holds the most highly sexualized lamp in cinema history, he coos "Frah-giiii-lay". I urge you all to try out this word at the post office when you ship presents to far away places this year. Fun!

How the Grinch Stole Christmas (1966 TV Version, natch)



Quoteable Moment: "....his heart was two sizes too small."

Scrooged



My favorite 'Christmas Carol' adaptation. Probably because I border on an unhealthy obsession with Bill Murray, but also because the Ghost of Christmas past is a raucous horndog of a fairy, and the Ghost of Christmas Present is a chain-smoking cabbie. Are we seeing a pattern that I'm tickled by breaks with tradtion?

Quoteable Moment: Frank Cross, talking about the Ghost of Christmas Past: "The bitch hit me with a toaster!"

Mixed Nuts



This is my favorite Christmas movie of all time. In a movie that plays more like a stage production, a motley crew of misfits gather in the apartment of a financially strapped suicide hotline on Christmas Eve and hijinks ensue. Steve Martin, Rita Wilson, Juliette Lewis, Anthony LaPaglia, Liev Schreiber, Adam Sandler, and the divine Madeline Kahn round out the cast. And oh yeah, there's an awesome blink-and-you'll-miss-it cameo by Parker Posey and John Stewart.

Quoteable Moment: "Gracie and Felix have turned the dead landlord into a Christmas tree and we're all going down to the boardwalk!"

Relics of the Past

Oh blog world! Can I ever be forgiven for my frequent absences?

I am so sorry for my recent hiatus. I want to thank certain posters for sending me lovely comments and e-mails regarding my whereabouts. Suffice to say that to fill you in on all the sordid (read: relatively boring) details of my life since June would basically be a bullet point list. I don't believe that this type of post would get me back in your good graces. Perhaps later on in future posts. But right now, there's only one thing I want to talk about.

The buried swing set.

Let me step back for one minute and explain. After moving in April, our house had some interesting quirks. Something I never mentioned on this blog was that our backyard was a veritable trash heap of items that were left by the previous tenant.

In the month of April, we hauled away a complete weight set and freestanding pull up bar, four tires, a dilapidated dirt bike, six garbage bags full of various trash, a rusted out iron headboard, two road signs, a mold sodden mattress, three full paint cans, ant-encrusted wallet with ID and credit card and oh dear god so much more. If the previous tenant had been one of the Clampetts, she would have been living in high style.

Spoiler alert. I live in Connecticut, not the alligator backwater of the 1950's deep south. And the negligent biatch who lived in my house before was certainly not a Beverly Hillbilly.

So it came as no surprise to me that while clearing a path for the Wall dog's electric doggie fence I found some more lovely treasure.

Yep. The swing set.

Tromping around in flip flops in the woods is not a good idea. Especially not when you partially impale a flop on a shard of rusted monkey bar. Thankfully the metal only bit the plastic sole, and not my vulnerable flesh. So instead of screaming to the doctor in a tetanus-panic-fear, I stood back and began to yank the offender out of the damp ground. What eventually materialized was a pink and burgundy swing set, complete with requisite slide.

Oddly enough. during my hiatus from blogging, my mind strayed towards the swing set. Once the source of so much joy and adventure, now a forgotten relic exiled beyond my property line. Perhaps someday it will be resurrected, only to be curiously mulled over and quickly reburied.

I don't want the fate of the swing set to befall my blog. If I do nothing, 'Rainey With A Chance of Sunshine' will be relegated to the annals of internet memory, only to be dragged out in tangentially related google searches for....well...for the eternity of mankind. Because that's how the Internet works. Nothing ever dies. See here. Embarrassing? Yes. Makes my point? Also yes.

So here I am. Dragging my somewhat rusty blog out, trying to fill in the gaps and oil the joints to make it functional again. A place where I can continue to play with words, scrape out the crazy from my brain and document it here for all to see and muse over. In a more current and up-to-date fashion.

So as I have too much respect for this blog to let it end up like my high school website, here I am.

If I Only Had A Brain

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Craving = Satisfied

Now that I live out in the boondocks, I have lost many things. The ability to shop for anything at all past 9:30pm, free weekly trash pickup, a delightful sliver of an ocean view, being within walking distance of my sister, and the occasional gang shooting on my front lawn. I didn't say they were all good things, now did I?

Principal among the things that I actually miss is my favorite southern comfort food restaurant. Oooooh gooey baked mac and cheese, collared greens and crispy hot fried chicken.

What do I do when I have a craving? I want to satisfy that bitch ASAP.

My lazy ass 'southern' meal:



boxed mac and cheese + frozen popcorn chicken + quick chopped broccoli = instant deliciousness

I promise my blog will become less like a ghetto version of the food network in upcoming posts.

The End of A Virtual Hiatus. Aka: Is Facebook Starting to Annoy Anyone Else?

Hello glorious blog-world! I'm back! How I've missed you!

My computer and I recently went through some rough times. However, we are both feeling much better today and are ready to team up once again!

During my seperation from my beloved computer, I found that the frequency with which I logged onto facebook decreased significantly. Upon my return, I am starting to think that a little time apart from facebook made my psyche healthier, my step a little bouncier...and dare I say my hair even looked better?

You heard it here first. My love affair with facebook is over.

This does not mean that I am going to go so far as to de-activate my account.

It DOES mean (drumroll please!) that it's time for a rant! Tah-Dah!

The Five Types of People On Facebook That Deserve A Swift and Unexpected Smack Upside the Head:

1) The Insta-Poster: Has technology become so omnipresent that something doesn't feel real until you have posted on facebook about it? In the few times I have been on facebook in the past week it has struck me as very odd and almost heartbreaking that during life-altering moments people I know have taken the time to take a picture of the event and post it as soon as it happened. Why post a picture of you canoodling with your new fiancee at the very spot he proposed, less than five minutes after? Not necessary, and kind of vomit inducing.

My favorite example of the insta-poster: One girl posting while she was IN LABOR. In labor, people. Now, I don't know about you, but I for one am not going to be concentrating on anyone else but myself when I am about to push a human life out of the holiest of orifii. In fact, I would go so far as to assume that my phone or computer would satisfy me much more as something to throw and shatter in that situation than to use in any traditional sense.

2) The Hello/Goodbye-er: These people are the easiest offenders to spot. Anyone whosays 'goodnight facebook' or 'ready to start the day, hello facebook !' immediately falls into that category, and with that deserves to have their rights as a human revoked. When I read that I envision these people giving their television sets big ole smooches when they are about to go to bed, reassuring their warm plastic friends that they will certainly be back tomorrow to watch Walker Texas Ranger reruns, infomercials, Jersey Shore or whatever it is those types of people watch.

