Friday, August 1, 2008

Oh, well, when you put it that way . . .

I always get suckered into looking at this guy's column on Yahoo! It's the "eat this not that" guy. Who is, I must say, very cute going by the pictures. David something. And really, I'd like to pound him like a railroad spike. And not in the good way.

He seems to be one of those eminently logical people who feels that if he simply explains the facts about calories and fat and sodium and all those nasty things, that you will suddenly have an epiphany and say, "Why, yes, you're absolutely right, David Something. I did not know that a fried entree covered in cheese, gravy and ranch dressing would be bad for me. I'll have fruit and flax seed instead." As if food is a solely logical decision. As if knowing that the waffle fries soaked in cheese sauce and bacon and sour cream will kill me makes it not taste good. As if dark chocolate dipped Oreos don't sing to me like a siren looking at the last Greek sailor in town. Yes, I'm appalled at the calorie glut that we face at nearly every chain restaurant. But anyone who says that nothing tastes as good as being thin feels has never had a Braum's Black Forest Sundae.

Knowing the facts is good. But it's no silver bullet. Knowing that my favorite treat is more calories and fat grams than I should have in a day does not magically erase it's power over me. Millions of people know the dangers of smoking (printed in English right on the pack), but still light up. And I wish cutting the junk out of my diet was as easy as just making a valued judgement based on a reasoned dissection of the facts. But it's just not that easy. Watching your diet is a battle against scary yet delicious monsters each and every day. Some days you beat the monster. Some days you eat him.

Half Baked

Ucka. It's the dog days of summer, my friends. Hot and humid here in Texas. The air is so heavy that you get "intermittent afternoon showers", not because of some storm front that you can see coming a day away. But because the air gets so hot that it just can't hold the moisture any more. And that moisture is just hanging there. The ever present sweat mustache. The payload of sweat that soaks your hair the minute you leave the house. The sweat that breaks through the deodorant barrier, and makes that stick of Secret in your desk drawer your, and your co-worker's, best friend. Sweat, sweat, sweat.

Too hot to have fun. Too hot to stand still. Too hot to lie down. Too hot to be. Too hot to do anything but put on your scazziest t-shirt and cutoffs, drink iced tea and wish for it all to be over. Summer has worn out it's welcome. This isn't the "good old summertime." This is the summertime that you wish would just press on by. The summer that makes you dream of cool, autmn breezes and cloudy days.

Thursday, July 31, 2008

Still small voice

Okay, this is just a story I do not get. Unless the assailant is Uma Thurman in a yellow jumpsuit, or a guy waving a katana sword and screaming "There can be only one!!", I'm thinking that there had to be some point between stabbing the fellow passenger and beheading the fellow passenger in which intervention was possible. Usually the EMTs can help out with someone who has been stabbed. Decapitated is much harder to fix.

And if I find it hard to get on the plane with a pair of kindergarten craft scissors to cut yarn with, why are bus safety standards so low that this guy was able to hop aboard with something capable of decapitating (decapitating) a human being. He didn't do that with a plastic fork.

Obviously, this dude had some bad voices in his head. Ones that he shouldn't have been listening too. But I think maybe his fellow passengers had some voices that they should have paid a little more attention to. Like the littel voice that says, "Do something."

Ending the Week - with extreme prejudice

Dude. Don't look around. Just be cool. Relax. Chill.

Okay. Here's the deal. We're going to act like it's Friday. Seriously. If we all just act like it's Friday, maybe we can make it BE Friday. It's the end of the month. That throws people off any way. So if we all just play along like it's the end of the week, we might just be able to make it happen.

Here's how you start: keep walking up to people, saying "Hey, big plans for the weekend? I'm thinking I'll barbecue." And "Whew, can't believe we made it to the end of the week." And throw in the occasional, "TGIF, right?" Then at the end of the day hit 'em with the kicker - "Take it easy. See ya Monday." But don't overplay it. Just casual like.

Cause, damn. I needs to be Friday. I think if I wake up tomorrow and realize I've still got another day to go, I may just curl up into a little ball and die. Don't you feel it? It's gotta be Friday. It's just gotta be.

So, ya know. See ya Monday.

Tuesday, July 29, 2008

One sign that you may be a ginormous geek:

You find the news that Disney is making Tron 2 (and that Jeff Bridges will be in it) really, really exciting.


