11:11

It’s 10:37am on a Saturday, I’m lying in bed listening to the neighbors scream.  I looked out the window briefly to find them all standing in front of their apartment, man, woman, and little boy.  The boy sits there and blinks, bleating “HEYYY” every couple of minutes, as if on a timed interval.  The man and woman refuse to look at each other, but holler with this bored look in their eyes like they’re trying to have a normal conversation on the tarmac at the airport, planes roaring overhead.

“YOU GOT A ATTITUDE”

“YOU AIN’T EVEN KNOW WHAT YOU TALKIN ABOUT”

“HEYYYYY!”

I wonder if any of them are thinking about the tons of people who sleep in on Saturdays.  Granted, I’m sleeping almost until 11am, that’s pretty late to be expecting other people to be considerate.  BUT STILL.

Two weeks ago, I was waiting for the bus and I felt a hard tap on my head.  The next sensation was the dribbling of the bird shit sliding down the side of my head and collecting on top of my ear.  Well, that’s fucking awesome, I thought.  Good thing I have napkins in my purse.

One week ago, I was sitting on the bus, reading a book.  The greasy high school boy across from me let out a wet sneeze, and I looked down to find snot chunky with boogers splattered across my jacket sleeves and cuffs.  “Are you KIDDING ME?” I yelled at him, as his immediate reaction was to pretend that nothing had happened.  He ignored me, as if I wasn’t sitting there covered in his snot, screaming at him.  Well, that’s fucking awesome, I thought.  Good thing I have a single napkin left in my purse.

Usually, when it gets to the point that people are actually spraying me with their bodily fluids and then pretending that I don’t exist, it means I’ve been in this stupid city, riding the stupid buses, and following my stupid routine for way too long.  I thought it was the universe’s way of telling me that I’m fucked, really, it’s the universe’s way of telling me to fuck off.

Shutup, faggot

Stephanie sent me this yesterday and it’s killing me.

Shit Sack Comes to Visit

If you ever find yourself shut in a hotel room with nothing to do, please don’t watch the movie “Hump Day.”  I will tell you why, okay?  Shut up for a minute and let me find my notes.

So IMDB sums it up this way:

When Andrew unexpectedly shows up on Ben’s doorstep late one night, the two old college friends immediately fall into their old dynamic of heterosexual one-upmanship. To save Ben from domestication, Andrew invites Ben to a party at a sex-positive commune. Everyone there plans on making erotic art films for the local amateur porn festival and Andrew wants in. They run out of booze and ideas, save for one: Andrew should have sex with Ben, on camera. It’s not gay; it’s beyond gay. It’s not porn; it’s an art project. The next day, they find themselves unable to back down from the dare. And there’s nothing standing in their way – except Ben’s wife Anna, heterosexuality, and certain mechanical questions.

This movie should have been called “Two Dudely Dudes Have 36 Conversations.”  It was seriously like being forced to be in a room with two people you don’t really like who are discussing performance art.  “But dude what if we like, did this?  Dude what if we like, did that?  DUDE.”  They have conversations at tables, in cars, on the porch, on the couch.  Sometimes the girl has conversations with them.  Sometimes she just has a conversation with one of them.  Sometimes one of them leaves the room and the conversation continues because there’s still a dude in the room and he’s having a conversation with his THOUGHTS, man!

The story behind the never ending stream of talking in this movie is pretty stupid.  Naturally, this young pair of cute vintage-inspired newlyweds is trying to get knocked up.  Then what the fuck do you know?  The guy’s annoying best friend blows into town and takes over their couch and is generally poopy toward the whole marriage and children idea.  Because he’s a free spirit, man.  If you’re not traveling throughout your thirties, you’re lame!

(The one good thing I will say about this movie is that they totally got the annoying best friend right.  Every boy you will ever date, have ever dated, or ever thought about dating, has one of these.  Loud, obnoxious, chubby, and generally stupid, they circle until about 8 months into the relationship (if that), then they fucking swoop in full speed and decide to claim their friend back.  It’s your fault he’s been spending so little time with his best friend!  You know he can’t resist pussy, and you keep insisting on giving it to him!  Meh meh meh!  Oh, plus, these guys always experiment with fedoras.  Because they are, in actuality, slightly gay, and a liiiiiiiittle bit in love with your boyfriend–but only in that way that straight men can recognize their love for each other, the closest they ever get to it is thinking that maybe they’re jealous of their friend.)