3) The 'Gamer': All of the following are now blocked. Vampiremafiawizardfarmcityfuckyouvilles. Thank you.

4) The Righteous Facebooker: Ok now. Facebook is FREE. STOP COMPLAINING ABOUT THEM TAKING AWAY YOUR PRIVACY RIGHTS! Guess what? Google does it ALL THE FUCKING TIME! And they don't tell you they're doing it! If you don't like it, guess what again motherfuckers?!?! STOP USING FACEBOOK. If someone came up to me and was like "Hey, Rain, I'll give you free groceries for life, but I'll have access to what you're buying and when." My response wouldn't be: "I have a RIGHT to those groceries, but hell NO you can't have my information!" (picture me with hands on hips wearing a self-righteous scowl). It would be: "Where have you been all my life?!" (picture me with a radiant smile on my face, excited about saving money so I can spend it on pricey spa treatments)

Lesson learned: Nothing is truly free. But if you have to pay in information instead of cash, sign me up.

5) The Whiny Bitch: How am I associated with so many people who are perpetually unhappy in their lives? No no wait. Scratch that. How am I associated with so many people who feel the need to make me unhappy with how miserable their lives are? Stop it. Maybe if you pried yourself away from facebook for five seconds instead of posting about how lonely/hungry/sick/tired you are and do normal people things like talk to people/eat/see a doctor/sleep, maaaybe you would stop barraging the world with more misery.

Whew. That's out of my system. Happier posts to come.

I Hope It's Not Contagious

The desire to be stoic and avoid the doctor or Western medication at all costs runs in my family. I wonder if it's hereditary? My father consumes massive amounts of fluids and Vitamin C when he has any sort of illness, and my grandmother scoffed at so much as an Advil when she had any sort of malady. Allowing myself to think that I can cure myself with something so small as some carrot juice and zinc supplements is almost magical in it's simplicity.

HOWEVER....

The truth it that I can only hack, wheeze and cough so much before my weakened little mind screams out to seek professional consult.

Running to my favorite doctor is exactly what I did the day after my last post. Apparently I have asthmatic bronchitis. Awesome. I have been on a steady regimen of antibiotics, allergy medicine and multiple inhalers.

Yeah, that's right. Not one, but TWO inhalers. I'll bet you're so jealous. Pause for a minute and think about that super popular kid in your middle school that toted around an inhaler and every so often whipped that puppy out, shook it like a Polaroid picture and took a deep drag. Oh wait. You can't conjure that image? That's because a super popular kid with an inhaler is something that doesn't fucking exist.

Now conjure the realistic image of that dorky kid who regularly hacked up a lung in your Bio class because it was in the basement and his sensitive system couldn't handle the mold so he got transferred to another class and you all laughed at him and pointed when he passed in the hallways.....(much easier to call up that image, right?)...multiply that image by two and you've got me. The medical community really needs to speed up development of a medication that has a hip reputation, like hallucinogens. Chop-chop, medical community!

I now regularly engage in covert missions to sneak to my office during conferences to sip on the sweet powdery relief from my new plastic buddies. Everyone knows. It's almost shameful.

After my days of tiptoe-ing around at work, I want to just veg out on the couch and surf mindlessly around on the inter-web. (Inhalers and an uncontrollable impulse to call it the inter-web, I think the bronchitis came with a heaping side of 'geek'.) But the universe had other plans. It said "oh no no no Miss Rainey, not so fast! Your computer will come down with a deathly illness as well! MuhahahahahHAAAAAA!!!!"

My poor, unsuspecting computer! Is it possible that through my close proximity to my computer I gave it a virus? I am not sure if human-computer contagion is even possible. I ran for my inhaler, trying to treat the computer the only way I knew how. The USB port looked like a natural match for the mouthpiece of the second inhaler, so I attached the plastic device and gave it a life-infusing blast of medicine. It didn't do anything! I briefly toyed with the idea of sharing my antibiotics, but there was no suitably sized outlet. Out of ideas, I panicked and started pressing buttons. Wrong thing to do.

Ok, apparently last thing you want to do when confronted with a computer virus is randomly press buttons. Or force useless medications on your computer. Blame it on the fever. Thankfully Chris is something of a computer whisperer and will be in the process of fixing my computer this weekend.

Until then it's just me and my inhaler. Correction: Inhalers.

Do You Have A Cat Named Garfield?

I sat down on my couch tonight to write a blog post. Guess what? My body has a case of the sniffles and refuses to allow my brain any sort of clarity.

Sooooo you all get my recipe for LASAGNA!!! Enjoy and hopefully my body will have recuperated by tomorrow so that I can finish one of the six posts I started today....



First: boil the lasagna pasta until a little below al dente. Rinse with cold water to stop the cooking. I know rinsing with cold water is bad for nutrients and all, but I don't really eat lasagna for the nutrients so I say rinse away!

Second Component: Filling! This I vary almost every time I make it. I always start by sauteing about 2-3 cloves of garlic in a couple tablespoons of olive oil, and then put in about half of a large diced sweet yellow onion, a packet of frozen spinach, a chopped broccoli crown (including the stem), and mushrooms. Sometimes if I'm feeling craaaazy I'll put in some zucchini, squash or toasted pine nuts, or sometimes ground turkey. I salt and pepper this mixture until it tastes yummy just on its own, and the veggies are still a little firm.

Third Component: Sauce. I usually buy Barilla, but really any sauce is fine. For lasagna my grandmother used to say that you don't really have to make sauce because theres already a ton of other variable fillings in a lasagna, and methinks she's right. I also usually only use one regular sized jar, but I don't like a lot of sauce, so more is good too. More just makes a bigger mess when you eat it though.

Fourth Component: Ricotta. Mmmmmm. Mix one large egg and some dried oregano (I'd say approx 1-2 tablespoons) into one large tub of the ricotta of your choice.

Fifth Component: Shredded Mozzarella cheese. Buy one to two large bags, depending on how much cheese you like.

Sixth Component (only for the top of the lasagna): Wedge of Peccorino Romano or Parmesan Cheese. I prefer the Peccorino because it doesn't go bad for a realllllly long time, and really you don't need the whole wedge for just one lasagna.

Then: LAYER! It's my favorite part! Like a craft project. Put a little sauce to coat the bottom so the lasagna doesn't stick, and then a layer of pasta, layer of ricotta (spread evenly over the pasta with the back of a spoon, not just in dollops), then veggies, sauce (spread evenly again) and mozz cheese. I've found that this layering process makes the least amount of mess, but that's another thing that's open to interpretation. Its gonna taste the same no matter how you layer the thing. Usually its about three layers, and I go right to the top of my baking pan.

The top of the lasagna, I just put a thin layer of sauce and about half a cup of the mozz, or whatevers leftover from the bag, but not enough to cover the sauce. I then shred the Peccorino liberally over the top to complete covering the sauce.