The Earth Moved

So, another earthquake in Southern Cal. I'm always kind of interested in them, the same way I'm intrigued by hurricanes. If you've been in one, it's got a certain extra oomph to the story.

And I have been in an earthquake. Not a big one mind you. A 3.5. Not such a big deal as earthquakes go. But it was kind of hard to miss. It happened around 7:00 in the morning. I was still in bed, and in that nice sweet spot between drooling in the pillow and being fully awake. And all the sudden, it's like my bed is a raft on the ocean. Just kind of rolling up and down. I'm just awake enough to think "Huh. That doesn't usually happen." (At least not when I'm on my own. Heh-heh-heh.) And then it was over before I was fully awake, so - snuck-zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz - out like a light. I wasn't even fully aware that anything had happened. My dream sleep is ratty enough that I was just going to write it off as bad guac for dinner. But then when I make it up to watch the news, there are perky Southern California morning show anchors to tell me that there are two types of earthquakes - back and forth, and up and down, and what we experienced this morning . . . Oooooh. Ah-ha.

Anyway, having been through a teensy earthquake, I found it much easier to say "happy trails" to living in California. Not that I ran scared or anything. As any Californian will tell you 3.5 ain't no thing. But it did add some "been there/done that" flavor to my time. Had the earthquake, now I can leave. Done deal.

Refurbishing the Hell Mouth

Okay, people. The bitch is back. I am declaring a moratorium on helping other people out. Starting September 1, no helping other people out for at least a month. No helping people move. No helping with yard work. No wrangling kids at parties. No painting. I'm talking all major jobs. I can drive you to the airport, I cannot resurface your driveway. I can water your plants; I cannot till the back 40. Yes, helping somebody out is good karma. Good karma I've got. A clean house I don't.

Cause my place looks like a hell hole. Seriously. I'm scared. There is stuff everywhere - waiting to be organized, waiting to be painted, waiting to be donated, sold, carted away, washed, dusted, hung, or just plain dealt with.

And, frankly, it's not really about being nice at this point. I'm not nice. I'm just helping you so that I don't have to go home and look at the hopeless, Sisyphean mess that is my humble abode. At this point, it just makes me want to cry big fat giant tears. And using your chores to deflect from my chores has just become unhealthy. I gotta stop.

So. 9/1 to 9/30. It's nose to the grind stone. It's all work and no play from sun up to sun down on every weekend day. I shall be a very dull girl. And don't try to tempt me with fun stuff either. No movies. Put down the beer. I am made of stone. I shall not break. I will not be moved. (Except for Tropic Thunder - call me.)

Monday, July 28, 2008

Well, hello, Zelda Rubinstein

You know I love going to the theater. Love the shows. But I can say without a doubt, I will never willingly go to a show at the downstairs stage at Theatre 3 again. Most uncomfortable.

The upstairs stage isn't giant, but there is some amount of distance between you and the actors. Plus my season tickets are a bit higher which gives even more space between you and the actors. The downstairs space is much smaller. I'd say that when the actors are downstage, there's no more than 15 feet between you and them. And the stage is just the floor of the room, while the seats are 3 rows set on risers. When they are standing and look out into the audience, they are looking you dead in the face.

It was like the TV looking back at you. Gah! The most totally Poltergeist-ish experience of my entire life. I kept expecting one of them to turn to me and start saying "Step into the liiiiiiighhht, Carol Anne!" Very disconcerting.

Frankly, I never want to interact with the people on stage. I don't want a comedian to ask me where I'm from. I don't want to be pulled in to join dancers at the Ren Faire. I don't want to pull a card from the deck. I don't do audience participation. But, I can say without a doubt that performers are, as a breed, sick bastards. Because I think they can smell the fear and dread on me. "I need a volunteer from the audience! You ma'am! Aw, she seems shy! Let's give her a hand . . ." Mother-f***er. Or if it's something where somebody has been told that they need to find a face in the audience to perform to, they'll laser on to me, and not break eye contact. Eeeek! I have no idea what to do in that situation. Do you smile? Look politely blank? Do you stare back? If you look away, is that rude? Freaks me out every time.

No more little stage venues for me. Just can't take the pressure.

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