Posts Tagged ‘where does the time go?’

Hello again…apparently

Thursday, March 17th, 2011

It has come to my attention that some (many?) of you have been unable to access the blog – in fact, and more accurately, the blog sent your web browser to a screaming halt – for MONTHS.

Months?

Really?

***cringe***

I imagine that means that some of you will never see this (i.e. never come back) so I wish you fond adieu and apologize for my dire and continued lack of network administration skills. I am a 100-year old woman when it comes to managing this website. It’s a wonder I can even figure out how to post.

A little self-snapshot of me circa right now as thanks for your perseverance and proof of my continued existence, as well as evidence of my lack of St. Patrick's Day green and substantial indicators that I am thinking of growing my bangs out or they're growing out without much resistance for me or some such thing.

On the other hand, since it seems the only browser impacted was Internet Explorer and since even more obviously Bill Gates has a serious issue with me (get over it, Bill. It was years ago, and I was – and remain – too young for you, although I’m not saying I don’t regret it on those cold nights I’m eating Kraft macaroni and cheese and drinking cheap beer while watching basic cable.), I suppose we can predict these things will happen again. In that event, allow me to share some crisis-management tips:

  • The RSS works much like the post office (rain/sleet/snow/new versions of IE hate me)…or so I’m told.
  • Stockpile three days of non-perishable food. I recommend Kraft Macaroni & Cheese.
  • Try a different web browser. (People I know who seem to be in the know recommend and use Firefox, which has the added benefit that – as far as I know – it has yet to turn on me.)
  • Purchasing a gas mask is NOT recommended
  • Send me an email, and I’ll do any system-wide WordPress upgrades I’ve been avoiding out of fear they’ll bring the whole world crashing down around me. The sky is falling! The sky is falling!
  • Avoid puddles of liquid, particularly if they’re full of chemicals or toxic stuff or even just sticky mud.
  • Do NOT immediately rush to the Emergency Room unless RSS, Firefox, Safari, Google Chrome, and Opera have failed and you simply cannot live without the blog. Hopefully someone there has a dual MD/MSCS degree and can get you some meds and hack into and fix the blog while you chill the f@ck out.

Otherwise, and as previously mentioned, welcome back and – a thousand times over – THANK YOU for actually coming back continually and after an unduly long and unnecessary and inexplicable absence. For you alone I shall strive to post better and more often and without the use of cheap staff in Banaglore. Your loyalty may some day be rewarded by a loyalty program or membership card or maybe even a unique gift chosen just for you!

But don’t hold your breath on that because – as previously mentioned – it’s really all I can do to keep this site up and running…barely. (What is this issue I have with typing “barfly” whenever I mean to type “barely”? A subtle, unconscious tribute to Bukowski? A desire to chuck it all and become a drunk? Late-onset dyslexia? And why doesn’t WordPress know about daylight savings time and realize it’s 6:15pm and not 5:15pm?  And why do fools fall in love? And where oh where has my little dog gone?)

Seriously though…welcome back to that same old place that you laughed about.

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Who knew I was living the dream?

Sunday, October 17th, 2010

Actually – true confession mode – I wrote this headline before actually checking that it’s going to be accurate. A bit of hubris, potentially, but we’ll get to that soon enough.

Meanwhile, I have this friend who occasionally seems to want to be the next Tony Robbins – but kind of isn’t, at least not yet – but occasionally puts on airs like he/she already is (I’m going sexless to hopefully protect the innocent…and just because celibacy is cool. Right, Lenny Kravitz?) Anywho, I happened to notice when someone recently posted on their Facebook page about whether or not they were still “living the dream” and (since none of us are really – right??? Please tell me you aren’t either) I kind of felt compelled to comment, “He/she sure is!: Chazz of Wedding Crashers style! Hey ma! The meatloaf! We want it now!”

That’s it. I resisted a bitchy urge and I thought I’d brag about it…which is pretty much as lame and bitchy as if I’d made a snarky comment about whether or not someone is living the dream. Hell, maybe they are? Maybe my problem – as usual – is that my dreams are too lofty. If only my dreams involved what I already have, I’d be living the dream in spades.