Cover in foil, and bake in the oven at 350 for about 40-45 minutes. Then take the foil off and bake until cheese is golden brown. Yum yum. You've got yourself a lasagna!!!

Potent Quotables

My ridiculous last post did actually happen.

Wow. Drunk blogging equals very interesting. Like a drunk dial only to a much larger audience. I also think I discovered drunk facebooking on Saturday. Not so much a discovery as a realization to keep my schnockered face the hell away from a computer or any electronic devices of any sort while inebriated.

However, I did very much enjoy 'Hot Tub Time Machine'. What an emminently quotable movie! How to know a movie is 'quoteable'? Tip #1: A movie is certainly quotable when you can remember quotes while five Captain and Diets deep.

Tip #2: If you hear people quote dialogue from the movie on the subway. Bonus points if your morning latte involuntarily shoots out of a bodily orifice upon hearing the quote.

Tip #3: Can you have a quote battle with friends? To the death? Oh yes, that movie has it!

The Princess Bride



This entire movie is basically just one gigantic quote. From "Hello, my name is Inigo Montoya, you killed my father, prepare to die." to "I'm not a witch, I'm you're wife!!!" to "As you wish" this movie is a pantheon of word gold.

Ultimate quotable moment: "MAWWWAGHHHGE. Mawaghge is woht bwings usss togebber todhaaaaay." Alright. Admittedly this quote is truly only a quote because of the freaky priests sublime speech impediment, but it is just oodles of fun to say. Plus, I have actually heard people say this, in public at really odd moments. So this quote wins.

The Breakfast Club



Ultimate quotable moment: "Does Barry Manilow know that you raid his wardrobe?"

Pulp Fiction



Ultimate quotable moment: "SAY WHAT AGAIN MOTHERFUCKER!!!"

My personal quotable moment: When the Wolf (motherfucking Harvey Keitel!) steps in and takes action. "Pretty please, with sugar on top. Clean the fuckin' car."

Anchorman



Ultimate quotable moment: Ok, so it's a toss up because both of these quotes fall out of my mouth on a weekly if not daily basis. "I love lamp." and "Milk was a bad choice!!!"

Wonder Boys



Perhaps not the most well known movie, but one of my personal favorites. If you haven't seen it I highly suggest that you shuffle it up to the top of your Netfix queue if you like any of the following: A perpetually stoned Michael Douglas, transvestites, pink fuzzy robes, greenhouses, Robert Downey Jr, women named Oola, and/or literature. And, oh yeah, it's super quoteable. Thank me later.

Ultimate quoteable moment: James Leer: Now, that is a big trunk. It holds a tuba, a suitcase, a dead dog, and a garment bag almost perfectly.
Grady Tripp: That's just what they used to say in the ads.

The Big Lebowski



Ultimate quoteable moment/quote for any occasion, anywhere, anytime: "The dude abides."

Better Read This Before I Think Twice And Delete This Post.....

Ok, so I am a bit tipsy, and I am a bit motivated to blog.

My electronically inclined boyfriend refuses to show me how to drunk vlog, so this is what y'all get I suppose.

A rambling on why 'Hot Tub Time Machine' is WAY better than the remake of 'Death at a Funeral'.

Yep folks, drunk bOGLglging has never been so boring. Except for the typos which I refuse ot correctt.

From now on refuse fo correcrt.

I was trying to be dilligent aboyt correcting the imperfections, but the Wall-dog has lodged himself in my lap, making that almost physically impossible without help.

SO. Here I am, having watched two movies tonight. Which is more superior? HOT TUB TIME MACHINE. GO SEE IT.

Then forget you read this drunk en post.

Thanks for your patience.

Impersonal Convienience

How I love self check out.



I am slightly tired today, having carted the less than excited Wall-dog to his last obedience training. Our recent move and travel during rush hour made the trip quite a process, but we have a blue ribbon and a chewy toy to show for it!

After returning from the almost four hour excursion for a one hour session, I had to nip to the grocery store to pick up a few essentials.

- 1 1/2 lbs of fresh salmon for dinner (I had all the other makings)
- package of hair ties
- 3 energy save lightbulbs
- package of condoms
- 1/2 gallon milk

Now, I thought about my mish mash of items as I meandered sleepily up to the register. My mind told me that I am very lucky to have mastered the beast of the self checkout, and that no one is more grateful than I that it exists. Not only am I spared other people man handling my goods, but I also am not forced to go through the paces of making small chit chat with the kid I used to babysit for in high school as he eyes my dubious assortment of purchases.

As the waves of relief washed over me like a peaceful ocean, I realized that moving back to my home town may have made me more jaded. More appreciative of automatons who do my bidding with no pleasantries or judging required. Am I a horrible person? Way gone are the days of being all pally with Mr. Hunter the butcher and asking him for his wifey's recipe for lamb stew.

Now it seems that humans just want to scan their swill while taking orders from a electronic lady-voice who sounds pissed as hell that she has to live in that machine and announce that you've just scanned a 12 pack of condoms.

Screw Apples

If researchers have a say, you could soon be hallucinating your way to better health.

"Scientists are taking a new look at hallucinogens, which became taboo among regulators after enthusiasts like Timothy Leary promoted them in the 1960s with the slogan “Turn on, tune in, drop out.” Now, using rigorous protocols and safeguards, scientists have won permission to study once again the drugs’ potential for treating mental problems and illuminating the nature of consciousness."- New York Times, front page article 4/12/10

Rexella would certainly not approve.

For me though, the jury's still out.

Having lived a past life as a satisfied and delighted consumer of hallucinogens, and a present life as a substance abuse counselor, I feel conflicted as to what outcomes I would ideally like this research to produce.

The 'Counselor' Thinks...
My mind immediately darts to and scans the comparison of hallucinogens to marijuana as a potential medicinal substance.

At the agency I toil for, we do not currently test for THC on our toxicology panel. Why? It's hella expensive, THC stays in the system for-ev-er, and we are far more concerned about substances that can actively kill or literally physically debiliate an individual, which (surpriiiise!) marijuana does not.

Also, the apparent slow and steady legalization (read: legislative indifference)of marijuana as both a medicinal and recreational substance is definitely of note. (You can find an enlightening recent article regarding this state of the Union here at the Economist.) At the agency I work for, we medicate all opiate-dependent clients with a medication called methadone*.

Now - just like with marijuana, some people take advantage of this medication, some don't. Although it's prescribed purpose is not the same. For some methadone is a 'miracle' medication that can bring those individuals in the throes of addiction back from a lifetime in the judicial and state systems. But, even those who take it and benefit from it's intended purpose are conflicted about taking it on a regular basis. Like my grandmother with Advil, some people are wary about taking something, anything that will alter their chemistry, even if it is basically inert and assists them in living a more productive life.