(The fact that this movie got the annoying best friend so spot on is not a good thing.  That’s because you have to spend an hour and a half with this fat sack of shit and nobody wants to do a thing like that.  Didn’t think about that, did you, filmmakers?)

The “sex-positive commune” described above was actually like a slutty sorority house full of swinging lesbians who didn’t mind having sex with anyone in front of anyone, you know, those super hot-bodied, abused-as-a-child-but-that’s-not-why-I’m-a-lesbian-I’m-just-really-free lesbians.  So there’s this ONE scene where they writhe around on a bed half naked (well, wrapped in hippie print scarves and sarongs) and say the most random, stupid shit about relaaaaaationships, and that’s pretty much all it takes to give people who are actually sex positive a bad name.  Everybody smokes a lot of pot out of super-clean, over-complicated bongs and before long, our hero and his BFF have decided to take all of the Sex-Positive Performance Artists on in a little bet where he and his friend fuck each other on film.  And these dudes are gonna fuckin do it because they’re DUDES!  And plus the fat BFF has “never finished an art project,” and this is the one that he wants to finally follow through with.

So they have about a million conversations about doing it or not doing it, the wife finds out, she cries and wails, then admits that she cheated on her husband after they got married, so maybe he should get a pass to fuck his friend.  “Get it out of your system, like I did” she says.  Yay for sex positivity!

About the only positive in this movie would be possibly getting to settle your morbid curiosity by seeing two overweight dudely dudes bone each other, which they don’t.  They order room service and just hang out like a couple of bachelors.

Fuck this movie.  Or don’t.  I don’t know.  Maybe we should just talk about it a lot and never watch it.

Around the Orifice

There’s this girl in my office who I’ve always known for a fact held the title of Resident Shit-Talker, but boy did she ever go above and beyond last week.

This girl refers to her shit-talking circuit as “making the rounds.”  That’s where you see her coming through the office, down the worn track of carpet between all of our desks, leaning over everyone’s cube walls for however long it takes her to expel the newest stream of shit from her mouth to your ear.  Oh, and I can’t forget to mention that she’s a cunt, the bad kind.  She’ll come to you, whispering, eyes wide and cloudy with concern like she just saw a bloody car accident, and ask you “What…is WRONG…with Kelly’s hair?  Oh. My. God.”  Mere seconds later, you’ll see her at Kelly’s cube, saying “Your hair looks SO cute today!  What are you doing differently?”

Did you ever wonder what would happen to the girls at your high school who acted like this?  Did you think maybe they’d get the Tina Fey “Mean Girls” treatment and grow out of it?  Maybe some do, but in my opinion, those horrible cunts are just in training in high school.  They’re learning how to come off as Super Nice! and just whisper their terrible insults.  I’ll tell you what happens to them: they grow up and work in offices and grow great big dimpled asses, the kind that grow up and over their lower backs, and have to wear plus size Ann Taylor pants.  Oh, and they continue to be horrible cunts, and they think everyone likes them and nobody sees through them.  It’s absolutely exhausting to watch.

Not that I’ve never talked shit, but fucking hell.  It must have been a slow news day last Thursday because the big report we just all had to have was that a certain person in our office went to the bathroom and didn’t wash her hands!  Gasp!  This is horrible!  I KNOW!  What should we do?  I DON’T KNOW!  Isn’t there anyone we can report this to?  WHAT IF SHE’S IN THE BREAK ROOM RIGHT NOW TOUCHING ALL OF THE SPOONS?  She’s disgusting.  We hate her.  Let’s all look at her like “we know what you did.”  Yeah, we should.  Let’s make a concerted effort to make her feel unwelcome.

Look How Your Fat Brain Works!

One thing about working with other people that I’ve just come to accept as The Way Things Are and Will Always Be is that, when there is nothing else to talk about (and sometimes when there is), people will always steer the conversation toward food.  Especially if there is food around, which there always seems to be in the work environment.  Actually, I’m starting to wonder if perhaps people don’t overpopulate the work environment with foodstuffs just so things will be less awkward, so that there will be more to talk about.  Oh wasn’t that a great pecan tart?  Did you have some of that bacon cake and grease juice Sheila brought in?  Gahhh that was gooooooooood wasn’t it?