In other news, my god how I love Joan Rivers. I do. I LOVE JOAN RIVERS (and I’m not afraid to admit it). Bitch Stole My Look? Love. Starlet or Streetwalker? Genius. In fact, I am unabashedly considering becoming a lesbian in the hopes of winning her over: not that she wants a lesbian (but maybe if it’s me??? I can be goddamned charming when I feel like it.) So, like I was saying, I freaking love her. That’s all I’m going to say about that.

So my dad had a new kitten show up at his place on my birthday, and I suggested he name it Birthday, but he decided to get cute and responded that he’s naming it either Snookie or The Situation and just for that, I’m calling it JWoww no matter what sex it turns out to be or how prudish or slutty or whether it gets its six nipples enhanced or whatever lifestyle that whorish little kitten chooses to live: it’s JWoww to me from here on out. Which is kind of the same as being dead to me, but that’s another story.

Serves him right for not naming it Birthday.

Anyway, I bring this up because there are these irritating ads for something called ‘The Buried Life’ that occasionally interrupt my ‘Jersey Shore’ viewings, and I guess they have some kind of bucket list despite the fact that they’re 13 years old and MTV is helping them knock it out, and the episode being advertised was “Get Married in Vegas,” and I was all, “Hey! I’ve done that! I’m all over that bucket list!” so I thought I’d compare here.

The list, unfortunately, is a hand-written photo. Sorry ’bout that.

My comments appear below.

Been there, done that: 7, 8 (mechanical), 9 (pretty much one per year), 11, 13, 16, 19, 21, 22 (hey, the mirror don’t lie!), 23, 25, 29 (every fucking day), 30, 37, 39 (in my car. Close enough.), 40 (Easter Sunday. I was like five, but it still counts), 44, 45, 49 (see: worked in corporate sales), 51, 52, 54, 46, 57 (close enough: four days at a Buddhist monastery), 58, 59 (I’m not asking anyone anywhere…unless it’s Joan Rivers), 61, 62, 63, 65, 67 (define “important), 68, 72, 74, 78, 82, 84, 85 (see #72), 86, 90, 91, 92, 93, 96, 97

Arguably (or at least I’d argue about it): 4 (probably), 5 (does my ass count?), 14 (a random black hair I pluck from time to time and as close as I’m ever going to get. Live with it.), 17 (define “huge”), 27 ($20 – and I sent some ungrateful kid in Africa $50 a month for years now, so there), 32 (arguably), 41 (I didn’t crash the wedding, but it was the first time I’d met them), 42 (in Spanish class, and I think the fact that I hosted in Spanish makes it count), 64 (Heard the album), 69 (I would never do that to a guitar), 70 (my brother did and I was aware of it: ergo, crossed off), 75 (probably if you add up all the money I’ve ever made grossed), 76 (see: Dozer), 94 (Weird Al. Don’t ask.), 98 (as in “bet on the…”?)

WIP: 1 (just wait until I get that bank robbery under my belt…), 2, 3 (maybe eventually), 6, 10 (would like to), 12 (does this have to do with football? Not interested), 15 (Me and Dr. Hook), 18, 20, 24 (could be easily accomplished, I suppose), 26 (something tells me a contempt of court charge would be in my future), 28, 31, 33 (WTF is krump?), 34 (pay for your own damn groceries!), 35 (never gonna happen), 36, 38, 43, 46, 47, 48 (who do I look like? Nancy Drew?), 50, 53, 60, 66 (what is this with the Playboy Mansion?), 71, 73, 77, 79, 80 (who?), 81, 83, 87, 88 (what????), 89, 95, 99, 100

p.s.

Why three wwws?

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Taking my cue from 70′s horror flicks

Saturday, April 17th, 2010

Remember that part in The Amityville Horror where they first go to check out the house and it (in a rather urgent manner reinforced by the use of a voice that gives new meaning to ‘guttural’) instructs them to “GET OUT.”?

El Centenario house

My second - and much preferred - casita in Mexico. It never told me to 'get out', but the worm did start to turn in the last 24 hours...