What might people think about a mind altering medication? Like hallucinogens? Who would be first in line? Would people who have never walked the line and used any substances even want to take it? Would it only be for those who want to work the system to get legal grade hallucinogens?

I give up. There are too many variables as the counselor. I'm sitting here, head spinning like Linda Blair from the Exorcist. Pea soup is threatening to spew out of my face at any minute, so lets go to a happier place.

The 'Consumer' Thinks:
Young Rainey sobs at the inherent beauty of disintegrating fall leaves in the dewy dirt as she stands listening to the trunk of a grand, statuesque oak tree. She breaths in and out. In and out. In and in and in and out. Feels at one with the world. She decides to bathe herself with the leaves and laughs with joy at how everything seems as one. Laughs to hear her laughter. Gets 'stuck' in her head and is rescued by her beloved friend stretching out to offer a piece of sticky crystalized ginger. Oh goodness. It is like a universe dancing on her taste buds....

Safe to say that 'Consumer' Rainey is all for hallucinogens becoming a bigger part of our lives.

Thank you for sticking with this rambling post. And be assured I was on no hallucinogens while creating it. White wine on the other hand is another story...


*Please feel free to ask me questions at any time about methadone, because it is quite misunderstood in our society and I would like to educate and be a conduit for decreasing undeserved negative stigma wherever possible.

Don't Drink the Kool Aid....

I awoke with a start to this woman on my TV.



Her cloyingly soft and lilting voice was speaking to me about the avian flu, and how I could prevent it by bringing Jesus Christ into my heart. Or something. I'm half awake.

Since I have been blessed with the miracle that is a DVR (thank you Jesus!) I was able to rewind the part where she stared deep into my soul and informed me that if I pray a certain prayer I'll be forgiven for EVERYTHING! "Drugs, alcohol, promiscuity as far as sex is concerned!"

What other kind of promiscuity is there lady?! And how does this woman know what I need to be forgiven for? Creepy.

To tell the truth, for the first few minutes I thought I had fallen asleep to Adult Swim, and this was some new comic sketch segue. I mean, come on people. The womans name is REXELLA VAN IMPE!

It's all the more facinating because this shit is for real.

More on this tomorrow. Unless I've been saved by Christ.

According to Rexella salvation only costs $24.95.

Nostalgia and the Lonely Chiquita

In the old apartment, I used to collect stickers from produce and showcase them on my cabinets for all to see. 'See! I eat a lot of vegetables and fruit! I am healthy! And the best cook ever!'

I suppose those thoughts are a bit of a stretch. Basically I just liked them because I thought they looked cool. It was a bitch to scrape all those fuckers off when we left the apartment, but lookie what we have here:



A potential love affair on my kitchen cabinet! Now, I'd be lying if I said that I didn't purposefully place them in close proximity to one another. I was trying to hook a girl up! That Squash is basically asking for it. Ms. Chiquita, with her come hither eyes and perfectly coiffed hair gazes up at Squash expectantly in all his big-lipped glory.

I know, I know what you're thinking. He doesn't look too excited about hooking up with hottie Ms. Chiquita, but there you'd be wrong.

Can you imagine banana squash hybrid babies? I would call it a squanana.

It Shocks and Boils...

I danced into my door two days ago, my poor bladder a victim of a new commute and unexpected traffic.

I sat down to...ya know...do my business. Then I stretched my arm behind me to retrieve a couple squares.

ZZzzzZBTbtzzzZZZZZBTBAZZAzattt

Gaaahhh!!! I got shocked with my pants down! And not in a good way. Most definitely not in a good way.

What the fuck TP dispenser?! What did I ever do to you? Fucking ouch! It felt like I had inserted my finger into a live electrical socket (and yes, I have done that before). At the most vulnerable of places, I was caught with some now-frizzy hair and an intense fear of an inanimate object with which I now needed to coexist peacefully and interact with on a quite regular basis.

I tentatively tapped the dispenser again, because I'm a daredevil like that.

Nothing. Untrusting fingertips met cool metal.

Tap.

Nothing.

Taptap.

Nothingnothing.

So I went about my day. Convinced myself that it was nothing. Perchance it was a bit of static electricity or a fluke brought about by a smidge too much road rage. I was solid in my convictions until my boyfriend called me at work the next day.

Chris: "Whatever you do, do NOT touch the dispenser in the bathroom."
Me: "Oh! Yeah! Did I tell you it bit me last night?"
Chris: "What are you rambling about woman? There are 500 volts of electricity running through that shit and if you touch it while standing in water you. will. die."
Me: "AHHHHH!"

Can you imagine if Chris had come home and found me lying unconscious, pale as a ghost, drool pooled on the tile below the porcelain throne? What the hell would have gone through his mind?! Probably something along the lines of "Oh, shit, I guess she was a cocaine fiend all along" or "Was she eating a peanut butter sandwich?".

We had contractors in the house sheet rocking our ceiling and for some reason I have yet to ascertain they hooked up a shock-detecto-meter (I think that's the technical term) to the little, seemingly innocuous TP dispenser. They must've been in for a surprise when the needle frantically jumped like a shellacked Kardashian to the papparazzo. Apparently the dumbass who had installed the thing had ratcheted in a metal screw directly into a highly charged electrical wire. How this mystery person did not shock himself into oblivion is beyond my scope of comprehension.

Chris took some of our leftover bubble wrap and cushioned the offending bathroom appliance from stupid hands and the ever curious Wall-dog nose. Today, an electrican came, and COULDN'T FIND WHERE THE WIRE GOES TO!!!

Ah, new house. Methinks you are going to be a troublemaker.

Extra Bathroom Mishap Bonus!!!
My lovely cousin just moved into a renovated house in which the brilliant plumber hooked up the hot water to her guest toilet. This resulted in a toilet bowl full of a roiling, boiling, steamy mess. I'd like to think that the plumber was not so much a bloody moron as he was an avid fan of pasta.

Homeless Person Wins Blog Awards, News at Eleven

Oh how I've missed you blog-o-sphere!

My absence is explained thusly: To complete our move, my boyfriend and I meticulously packed up all of our worldly possessions last Saturday night. We then headed over to our new house, (owned by my boyfriends family...that is a way long story that would be better explained in its own post) 40 miles away in the ol' U-Haul. The U-Haul rattled up the driveway with us in eager anticipation to unpack and go about making the house our new home.

But wait. What were our eager eyes greeted with when we arrived?

The fucking asshole bitch who lived in the house HADN'T MOVED OUT yet!!! Her two deadbeat twenty-something sons were sitting contentedly on the floor playing video games while she was out at the bar drinking. We stood, freezing in the driveway as her son explained to us that they wouldn't be out until the 'end of the month'. Even though she hadn't paid rent for the past two months. Yeah, real nice. Welcome home.