It’s no surprise that 20/20 found, when they did a sneaky hidden camera test thingy, that people are more comfortable overeating or making poor food choices when others are doing the same.  I don’t think this applies to me, as I grew up “overeating” at every meal, as my mother glared at me from across the table, slurping her Slim-Fast and slicing a Grape Nut in half.  So I’ve always had to be comfortable making my food choices (i.e., the choice to eat) without any support.  However, 20/20 did this little sneakysnake move where they grabbed people out of lines at Disney World, put them in a windowless room, and told them they’d be testing a new chocolate chip cookie or chocolate ice cream.  “Now there is a very high fat content!” they’d say, and you were left to wonder if they meant like, in the food, or attached to the test subjects and slopping over the sides of the tiny chairs.  The sneaky part was that there were always 2 people “testing” the food, and the second person, in true Maury Povich hidden camera fashion, was a decoy!  A sexy food decoy!  Paid to sit in the room and overeat on purpose to see if the other person would do the same!  And sometimes the decoy ate half of a cookie, just a tiny few bites of the ice cream, just enough to taste it.  On those occasions, without fail, the test person would do exactly the same, just a bite here and there.  But when the sexy decoy ate half a carton of ice cream, the person in the white lab coat with the clipboard saying “Go on, eat all you want!,” the test person would do exactly the same, wolfing down scoop after scoop of ice cream, stopping only when the sexy decoy stopped.  More than one person ate until they felt sick, just because the sexy decoy hadn’t stopped yet.

At the end, they gave all of the test subjects $10 and told them they’d been duped.  They showed them the footage and said “Look at you!  Look at you go, rippin’ into that chocolate ice cream!  You had thirty-seven cookies, just because someone else did!  HAHA.  Look how your fat brain works!”  Then the 20/20 Fatty Study Team addressed Mr. and Mrs. John Uh Merica directly and said, “Now isn’t that interesting?”

I have my own food issues, and one of them is that I do not enjoy eating in front of people.  I won’t eat on the train, but restaurants don’t freak me out so much because you’re expected to eat there.  I am extremely uncomfortable, however, eating in the office, under fluorescent lighting, gathered standing with paper plates around a giant airbrushed cake with badly done blue icing baby shoes splopped all over it.  You’re supposed to stand there, eat the cake, and talk.  And if you turn down the cake, you ignite a firestorm of discussion, during which people say all manner of inappropriate things because they feel like fatasses for having decided to eat the cake.  How dare you judge me?!  Also annoying is when I am unable to take a lunch break and have to eat something at my desk.  Inevitably, someone leans over my cube wall and says, “What are you eating?  What IS that?  Hm.  Yogurt?  Is it good?  Smells weird.  Just saying.  Do you like it?  You like yogurt?  Why?  Oh.  You like it.  But are you trying to lose weight?  What are you saying about me HAHAHA.  No, I’m kidding.  You don’t need to lose weight.  I should eat yogurt.  What is that?  Cereal?  Is that in an old butter container?  Why didn’t you use like some brand name Tupperware?  Why did you re-use that I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter thing?  Hm.”

But the funny thing is that all of the obsession with what other people are eating stems from everyone’s own food issues.  Which is also not funny because that is why it will never, ever stop.  I once had a manager at the Footwear Palace where I worked who talked all the time about how she wanted to lose weight, how she’d had to change pants that morning because the others had given her a muffin top, how she’d only had 1100 calories the day before…all unprompted, of course.  Nobody asked her for this information.  But she was butt fuck obsessed with food.  A superfan of frozen Lean Cuisine fare, she would comment, without fail, on anything other people were eating.  She even nicknamed someone because once he brought in chicken fingers for lunch.  She couldn’t help herself.  She also asked him every single time she saw him, even if it was like 10a.m., “What’s for lunch today?!  Chicken fingers!?  I know you love your chicken fingers!  I can’t eat em because I’ll get fat!  More power to ya though!  HAHAHA!” And so on, and so on, every day.  “Whatcha eating?!  MMMMMM.  What’s in the microwave?  Smells GOOOOOOOOOOD.”  Then she’d tell everyone what you had for lunch.  What it looked like.  What it smelled like.  She just could not stop herself.  She didn’t realize how transparently weird she was being about food.

And that’s how one’s boss lives vicariously through their meals.

Is this possibly because mealtimes are sometimes the only break in the monotony of the day, when one gets to reward oneself with food?