Two things have always struck me about that moment:

1. An  inanimate object’s – in this case, a house – powerful sense of boundaries.

2. The human beings’ complete and total disregard of said request/order.

Now, I don’t know about you, but I climb into a rental car and it starts shrieking about how it’s going to twist me up in a fiery ball of molten metal or even just whispers something about how I’d make a nice hood ornament, and I’m out of there. No delays. No questions asked.

Same with a house that utilizes the voice of Satan to share an opinion about whether or not I lease the place.

I’m a child of the 70′s.

Best to heed the cultural wisdom, tune into the collective unconscious, and get the fuck out when you’re told.

That stated, in a mostly polite and largely incompetent way, Mexico gave me the old heave ho.

Woman in yellow room

The thing with these casitas is that they seem to repeat the exterior color on the inside, so you'd better pretty much LOVE whatever you decide to paint the thing (primarily red, coral, and yellow).

It started on Monday.

And – admittedly – 99% of the problem, or at least the incompetence part, was Telcel. Telcel is – from what I can tell – a very large cell phone and wifi and maybe other stuff it can’t do well provider. It’s also owned by the richest man in the world, Carlos Slim Helu. These two facts (large/incompetent Mexican company and richest man in the world) may or may not be a coincidence.

I say not.

Considering Telcel has managed to embezzle $75 out of my tight ass in just two weeks, I’d be impressed if I weren’t pissed.
So as not to devolve into the category known as ‘general bitching’ let me summarize and say it was an experience that can only be described as an extremely frustrating, time-consuming, and largely bullshit internet experience.

Bravo, Slim.

Richest man in the world

Carlos Slim Helu. I don't know about love, but I'd say this is pretty much proof that money can't buy you looks.

Bravo.

But it’s not just Slim and his crap ass company that showed me the door.

There was a trifecta: Internet, Rash, and Bugs – also known as RIB.

When the RIB situation starts to unfold, you know it’s time to head north.

In addition to my extensive and expensive internet woes, I broke out in a massive itchy rash all over the lower half of my body. I never nailed the culprit, but it was either my Mexican-bought SPF 15 or my “Lecha de Burra” cream that caused it.

Yeah.

You read that right.

I’m a friggin’ idiot.

You think I might have given pause at buying a lotion called “Milk of the Ass,” but no.

I didn’t really look at the packaging.

Or the words.

Or the picture of a donkey with a wreath around its neck.

Woman with can of beans

I love beans. So much so that I eat them from the can. And I'll eat them cold from the can. Like a hobo. Wanna make something of it?

I was basing my decision on smell.

And donkey milk smells damn good, apparently.

It sure does cause a hell of a rash though. Or the sunblock.

Either way, I was so freaked out, I didn’t apply anything to my skin for the last three days.

Finally, rounding out the RIB, were the insects.

First came the fruit flies.

Then the house flies.

And then, there I was, lying on my stomach working out my lower back, when I noticed several grains of rice crawling around. And then my brain started it’s slow turn around the hamster wheel, and I realized that rice doesn’t wriggle.

And I never made any rice.

And those are MAGGOTS.

Frickin’ MAGGOTS.

Woman in pool

In the pool. Make note of the hair, because it's gone. Let me rephrase that: It's not GONE, but it no longer looks like this. You shall see shortly.

Jumpin’ Jesus on a Pogo Stick MAGGOTS.

Oh, the horror.

Did you know maggots burst when you crush them under your flip-flop?

Yep.

A nice, satisfying pop

Long story short, Mexico showed me the door – at least for now – and I graciously exited stage left.

But no worries.

In the words of Arnold Schwarzenegger via one of the ten DVDs I had with me: I’ll be back.

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Stream of consciousness apparently induced by a single 1.6 oz (45g) package of Jelly Bellies

Monday, February 9th, 2009

This little menu wouldve been helpful when I was eating mine.

This little menu would've been helpful when I was eating mine. Although it implies to me that there are UNOFFICIAL flavors out there. What are they? Tomato paste? Mac and cheese? Tub o' paste?