Therefore, over the past week I have lived a transient, Internet-less existence, crashing from place to place as my boyfriend and I tried in vain to tie up loose ends at the old apartment and continue work on starting up his business.

Let's just say the rest of the week didn't go well...it was pretty awful actually.

Except for my ray of sunshine. My two blog awards!

First, the Beautiful Blogger Award! From my lovely Jordan FACE.

Second, the Oh, My Blog! Award! From the amazing TB at Year 31.

Now, not that I don't love love love the Beautiful Blogger award, but I am truly excited about the acceptance terms of TB's OMB! Award, and would like to award this coveted digital green square to as many bloggers as possible to spread the love.

Side note: If anyone is super interested in the 'seven things' that I was supposed to post as acceptance for the Beautiful Blogger award, I will say this. I could post a list of things like "I really love peanut M&M's!" (I do, by the way) But then people may not be interested in what I think is interesting about myself....also, I blog about randomness in my life all the time. The way for me to address this is if any of you lovely readers truly want to know something about little old me, post it in the comments or e-mail me and I will answer honestly and in detail in a subsequent post. I promise.

So, acceptance terms for OMB! are stated thusly:

1. Get really excited that you got the coolest award EVER.

2. Choose ONE of the following options for accepting the OMB! award:

(a) Get really drunk and blog for 15 minutes straight, or for as long as you can focus.

(b) Write about your most embarrassing moment.

(c) Write a "Soundtrack of your childhood" blog. (click here for an example)

(d) Make your next blog a "vlog", or video blog. Basically, you talking to the camera about whatever.

(e) Take a picture of yourself first thing in the morning, before you do anything else (makeup, brush hair, pee, etc.) and post it.

3. Pass the award on to at least three, but preferably more, awesome bloggers like yourself. Don't forget to tell them (duh).


Acceptance:

As I have been homeless over the past week, my only real option here was e. As I have already demonstrated a complete lack of vanity in previous posts, I saw it only befitting to post some gems of me here as a preliminary acceptance of the award. Stay tuned for possible drunk vlogging in the future.


Taken via iPhone circa third day of homelessness. I actually didn't think I looked bad enough in this picture, so I then decided to do this....


You're welcome.

Pass the torch:

Yaaaaay! I love love love this part! I am always one of those freaks at Christmas that loves to watch people open my carefully selected presents more than actually getting presents myself. So 'trumpet sound':

1) DJ Buttaskotch at A Cream Filled Blog! This blog is fantastically random and laugh out loud funny. And how could I not love someone who asks Yahoo Answers how long it takes to get from Philly to Narnia via train?

2) Mr. Apron at My Masonic Apron. This guy had me hooked from the first post I read. He has a witty, often dry and always distinctive voice that comes through crystal clear in print with little or no help from any visual aids. Not an easy feat.

3) Billy at "Why?", "How?", and other abstract questions. How could I not adore and want to follow to the ends of the earth someone who also goes by the moniker of Organic Meatbag. Yes, I am friends with a meatbag and loving it! I want to steal his joyous and captivating writing style and make it my own.

4) Wow, that was Awkward at It Was Dark, Stormy and I Lost My Serial Comma Hysterical and well written, this dude has it all.

5) David at I've Never Been Good With Titles! This guy blogs with style. He posts lots of awesome videos too, which is good for the ADD side of my noggin.

6) Amanda at Tales From The Chicken Coop: A day in the life of Mrs. Chicken This chicky is so funny and basically I just want to hang out with her and have random adventures on a regular basis. Too bad she lives 3000 miles away from me. Oh well.

7) Crazy Brunette at One Crazy Brunette Chick. This girl says and does everything that the little party-girl in my head screams at me all day long. She is unflinchingly honest, brassy and bold. Not wanting to dictate the terms of her acceptance of this award...but I would like to go on the record saying that I would absolutely adore to see a drunk blog come from this Brunette.

Ok, so I apologize for this ridiculously long blog. Now that I finally have a home and glorious internet, you can expect more coherent posts that are also more reader friendly in brevity.

It's A Good Day For Imaginary Birthday Gifts

Today was a good day in Rainey-land.

First, I got an award! From one of the true loves of my life, Jordan at Now If You'll Just Turn Your Kaleidoscope... Thanks FACE! More to come on this award in a later post. It comes with rules and such!

Secondly, I snuck out of work a half hour early. (Actually, revise that. I blatantly left. There's really no such thing as a 'break' when you work at a methadone clinic, I gotta take em where I can get em.) No matter. There is nothing like the deliciously naughty feeling of leaving work before your shift is over, and peeking at the clock an hour later to realize that you would just be getting home NOW. I had time to get a milkshake, moving boxes and take the Wall-dog out on a walk all before I would have been expected home. How's that for productivity?

Thirdly relates to firstly. Today is Jordan's birthday! Yay! I am realizing that she didn't write about this on her blog and possibly does not anyone to know that it is her birthday in bloggerville, but too bad. I thought of this post a week ago and I'm not letting it go to waste.

Without further adieu:
Birthday Presents I Would Totally Get You If I Was ______

1) If I Was...overly practical. Socks. Obviously. Or a million phone chargers for when your cat gnaws the ones you have to shreds.

2) If I Was...impractical and really really wealthy. I would install a helipad in your apartment complex for your non-existent helicopter. Preferably with an added impracticality bonus of a tennis court, because you don't play tennis.



3) If I Was...super unique and capable of doing illegal (but great) things. I would legally change your first name to a (kinda) phonetic spelling: Uh-mand-uh. Uhmanduh. Alternative pronounciation 'Hoooo-Manh-Dooo-Ahhhh'.

4) If I Was...capable of kidnapping someone with six pack abs and diesel arms then carting his beautiful body half way across the world:



5) If I Was...drunkenly stumbling through the streets of Niagara Falls. I would bestow upon you a bucket o' drunk. Oh, wait. We've done that.

6) If I Was...someone with a dissociative idenity disorder. Well, I would imagine that would probably go something like this:

Me: "Meh. It's a birthday again. Meh. I don't know what to do."
Me: "I'm gonna get her a Snuggie! She'll looooovveee a Snuggie! It's so waaarm and comfortable and snuggly and warm and....!"
Me: "SHUT UP MOTHERFUCKERS! I AM THE BEST! I KNOW WHAT TO DO!"
Me: "I wanna get an elephant! But not for her, for me."

Clearly nothing would ever get done if I had multiple personalities.

Happy Birthday my FACE!

Hungry? Ask Google.

Here I sit among an ever towering skyline of boxes, so thoroughly exhausted that I'm not even sure of what I want to eat.

