 |
26 February
Why bother?
Against my better judgment, I went to karate tonight. The little voice urged
me to skip, but I ignored it. Why do we that? And as usual, the little voice
was right and proceeded to do a I told you so dance later in the
evening.
The sinus cold acquired over Mardi Gras is still with me and possibly getting
worse. Since class was cancelled Tuesday due to the holiday, I felt it best
to work thru my misery. Never again.
In addition to being the only adult in class, I had no energy and no motivation.
Things might have been fine if we would have stuck to the basics, but the
evil push-ups & sit-ups routine did me in. And maybe it's my imagination or
sinus paranoia, but it seems I got yelled at more than usual. First I was
doing the techniques too fast, then they were sloppy and finally I got yelled
at, again, for not following a senior when a form is done. Maybe they could
cut me some slack since I don't know the form yet? And since I have to follow
the senior in order to perform, it's hard to be in sync when you're following.
Sigh.
For the perfect end to the evening, I sparred two separate black belts. First
they beat me to a pulp and then lectured me. Next time, I'm trying the Righty
philosophy of skipping class and not feeling guilty about it.
I don't need this much help feel miserable.
ramblings by Whitey on 10:58 PM
107825496880079740
Whatcha talkin' bout?
[
]
25 February
Door of Shame
About two years ago, a visitor's dog ate a hole in the back door and had
to replace it. I opted for a solid wood door so future dogs couldn't eat it.
It always important to plan for the life of your house based on whether a
dog can eat it or not. The door always gets wet when it rains, so it was important
I protect the wood. So I stained and urethaned it so it would survive the
elements. And survive it did - until today.
Fritter likes to scratch at the door. And by scratch at the door, dig away
until all the stain and urethane is removed. Basically there are patches of
untreated wood exposed to the rain. This evening I noticed the door was hard
to close. Upon further examination, it seems a chunk of wood has dropped from
the bottom of the door. And part of the inside door frame was soaking wet.
Realizing the potential for long-term damage, I concoct a scheme to prevent
the rain from pounding on the door. I retrieved the plastic painting drop
cloth from storage and tacked it up outside the door.
So now I've got remove the door, pound in the chunk, stain it and urethane
it again. This makes the third round of repairs to the door. I might have
to invest in some sort of dog shield for the door.
24 February
Just Say No
In an effort to show Yankee the entire Mardi Gras experience, Mr O'Dell made
plans for our parading group to visit IOTA. He has a co-worker who was born
and raised in the bustling town IOTA, Louisiana. We were going to experience
the traditional French Mardi Gras, not that bastardized version which goes
on in New Orleans. IOTA - population: 412.
Let me start be saying if you ever have a chance to visit IOTA...don't.
The locals call it THE mardi gras. It's important, we learned, to put the
word THE in front of mardi gras. They celebrate THE mardi gras and THE mardi
gras comes to town. The locals also frown upon outsiders, that's us, outside
influences to THE mardi gras, such as beads and fancy costumes.
In honor of THE mardi gras, the town ropes of two whole blocks of the main
road. Two whole blocks - look out. The main attraction is the cajun band and
the food booths...that's it. And my impression, as an outsider, was the folk
of IOTA don't expand their gene pool very often. It was like a big family
reunion. It was a cornucopia of mullets, missing teeth and inbreeding.
For two solid hours we stood in the center of the main road and drank. That's
all we did. And for such a small town the port-o-potties were worst than the
ones in New Orleans. That my friends is a difficult task. I actually washed
my hands with beer to kill some of the germs. Ok, so I know that beer doesn't
kill germs, but it made me feel better.
When THE mardi gras came to town, it was 4 trucks of drunk rednecks dressed
in traditional French costumes. I'm not sure how traditional those costumes
were because they looked like colorful kkk outfits. So THE mardi gras, possibly
clan members, threw candy to the crowd. The entire day was built around this
one moment. Sigh.
At least it didn't rain today.