Where does the time go? I ask this both of you, personally, whoever you may be, and of God or the saints or whatever higher power or supernatural entity may for reasons unknown stumble upon and decide to peruse this blog or otherwise take an interest in my sometimes pointless, sometimes consequential musings. And then answer them. This musing, by the way, is caused by the fact that somehow it is 3:30 in the afternoon and I have not eaten a thing except for a very small package of Jelly Bellies, the flavors of which I found both pleasing and alarming in a ‘better living through chemistry’ kind of way. Nor have I worked out or really done much of anything that could be recounted if I had to provide an alibi for myself and thus list out my whereabouts and goings-ons in court.

 

 

 

Speaking of which, how do people possibly remember what they were doing when the cops show up and ask one of those “Where were you the night of the 22nd?” questions? Ummmm…can I have a calendar, time to interview everyone I know, and a hypnotist? How am I supposed to remember? Unless something ‘big’ happened or I ate some bad fish or had an otherwise memorable experience – which is rare – I would have to resort to making stuff up. Which is what I did, by the way, for my first confession in second grade. I weaseled sins out of the surrounding kids and used a compilation approach. I confessed to both not doing my chore of washing the dishes (I didn’t actually have any chores in second grade) and lying to my sister (I don’t have a sister). Then, the next time I had a true sin ready to go: I lied to a priest.

 

I went from non-sinner to hell-bound in one fell swoop and as a direct result of the rite of Catholic confession.

 

I hate it when that happens.

I hate it when that happens.

 

 
Anyway, as for the missing hours, I think the most logical explanation (Occam’s razor, if you will) is that aliens abducted me and just now returned me, having wiped out six to eight hours of memory in the process. I just hope I’m not pregnant with some kind of freaky alien/human hybrid. Or worse, the alien from Alien that later recognizes me and won’t kill me in the midst of killing everyone else, like in Alien: Ressurection, which was overall the suckiest of all the Alien movies. Plus, can anyone watch Winona Ryder anymore without being distracted by her kleptomania and general craziness? Same goes for Courtney Love. May as well just throw in the Hollywood towel and enroll in ITT Tech, ladies.
 
 

 

 

 

Good luck getting into this without the knife work of Michael Myers.

Good luck getting to your new thumb drive without the knife work of Michael Myers.

Meanwhile, back to the topic of questions without answers, what is up with the trend of packaging semi-useless and generally cheap products in impossible to open, human-proof containers? You know the ones: The plastic bubble with the diamond-hard, hermetically sealed edge that cannot be penetrated by scissor, knife, or blowtorch. And if somehow you do manage to breach the seal, you are forced to slice down the front of the packaging, creating a razor sharp slit in which you must now insert your hand and attempt to pry the cell phone charger or Hello Kitty headphones free. Who dreamt this up? It’s perverse. And dangerous. And come to think of it, I think it could possibly be the first definitive sign of alien life on this planet and a clear indicator that they are trying to kill us.

 

 

Again with the aliens. I know. I’m as baffled as you. And, if you ask me, it only strengthens my earlier theory about where the time went.

 

 

Oh, and one more thing, what on earth does Googleads think is going on around here? ‘Around here’ being the high-quality content of this very blog?

  • “Dog pregnancy signs”?
  • ‘We clear land of Scotch Broom.”?
  • “The only way to teach the Heimlich that works”?

And, without a doubt, the most insulting:

  • “Get rid of rats fast.”

 

There go my dreams of getting rich quick through powerful, thought-provoking daily blogging…

 

 

Meanwhile, if you have answers, Buddhist koans, or educated guesses to resolve these riddles tormenting my little brain, I will take them. And for the deities in the hizzouse, I will happily entertain input and feedback in any manner you deem appropriate, with the small request that if you choose to take the form of a burning bush, that you do so at least five feet from my person. Although I take care to assemble stylish ensembles, I am a cheapskate and shop at stores of that nature, and thus my clothes have probably been made by Asian toddlers out of materials of highly questionable melamine-based substances. In other words, I am afraid that I cannot guarantee that they are flame retardant.

 

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