Of course my technologically savvy brain decided that the practical (aka: terribly lazy) thing to do would be to ask google for the answer. I've had many a satisfying experience entrusting google with important (and also sometimes quite trivial) decisions before, so I figured 'what the hey, I'll give it a whirl'. What I got was a Mad-Libs mash up of a 'hole in the bucket' type conversation I have with my boyfriend every single day:

The What-Do-You-Want-For-Dinner I-Don't-Know-What-Do-You-Want? Dialog Generator Results:
Erin: So, what do you want to eat?
Christian: I don't know what do you want to eat?
Erin: I guess I'm not really that hungry.
Christian: Yeah, me neither.
Erin: How does pasta sound?
Christian: Hmm, we have that a lot.
Erin: yeah.
Christian: So you're really not hungry?
Erin: Well, I could probably eat something.
Christian: Like what?
Erin: Just about anything, really.
Christian: How about mayo?
Erin: Yeah, I guess that's ok.
Christian: I don't know now.
Erin: You don't know? Come on.
Christian: We could order Chinese.
Erin: You're too lazy to go out and get food?
Christian: No, I guess not. Where do you want to go?
Erin: I was thinking that new pasta place.
Christian: That's all the way downtown!
Erin: It's supposed to be good.
Christian: I guess I'm just not in the mood.
Erin: Well, what are you in the mood for?
Christian: You said just about anything.
Erin: Anything but pasta.
Christian: You suggested that earlier.
Erin: I did? hmmm.
Christian: I always feel like mayo, but we never go.
Erin: That's fine..
Christian: I guess I'm just not in the mood.
Erin: Well, I could probably eat something.
Christian: We could order Chinese.
Erin: yeah.
Christian: You said just about anything.
Erin: I was thinking that new pasta place.
Christian: You suggested that earlier.
Erin: We could flip for it.
Christian: What are we arguing over?
Erin: pasta or hamburgers.
Christian: heads.
Erin: I don't have a quarter.
Christian: mayo.
Erin: Yeah, I guess that's ok.
Christian: Let's get a pizza.
Erin: Yeah, ok.
Christian: What's your favorite number?
Erin: 7.

You (yes you!) can visit this hella random website here. The results don't really vary that much, but stumbling upon this site did so delight my sleepy little mind that I wanted to share it with the world!

I am still sitting here hungry but now I can add confused to my cornicopia of moving-induced emotions. I think I'm gonna try searching yahoo instead.

Oh, and for the record I would never ever ever in a million years eat mayo. I can confidently say if it was between eating mayo or never eating again, I would choose slowly starving to my eventual demise. I don't care what anyone says, I cannot place any trust in an amorphous blob of fat that wobbles unpredictably and may very well be an alien life form planning a hostile takeover of my beloved intestinal tract.

Why Can't My Car Have A Flux Capacitor Instead?

So I have to apologize for yesterdays post.

It was most definitely the product of too little sleep, and too much driving.

I have gotten far more sleep since the horrific mouse post debacle, but have done WAY more driving than I would care to admit. More driving on the docket for today as I slowly continue to cart massive amounts of STUFF from Old Apartment* to New House.

Last night as I drove back from New House at 3:30am, I was looking at the speedometer on the car:

EXHIBIT A:


(Yes, I'm a total daredevil, picturephoning while driving at speeds of 67mph!)
Notice how fast I'm going? Now, notice what top speed the little gauge allows for. That's right. 150mph. That is hella fast.

Where does Honda think I'm going? The Autobahn?! Could this car even really get UP to speeds of 150mph? And then I remembered, that in the past I have tempted fate and tested the tantalizing limits of the speed-dial. "To dreeeeam the impossible dreeeeeam!!!"

But, I must tell you. I did it in this:



Oh yes my friends. That is a bright-yellow New Beetle. The car my little sixteen year old self learned to drive in.

I would take the car to and from work, 25 minutes away. As I worked as a waitress, I often left work at late night hours and would have the road to myself when I left. That's when I decided I was a Nascar racer.

I would slowly increase the pressure on the gas pedal, the car beginning to wobble at around 88mph. Doc Brown was wrong, there was no flash. I didn't make it back in time. However, the Beetle wasn't equipped with a flux capacitor so I guess that was too much to wish for.

A crazy singing noise coming from a combination of the whipping winds and the engine at 104mph. "WooooooHeeeeeeeAhhhhOOohhhhhIIIIIAmmmmmFlyyyyiinngggIIIICaaannnn'tStooooppppppppppp!!!"

Violent shaking and a knocking noise from the engine at 117mph. Even at the immortal age of sixteen, I knew that was enough. Well, besides that, the car wouldn't go any faster. I would slow the car down, probably a little too quickly weaving dangerously in and out of lanes. It's quite amazing that I never got snagged by a cop. Maybe at speeds of 117mph a car becomes invisible? That must be it.

Quite frequently I would make the 25 minute trip home from work in 12 minutes. But even though I flew close to the sun, I never made it to the end of the speedometer. I don't think I ever will. Especially not with a car full of my prized possessions, such as my juicer and lei collection.

* As I typed that, I got a flash of the Barenaked Ladie song 'Old Apartment'. Note to self: Must remember to listen to that song in self-indulgent nostalgia trip prior to completely moving....

To Avoid Any Confusion, I Use A Plastic Mouse

My, my, now what do we see here?

I am exhausted, as today Chris and I started the arduous process of schlepping (did I spell that right?) all our worldly possessions from point A to point B. Thats right kids, time to move.

Also time to listen to radio at 5am and be thinking you heard things because the guy on the airwaves just said that people are making computer mice out of REAL, LIVE MICE.

My heart screamed out to me. "No, that can't be true!"

But my brain, no matter how tired knew better and googled that ridiculousness when I got home.

The fabulous people at instructables.com have provided any aspiring taxidermist/murderer with detailed and gruesome instructions.

I wonder what will happen to them in hell....

Snippets of Life at the Methadone Clinic: Coffee, Frankenberry and Jail TIme

Scene One:

I come in to work this morning and there is a message on my voice mail from a client that has just been recently released from jail. I call her back immediately. thinking that she is going to be upset and frantic because she had been arrested in the middle of an important phase of treatment.

Me: "Hey lady! I got your message. How you holding up?"
'Lady'*: "I got bailed out this morning. I'm looking to get into this other program now, but I wanted to touch base with you."
Me(slightly baffled at Lady's chipper tone of voice): "Oh, okay? Uhmmmmm....do you need any numbers?"
Lady: "Yeah, maybe one for a detox. They kept me on my medication in jail, and I loved that they had coffee. It was fun."
Me(fighting the urge to ask if Lady is, at this moment, high): "Fun, hmm?"
Lady: "Well, you know, not fun fun, but coffee always makes everything better."