Mardi Gras
As you've noticed, I've fallen behind on my blogging duties, but I have a
good excuse...I've been parading. And when the party ends, today, I'll catch
you up on everything, like Red Belt Hell, Boiling Crawfish (and pineapples),
parading in B.R., N.0. and parading today in Iota!?!
See you soon!
22 February
Where are my damn beads?
I can't possible tell all the stories that need to be told. I'll start with
it was a great day. Far
superior (hee) to yesterday.
As it turns out, the crappy feeling from yesterday could have been attributed
to the sinus cold I've got now. The magic of over the counter medicine knocked
that out.
O'Dell also came down with a sinus infection, however she decided to mix her
otcm with tequila; this lead to her passing out on the sidewalk. Good times,
good times.
We caught three parades today: Thoth, Mid-City and Baccus. Just as a comparison
to yesterday's parade, Baccus one of the biggest parade of the season is 27
floats.
Our group of paraders included O'Dell, Mr O'Dell, Yankee, Mawk and myself.
In an effort to get our drink on, we made our way to Superior Bar and Grill,
where O'Dell bought her first and last drink. The rest of us drank beer left
over from the crawfish boil. We shoved it all in a backpack and it became
the unending beer backpack.
Since the parades had started and port-o-potties were close, we watched all
three parades outside of Superior. Apparently every person in New Orleans
arranged to meet someone at Superior. We heard about a dozen people screaming
into their cell, over the dj and the marching band that they were in fact
waiting outside of Superior.
Instead of having a fifty-page post about today, I've summarized the rest
of the day in snippets. If you want further explanation about anything, e-mail
me and I'll give you the full scoop.
Catch phrase: I'm at Superior!
Mawk's catch phrase: Where are my damn beads?
Worst moment: $154 parking ticket
Best value: $7 Papa John's pizza
Worst value: $3 can of Coors light
Best crazy person: Andy, the Mexican from Washington
Worst crazy person: I don't need any friends; I have too many friends already.
Best church: Episcopalians - free bathroom and beer for $2
Best stolen item: fishbowl from Copeland’s
Best slogan: Jesus is my homeboy
Worst drunk: O'Dell passing out on sidewalk
Best drunk: Yankee - he stole the fishbowl
Best fight: two sorority girls debating the term bitch and when it is most
appropriate
Worst fight: two drunk guys fighting because they're drunk
Best/worst case of mistaken identity: drunk sorority girl thought I was Mr
O'Dell's wife
Official insect: red ant
Most shocking moment: 500 inmates sweeping up trash after the parade
ramblings by Whitey on 11:56 PM
107810319256373285
Whatcha talkin' bout?
[
]
21 February
Longest. Parade. Ever
Seventy-three floats of misery. This is how I describe the Spanish Town parade.
It is the largest Mardi Gras parade in BR and the last of the season.
Usually I'm all about a long parade, it gives you a chance to catch more loot,
drink more beer, and stand in line to pee, but for the love of all things
holy! Three hours of floats?
This year’s theme, Flamingos Gone Wild!
Things might have been different if I had my 2 cups of coffee this morning,
along with some sort of breakfast. Things also might have been different if
I didn't have to get up so damn early after so damn much beer. Grumpy's a
good word. Or hung over, that's a better word. Not just me - all of us. We
were all hung over. Standing in the sun, which possibly was emitting more
burning rays than any other day in the past fifteen years, with a hangover,
and no coffee trying to catch 5-cent beads is miserable.
Mr O'Dell and Yankee beered it up to combat the sun, the noise and the headaches.
I opted for water. I really opted to leave, but since the parade route blocked
the parking garage, I was stuck until the end.
Don't get me wrong, I caught tons-o-crap but I felt like a ton of crap. I've
never been so excited for a damn parade to end. Joy of joys.
The highlight of my day was free donuts. A local donut shop was giving away
free donuts. It was the best donut I've ever tasted.