My problem is this: there’s an overabundance of processed sugars and complex carbohydrates in my office every day.  Piles of cake and cupcakes and muffins and coffee cake and boxes of chocolatey treats from Dingles & Boomrats (or whatever the fuck that place is called where people order cases of chocolate covered pears with toffee chunks).  EVERY SINGLE FUCKING DAY.  I hardly ever eat anything just because I’m trying to be polite.  If it doesn’t taste good, I’m not going to sit there and choke it down just because you’re going to be offended if I don’t.  This ain’t Craplakistan.  I don’t suck stranger dick just because some guy on the bus is going to be put out for the rest of the afternoon if I decline.  I don’t want bruises on my knees, and I sure as hell don’t want a butt shaped like my desk chair, like everyone else in this damn place seems to have.  But if you don’t eat something at a mandatory office party, you get this “Oh.  You’re not eating.  Uh huh” bullshit.

My other problem is this: I love sugar.  And cake.  And cupcakes.  But only when they taste good.  And too much fake saccharin makes my stomach hurt like a bitch.  So yesterday at my coworker’s baby shower party, I chose an orange instead of the cupcake platter (including aforementioned airbrushing and really bad giant turdlike icing booties).  Holy hell, did I start a fuss.  Every single person I tried unsuccessfully to mingle with said “No caaaaaaaaaaaake?  You’re not haaaaaaaaaaaaaaving any?!?!?!  WHY?  Let me get you some!!!”

So when the cupcakes ran out, somebody whipped out this strawberry cake thing.  It had white icing and strawberries all over the top, and it (deceivingly) looked yummy.  Half of my orange gone, I got a slice of cake and, wishing to avoid that saccharin stomach ache, cut it in half, and put it on my plate.  I’m glad I only took half a slice because the cake fucking sucked.  It was like eating wedges of yellow kitchen sponges smeared with carpet cleaning foam.  And what does my boss say, snidely, as I come stand near her?

“Oh.  You’re having an orange AND some cake.  Oh.”

Voila.  There you have it.  The need to look at someone’s plate and point out exactly what’s on it.

Of course, it’s okay to say that to people who aren’t morbidly obese.  However, if someone said that to the lady who doesn’t leave her office between the hours of 9 and 5, who sits in a special chair with a specially purchased foot rest because of her weight, well, that would be inappropriate.  Of course, we can’t mention what she ate, or how fast.  But you can bring up my food habits all you want.

Last month, there was an event in another building, the building that was basically slapped into the middle of campus for all of the school’s entertaining purposes.  Outsiders from whom we wish to woo funding are shuttled to the ornate building first, given tours of the miraculous space-age HD flat-screen technology equipped “classrooms” (which are never used), and treated to a cafeteria-style lunch downstairs in the banquet hall.  The open room and giant trays you’re given for your multiple plates are a higher-brow way of hanging an “ALL YOU CAN EAT” sign over the door.  Employees, who are not invited to enjoy the banquet except for on rare occasions, talk about the Beale Center* all the time, like it’s some kind of magical candy mountain where all of your dreams come true.  And when they talk about it, they’re only mentioning the lunch you get to have if you’re employed there for the day.  So the week before the event with which my office was supposed to help all day, my entire floor was all abuzz with talk of the amazing Beale Center lunch we were supposed to get.  People were practically creaming their panties, salivating, foaming at the fucking mouth, talking about how loooong of a day the event was going to be, “but at least we get Beale Center lunch!!!”  People from other departments were stopping by and asking if we needed any help that day, because oh, you know, I’m  not that busy that day, I could come by just before lunch and help out…?

By the time the frenzy reached a fever pitch, it was half an hour before the cafeteria door was going to be opened.  Mr. Cornell was wandering the halls aimlessly, as he’d left a special session he was supposed to attend early so that he could be among the first in line for the food.  He kept passing my post at the front desk, where I was supposed to be warmly greeting a bunch of corporate assholes and handing them name tags so they could call each other something other than Asshole.  “It’s almost time for lunch,” he said, “you better go get in line now!  Get in line now, if you want, I’m sure it’s fine.  You should go.”  (Encouraging others to do something first, so that he can follow and then point fingers at the leader if anything goes wrong, is something I’ve come to expect from Mr. Cornell.  It appears that it was part of his education to slime his way through life, letting someone else go first.  If every dude in his graduating class had started fucking each other’s buttholes, well then, he’d really be living the life he dreams of.  But I digress.)