Damn. She had me there. Personally I've never been to jail so I have no clue. I have however consumed copious amounts of coffee, so I do know that it has the amazing ability to make the world shine brighter.

However, I really couldnt tell you how much coffee I would have to consume to make it 'fun' to wear an orange jumpsuit or take a shit in a miniature room full of other people. Probably enough to make me hallucinate an alternate reality where those things weren't happening.


Scene Two:

After my 'Lucky Charms' themed post yesterday, it was only fitting that childrens cereal came to find me again today.

My co-worker Deb came into my office and we started talking about one of our supervisors in the clinic. Now, let me explain for one second. My supervisor is a fabulously calm, kind, centered and positive thinking man. He also happens to be bald, has very large moony eyes and a crooked smile.

Deb told me that the clients were referring to our supervisor as 'Frankenberry'. She made me look it up on Google.



Can you imagine Frankenberry helping you through a bad trip? Interacting with him when you had a hangover? Bringing your mom to hash through the countless times you stole a C-Note from her purse to go cop in New York City? I would never look at cereal the same again.



*Names and identifying features of my clients will ALWAYS be changed to protect anonymity. For all you people know, this could be a tranny granny from Cincinatti.

Lucky Charms and Leprechauns: Will We Ever Find Out What's At The End of the Rainbow??

Today has me wondering about my storied history with leprechauns.

Thats right. I just said 'storied'. I'm serious about this leprechaun business.

Where to start? Okay, how about the summer of 1989? Little Rainey is six years old, taking an art class. Her impressionable little mind has the Lucky Charms theme song running on a repeat loop. "Hearts, stars and rainbows! Clovers and balloons!" The red balloon has just been added to the roster of her favorite cereal (who are we kidding, her favorite marshmallows), and she scribbles out a crude picture of little Lucky the leprechaun with a pot of his famed charms. Marketing companies everywhere rejoiced in the success of the updated cereal jingle.

From what I recall, I was quite obsessed with finding this pot of...well...basically randomness. Those were back in the days where my silly little mind was happy with the concept of a large pot of colorful, pleasantly shaped objects guarded by a miniature man in a green suit. Now I say, "Hearts stars and rainbows?" No way. Gimmie the cash and jewels. And the little man? Probably a pedophile. Unfortunately the passage of time has made me greedy and pessimistic.

Anyways, back to unimpressionable little me. I would fervently seek the skies for rainbows during recess. When I did happen to spot one, I would run full tilt until I ran out of playground space. Foiled by the elementary school fence time and time again!

What I really wanted to find was this:



Back in reality what I actually found was some patchy grass at the end of a sad soccer field next to a highway. So, I didn't think about the leprechaun much until I moved to Dublin for a semester in college.

During my time in Dublin, I drank a lot of beer, ate a lot of cheese, and kissed a lot of Irish boys. I dated one particular Irish boy named Eoghan for a portion of my time there, and no one was more shocked than I when he told me that he had leprechauns living in his backyard.

Eoghan: "The older people in the family told us not to go in the backyard as children because the leprechauns would come and get us."
Me (spit-taking some Smithwicks): Whaaat?! Buwhahahahahaha!!!!

Someone my age still believed in leprechauns?! For reals? It seemed so far fetched and ridiculous to me that it's one of the few things I still remember of Dublin despite my self-induced 3 month long Smithwicks-and-Irish-cheddar haze.

In all reality, I don't think of leprechauns often. All of these memories didn't come rushing to me until today when I went to Subway with a co-worker. As we stood in line, my co-worker pointed out a very tiny man in a green-ish tinted suit and mouthed 'elves' to me.

I wonder what we would have found if we followed him?

Meh, probably just a restraining order.

Ramblings Brought On By A Bought of Exhaustion

Well of course the inevitable happened.

I got close to zero sleep last night. If I'm generous to myself I would say I got two and a half hours of sleep. Now, to be clear, I am not saying this with an air of superiority or bragging like I used to do all the time in college. Not even in the 'I just discovered the magical powers of coffee and I am going to ride this train until I collapse motherfuckers!' This is more in the 'I'm bleary eyed and still have creases on my face from the pillow as I walk out the door, but people are waiting on me to go to a really important meeting at another agency' way.

Now when faced with the situation of having to get up early as a semi-adult, why the hell does it always involve me getting dressed up for some reason? I either have to go to a wedding (fun!), funeral (can't even be placed near a category meaning 'fun' or any derivative thereof), meeting (NOT FUN), or job interview (jangles the ol' anxiety nerve, so not fun either).

Of course, trying to be a sensible adult I placed my clothing out the night before so that I would have something all picked out and raring to go when I got out of the shower.

My mistake was not picking out my shoes. And this is where exhaustion said "I think you're going to make some really crazy choices today!"

Between stylish matching rainboots (in consideration due to recent flooding in the area) and Mary Jane stiletto-like heels, what did I select? Oh, that would be the stiletto. Why? I dont know. Here is a picture comparsion of the two shoes:



You can clearly see that this choice was not made by a sane human being. Especially not one that values dry feet.


Next crazy choice. Impulsively purchasing a coffee mug at Starbucks.



Methinks this was a good and sane choice. Score one for exhaustion.



Last crazy choice was perhaps to NOT take this sign that has been lying on the ground on my street since hurricane-force winds knocked it off the hinges three days ago:



You see, even my dog is looking at me like 'Why don't you just take it??!!"


But, alas. At this point my exhaustion became too much for me and I couldn't even muster the energy to carry the sign home. Not sure what I would do with it.

If it's still there in the morning perhaps I will reconsider.

I'm Cranky And Googly Today. Aka: I F#$%ING HATE Daylight Savings Time!!!

It's that time of year again. Something was stolen from me. I feel violated. I feel cheated, angry, tired and most of all cranky.

This is the day that the powers that be just snip an hour away from us at 2AM (when most people are presumably sleeping, but being nocturnal I am usually not) and the clock rolls from 1:59AM to 3:00AM.

Where the hell's my hour?! It's just gone. Vanished. It's not like those zillions of times where you say 'I want those one/two/three/etc hour(s) of my life back'! For example when you see a really bad movie, or that time when you were stuck on the subway for an hour next to a man that smelled like cheese and couldn't stop scratching himself. At least you would have a damned story to tell after that hour!

Last night I dolefully watched as the clock rolled forward and sealed my terrible fate for the next week.

Because my friends, I do not only get tired and cranky when Daylight Savings Time approaches. No, no. I get googly.