So Mr. Cornell keeps swinging past my station, checking the entrance to the banquet hall (still empty), and encouraging me to “beat that crowd.”  I, who had been near the cheese platter all morning, was full and didn’t want any lunch.  In an effort to cease his incessant buzzing, I said “I’m not that hungry, I’m not eating lunch.”

At first, I thought he’d had a heart attack.  Clutching his chest, he turned pale and sweaty.  “YOU’RE NOT EATING BEALE CENTER LUNCH?  BUT IT’S THE BEALE CENTER.  IT’S FREE!  IT’S LUNCH!  IT’S REAAAAAAAAAAALLY GOOD.  WHAT?  ARE YOU SICK?  AT LEAST GET SOMETHING TO GO AND EAT IT LATER.”  Not only was he flabbergasted that someone would actually choose not to eat sweaty pork steaks that had been lying under a heat lamp for half an hour, a scoop from the vat of mashed potatoes made from the finest mashed potato powder money could buy in bulk at Costco, that someone would turn down free congealed shrimp on a stick, as well as a whole bar of fancy cheeses and fancy crackers on fancy wooden platters, all the soda one could drink and unlimited desserts, NOT ONLY did he have to be personally offended by this, he also had to tell everyone in our office that I didn’t eat that day.

Two weeks later, people are still coming to my desk and asking why I didn’t eat Beale Center lunch that day.  “Well why not?  Why?”  They don’t seem to believe that I just wasn’t hungry.  I just wasn’t!!!

I know that part of the draw of the place is that the food is free, and that it’s presented in giant silver tureens heated with little mini Bunsen burners.  I mean, let an adult loose in a room filled with vats of processed foods, where everyone else is doin’ it too, is like a playground.  And to decline is to start a fucking Lord of the Flies situation.

Ironically, in this analogy, I’d be the one they called Piggy.

And another thing that bugs me about work.

I don’t think it’s quite fair that I should be hunted down and obligated to give money, MY MONEY, my hard-earned cash, to some admin assistant for a present for someone I don’t know or like personally, that I only WORK with, because they got knocked up or engaged or got a new job.

*Made up name, duh.

Michelle Fucking Pfeiffer

Where is your Mother?

I think she’s in Nashville, Tennessee at a Sheraton.  I called her on Monday and she was in a really good mood, she said she was in Nashville, Tennessee at a Sheraton.  I asked her why, and she said because her friend wanted to go and she didn’t have anything better to do “so I thought, what the hell?  I’ll go.”  This is the kind of thing you do in your later years, when you have money.  This is the kind of thing you’re supposed to do when you’re young, but right now you owe Citibank almost $60,000 in student loans and they own your salary for 2 years.

Where is your Father?

He’s living in Mt. Pleasant, California.  The last I heard, he wanted to offer me some money to hang out with him and pretend like I like him so he’ll feel better about himself without really having to do anything.  Turns out, the money is my “inheritance” and probably doesn’t exist and when I said no thanks, he made sure to tell me he’d be giving it to his NEW WIFE’S DAUGHTER, then!  Nyahh!  How does that grab you!!  I bet you’re jealous!

This is  the kind of thing you do in your later years.

Where were you born?

In a house in a small town on red shag carpet.  Aforementioned Mother got on her hands and knees and thankfully, aforementioned Father stuck around at least long enough to catch me on my slippery fall from the womb.  Thanks Daddy!

How many days until your birthday?

13.  I know because I’m counting and also I’m obnoxious so I mention it every single day.  You should buy me this because I don’t have it yet and I can’t figure out why:

GIANT CUPCAKE OMG

What is the closest orange object to you?

All kinds of really bad art on the walls of this coffee shop, I can just see the skinny jeaned artist himself hanging the pieces, which look like trees drawn by a third grader with press-on nails at the end of each branch.  “See, when I painted this one, I was listening to a lot of Kanye West?  And, you know, really just…thinking about the colors in the music.  About the antiquated methods used to produce the sound and how that really influences the way it colors your mind, you know?”  Or some other kind of shit that people say about stuff they create when they’re put on the spot.

How many books are in your room?

Over a hundred.  It’s annoying.  Sometimes I wake up and want to take them all outside and leave them on the curb.  I mean, what am I going to do with all of these books?  I’m just not the type of person anymore who buys 100 copies of Hemingway or Salinger novels because I want someone to come over and ask me about it so I can talk about why I loooove his work and how it shaped me as a writer.  Or some other kind of shit that people say about stuff other people created when they’re put on the spot.

Now that I’m such a heavy user of libraries, I see no point in owning books anymore.  I guess they can be aesthetically pleasing, but to me they’re just an annoyance, a waste of shelf space.  I mean, the library is just about the only system in the world that you can use for free to give you access to something you want for free.  Why buy?  Maybe because I feel guilty about reading library books in the bath tub and wrinkling the pages with wet fingers.  I guess that’s why.

Who is your favorite teacher of all time?

Michelle Fucking Pfeiffer.  Not only because we have the same birthday (in 13 days) but also (and mostly) because she knows how to sit on a chair backwards to make people pay attention to you.  When I do that in staff meetings because I’m being constantly talked over by loud, stupid men who basically repeat what I say only LOUDER and get all the credit for it, people look at me like I’m a total weirdo and then continue to talk over me.  I must be doing something wrong, Ms. Pfeiffer!  Teach me!  Maybe I have the wrong kind of chair.

Name one of your goals for this year?

To publish a story.  And I did!  Unfortunately I published it in this crappy excuse for a lit journal that is actually a blog that is actually this kid’s crappy college fiction art project.  So now he’s tagging me in pictures on Facebook and commanding me to write something about the picture he’s chosen, and I’m in the middle of this hideous cluster fuck of creative writing undergrads who like to glue quotes and weird pictures to the walls of their shitty dorm rooms and talk about their inspiration and write about rape and shit eating and bulimia, often in that order.  New goal: bring down the blog in a hail of fire.

What is the biggest trouble you have ever been in?

I used to date the guy in my small, small town who just felt weird about driving around without pot in his glove box.  Which was sucky for him because the small town cops knew him personally and knew where to look and pulled us over every fucking time we went anywhere and there was always pot in the car.  I doubt that I was in any real trouble, but it was pretty annoying to be sitting downtown on a crappy booger-encrusted chair in the waiting room at the police station while he called his mom to bail him out and swore to the cops that the stash wasn’t mine.  Of course, at the time, I thought for sure that all the bad stuff they tell you about in grade school was going to happen to me: I’d leave the cop shop, get raped, my mom would disown me, I’d start doing hard drugs and wearing nasty clothes, drop out of high school, etc. etc. etc.

Did you cry because Michael Jackson died?

No.  When he died, I was sitting on the floor of my apartment in front of a fan, because it was hot as shit outside.   I watched all of the news coverage.  I though, Huh, isn’t that something.  Then I ate a cold tomato like it was an apple, then I went to bed.

What does your 9th message on your phone say?

Your package is on its way!

Are you scared about the end of the world?

When I was eleven, I was terrified to the point of staying up all night and crying because the world would end some day.  As an adult, I’m just scared I’ll be dead of cancer or a flesh eating virus before the world ends.  It seems somehow unfair to have to die some TV movie death before everyone dies an awesome Cormac McCarthy death.

Is there a TV in the room you are in?

No, but there is really horrible tribal funk music, so there might as well be a TV going full volume during some kind of National Geographic mass donkey suicide or something.

Do you usually hold your pee for a long time?

The longest time, especially at work, because I’m pee shy and I think I’ve made it clear that a certain person with a fat ass hovers outside of the women’s bathroom and reports on your toilet habits to everyone in the entire office.  That’s enough to make my pee retreat all the way up into my brain.

Worst feeling in the world?

Well having pee in your brain isn’t the most comfortable thing in the world, Bucko.

What’s your current favorite commercial?

Comcast recently shut off my ability to watch basic cable.  Now the only commercial I can see is the one with the white screen and red letters that says “If you are seeing this message, call Comcast today to discuss your options for cable and On-Demand!”  It’s on every channel, 24 hours a day.

I’ll tell you what I’d like to see back in rotation: the Ronco Electric Food Dehydrator infomercial.  I also have a fond place in my heart for the Magic Bullet.  Good thing the Internet is magic, I can watch both!

Let’s talk about Ron Popeil. He will never die: he doesn’t need to!  And who better to invent things and sell them to you until the end of time?!  What you’ve got here is a spraypainted zombie with a knack for making your life easier with plastic.  And you can’t make an infomercial without a blustering, clueless woman dithering around on the stage, showcasing her endless surprise for anything the product does.  No, you tell ME about the product, audience!  I’m here to learn!