Let me explain. I have a condition called 'strabismus', which causes my eyes to focus differently instead of together. As a result, I cannot see 3-D (so sad), and have relatively poor depth perception when dealing with finite objects. Usually when I am not super stressed, suffering from exhaustion, inebriated or a combination of the three, my eyes can focus together thanks to a team of talented surgeons that have operated on me several times during my 26 years of life. But not on Daylight Savings. And today the googly eye was the cause of horror in not only my life, but the lives of others.

To stave off some of the DST crankiness, I went to go get my eyebrows done. At one point I thought the adorable Korean lady sculpting my brows had finished, and I looked up and around at the room. Adorable lady gasps: "Your EYES!!!".

This is likely what she saw:

I made this image smaller so as to not horrify you dear reader or any small children or pets you may have in the room. It's the GOOGLY EYE! Brought to you courtesy of sleep deprivation.

Thanks Daylight Savings. I hope the fucking farmers are happy. I am not.

Curious Grocery Frog

Sometimes I like to wonder about inanimate objects....

Lone plastic frog on the floor of the grocery store. At midnight. Where did he come from? Where was he going? Why is he so damned happy?

I'll never find out because I just snapped a picture of him and went on my merry way to get a frozen pizza.

Also, plastic frogs can't talk.

You Have Strange Teeth

Last night I had a conversation that I had never thought of having in my whole life.

I overheard my boyfriend Chris ordering something on the phone, and in doing so he needed to give a confirmation code that consisted of letters and numbers. He was using male names to get the point efficiently accross.

"B as in Brian, G as in Gary, C as in Chris, G as in Gary...."

You get the (quite boring) picture.

We then had a forgettable conversation that basically consisted of me saying that I usually get stuck when I need to do something like that. I feel like I am totally on the spot to come up with words that not only sound like no other word, but also are somewhat interesting. What happens is that I stumble through words like 'E as in Elephant' or 'U as in Umbrella'. Generally I end up sounding like a kindergarten teacher with an awkward stutter. (Eeeeee.....Elllllll....Ellllaaaappphaaant? Elephant. E as in Elephant! Yes, also the seventh letter of that confirmation code.)

As this ridiculous issue becomes more and more of a nuisance in my life, I suppose I'll just have to come up with some sort of system like the Armed Forces utilizes. Maybe I could memorize it. I could smartly sound off on words such as Alpha! Bravo! Charlie! My favorite (and, yeah, I totally googled that shit) is W as in Whiskey. Whiskey? Really? Do we really want our troops screaming about whiskey when life and death could potentially be on the line? Do I really want to say Whiskey when confirming a code in my office?

Maybe it's because I am repulsed by whiskey. I can almost definitely say that if it was V as in Vodka I would be whistling a different tune.

But I digress.

I didn't think about my personal representative-word alphabet again. Until I came home today.

Chris was laughing in front of the computer, and showed me an e-mail of another confirmation number on his computer screen. In speaking to a representative on the phone today, he blurted out "YHSL.....as in You Have Strange Teeth".


I couldn't stop laughing. How ingenious! Just use standout sentences! Thankfully the woman on the other end of the line did not in fact have strange teeth and was quite amused instead of enraged, which I imagine someone who actually did have dental problems would be. Or all paranoid, like, WHY ARE YOU WATCHING ME??

I am totally adopting a new system.

A Post in Which I Liken Soccer Moms Taking Their Children to Practice to Me Bringing My Dog to Obedience Training

Before I get started on my new writing endeavor, I would like to take this time to tell the tale of tonight.

The Wall dog and I went to training class.

And I got a small but very palpable glimpse of what I might be like as a working mother. Yikes.

5:15pm: Need to leave work. Needed to leave work 15 minutes ago. Client calls me about being medicated early tomorrow. Shit. Need to get approval from a Coordinator.

5:17pm: Get approval. Call front desk to confirm, call client. Start to walk towards the mail room to clock out. Stopped by client with some crazy crisis. Can't stop. Then he mentions one of a few magic words that always makes me halt in my tracks. I stop. Double shit.

5:22pm: Another counselor walks by and I extract myself from the conversation saying that I will see this client tomorrow.

5:23pm: Get stopped by creepy and inappropriate fellow counselor who tries to give me a light-up rose from Valentines Day. I am too tired and too much in a rush to be polite, so I say "What the hell would I do with that?" Well, truth be told, first I asked if it was candy. It wasn't. So I got snippy.

5:25pm: Try to slip out door to only get approached by a client in the parking lot who missed his appointment today. He approaches me saying "I have pneumonia, but I'll see you tomorrow." I quickly back away and tell him 'okay' while making a mental note to make sure to have Lysol stocked in my office tomorrow.

5:30pm-5:55pm: Get in car. Race home. Get home.

6:00pm: Say hi to Wallster. Get together his stuff while quickly doing a few training exercises from last week. It is at this point that I have the sinking feeling that A) We are going to be late and B) Ask myself if this is what working moms feel when faced with the dreaded after school activity.

6:10pm - 6:40pm: Drive while practicing 'down' at red lights. Not only am I negligent for not having arrived home in time to help him practice his homework, but I am also recklessly endangering him by trying to make up for that negligence by multi-tasking while negotiating rush hour traffic. Not exactly quality time.

6:45pm: Walk into training class 15 minutes late. Seven pairs of eyes lock squarely on the 'bad' mommy and her charge. Wally is apprehensive because last class (at which I was on time! I swear!) we were the only students and the trainer reminded me of Mister Rogers sans zip-up cardigan, but with a wide variety of doggie treats. This time we walk into a room of three dogs and women of varying ages and sizes. The new trainer is a no nonsense stocky female. With no treats. Triple shit.

6:50pm: Wally is barking at the other dogs and farting.

6:51pm: We are asked to stand at the end of the room like the dunces of the class that we are. Wally is still farting.

6:52pm: The trainer asks us to walk with the dogs in a circle around the room. Wally decides that this would be a good time to flop belly down to the floor and grip with his claws, which basically equals me dragging him like a sack of rocks around the room. Begin to understand mothers that drag their children on leashes. Kind of. Wally lunges and barks at a Golden Retriever three times his size. Understand the impetus behind leashes a bit more.....hopefully my someday-child will not bark.....

6:53pm-7:30pm: Intermittent farting, barking and dragging. Mostly from Wally.

7:31pm: Trainer lady ends the class and says that I did a good job and that Wally improved throughout the class. This makes me feel good about me, but bad about my encourageable child-dog. We are still asked to wait until all the dogs leave before walking out. Like being kept after class for a mini-detention. She gives us a handout that Wally instantly tries to eat.

Walking to the car, I can briefly imagine what this must be like for a mother with one child. I CANNOT on the other hand imagine this with mutilple children, much less with varying tasks at hand. How does one help their child practice the flute or Korean without knowing it themselves? Oh the horror. That's why I'm sticking with my flatulent pup for now. No flatulent children for awhile.