And on to the Magic Bullet, which apparently exists in Magic Planet, because we’re supposed to believe that an American woman one can only describe as “chipper,” and her slighty homosexual British housemate (with whom she shares a home and an ambiguous relationship) are throwing an early morning party for a group of guests who apparently stayed overnight.  Our cast of characters includes: A hung over businessman, a middle aged couple fresh from the cabana, a sassy young couple who are apparently taking a break from spending every Saturday morning at Bed Bath & Beyond, and a crotchety old woman with a permanent cigarette in her mouth.  These people enjoy spending lots of time together because they share something very important in common: each of them has a really hard time grasping simple concepts.  I’ll give you five dollars if you can count all of the times someone stops the Breakfast, Lunch, and Dinner From A Mini Blender show to say “Whoa whoa whoa…so…let me get this straight…you just mixed things, things that can be made by mixing, in a mixing thing??”

Name something you think is pointless?

Those pages and pages of “meal plans!” in SELF magazine.  Who in their right mind is following those?  Really?  It’s this insanely small amount of food you’re supposed to eat every single day, then this ridiculously complicated exercise section you’re supposed to do every day, which usually involves some type of head stand or backwards wall climbing, then you turn the page and the headline says “Are You Always Hungry?” and the article is about how you should try eating a whole wheat pita after your lunch but if you’re still hungry you probably have a disease.  That right there covers about twelve glossy pages that could be put to better use printing an article about cat suicide or something, you know, a real problem.

Favorite fast food restaurant?

Man, I don’t eat fast food often, but Taco Bell just keeps bringin it.  Nobody does fake Mexican better.  Except maybe J.Lo in Selena.

Did you have a weird dream last night?

I keep having this stress dream that the retarded, co-dependent, stupid, emotional, Christian-and-proud-of-it, total bitch senior citizen receptionist at my job is following me around with my mail.  This is something she does, you know, instead of filtering all of the mail into the mail boxes, which is the designated place for people to pick up their mail.  If I have received something that is of interest to her, she holds it at her desk for a few days before bringing it to me and sort of hovering around to see what it is.  Sometimes I’ll realize that I’ve seen her walking around in the halls holding this particular piece of mail for almost an entire day, going into this office and that office, HOLDING MY MAIL IN HER HAND.  I once ordered a library supply catalog, which she perused for days, took with her everywhere she went, for no reason.  I stopped her and asked her for it and she replied “I’m gonna bring it to you!” and basically shuffled away as fast as a 68-year-old can.  I’ve repeatedly asked her to “put this in my mailbox, please” and “This type of thing needs to go in my mailbox, OK?” and “COULD YOU PLEASE PUT MY MAIL IN MY MAILBOX WHEN IT ARRIVES??”

So, my dream.  I was running from her, and she was trying to give me one piece of mail after another, shuffling after me everywhere I went.  I kept screaming “PUT IT IN MY MAIIIIIIL BOOOX!!!”

Do you wish at 11:11?

No.  But I knew a girl who did.  She actually introduced me to the practice when I was twelve, and had come to her house for a slumber party.  This meant that one of my parents had to drive me “way the hell out” to the middle of nowhere, where her family lived in a doublewide trailer that teetered on the edge of a hill, surrounded by goats and mud puddles and giant dogs with ticks in their eyes.  A “slumber party” meant that this girl, myself, and her sisters would sit in our pajamas on the floor of the living room of their trailer, watching “Ernest Scared Stupid” over and over again, while the baby sister snacked on an entire stack of American cheese slices for about half an hour before abandoning the slimy thing on the floor, and while her creepy, silent, trucker-hatted father sat in a recliner staring at us for what seemed like unusually long amounts of time, and while her mother shuffled around in the kitchen (half a foot away) trying to make her Wal-Mart bread machine work with peanut butter in it “even though the d’rections say not to use peanut butter.”

“OH!” my friend cried, “It’s 11:11!  Everybody make a wish!”  I remember thinking “You have a lot to wish for” and feeling awful about it.

2 Comments

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2 responses to “11:11

  1. Agent Balboa

    haha… “Nobody does fake Mexican better. Except maybe J.Lo in Selena”.

    Awesome! Let’s go there soon.

  2. cupcakeheartbreak

    Ms. Balboa, I will go to Fake Mexico with you any day of the week.

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