Worst moment: Getting up
Best moment: free donuts
Yuck moment: port-o-potty
Best loot: Budweiser cup
Worst loot: plastic coupon
ramblings by Whitey on 11:33 PM
107810121600363624
Whatcha talkin' bout?
[
]
20 February
Boiling
O'Dell and her mister had a crawfish boil this evening. The crawfish boil
was a welcome home for Mr O'Dell after spending a week in San Antonio. Additionally,
their friend from Idaho, let's call him Yankee, came down for a Mardi Gras
visit.
I volunteered to pick Mr O'Dell up from the airport since everyone was needed
for the setup. Honestly I think it was the easiest job around. Mawk was in
charge of the boil and everyone else was to assist. And by to assist, I mean
drink beer and watch Mawk.
So we watched Mawk do all the work and drank beer. Later we got chairs, sat
down, drank beer and watched Mawk. And Mawk drank lots of beer while toiling
over the boil.
Those were the best-looking crawfish I've ever seen. I didn't actually eat
any because I am allergic. Nope, poor me I can't eat em. Not at all.
I like to lie about being allergic. If people think you allergic, they don't
pester you into eating crawfish. Otherwise any other excuse is fair game for
someone to harass you until you eat em. The I've tried em and don't like doesn't
fly in the south.
Potatoes, corn and garlic clovers are usual side items boiled with crawfish.
However I've never seen anyone boil eggplant and pineapple. As it turns out,
O'Dell was the only person who enjoyed the weird side dishes. Later on, the
pineapple slices came in handy a sponges.
Sixty pounds of crawfish and countless beers later we ended the evening with
Mardi Gras plans for the entire weekend.
ramblings by Whitey on 11:46 PM
107810096882619609
Whatcha talkin' bout?
[
]
19 February
Stink Off
Righty and I are at war...a smelly war. We are competing in class to see
which one of us can be the stinkiest.
It all started with the fancy "runner's" shirt...the CoolMax shirt to be exact.
It lured me in with the techno-babble fabric. I decided to start wearing it
to class instead of a plain white cotton t-shirt.
According to the tag, it's specially-engineered fibers used in CoolMax® fabrics
transport perspiration away from the body to the surface of the garment, where
it can evaporate quickly. At the same time, the uniquely-shaped fibers provide
great breathability, even when wet. You stay dry. You stay comfortable.
Except I'm not dry nor I'm not comfortable. I'm soaking wet and stinky, which
is to be expected while exercising. Stinky sweat is a part of life. However
after washing said shirt, the sweat smell remains. It seems this revolutionary
fabric is impervious to washing detergent, hot water, bleach and fabric softener.
Before I discovered the smell problem with the shirt, (it actually took weeks
before the smell accumulated in the material) Righty purchased a similar shirt...because
she too is a follower.
It seems we both wore our clean, but smelly, CoolMax shirts under our uniforms
tonight. The stink amplifies when more sweat is added to the fabric creating
a super-stink; coupled with the fact that our uniforms trap then funnel the
smell up to our noses makes for a long class.
We compared the slinkiness factor after class. It seems the stink is only
limited to the wearer because I didn't smell anything from Righty and vice
versa. However Righty thinks she is the winner of this stink contest, although
no outside observer noted her smell. Righty might be competitive, but I'll
beat her on this one. I’m even competitive about who’s more competitive.
Say what you will about advances in fabric, but it seems plain old cotton
is the way to go. It gets the job done and then comes clean after the wash.
My new "heavy, canvas" uniform makes me sweat twice as much as her old, lightweight
uniform. I will be crowned the smelliest, unless the stinkkings come back
to class.
ramblings by Whitey on 10:31 PM
107773397780039166
Whatcha talkin' bout?
[
]
18 February
Is this hell?
I participated in my first red & black belt class last night. As the title
suggests, the class is for red & black belts only. I probably would have enjoyed
the class had I not also attended the previous class. Perhaps two classes
back to back is not a good idea; not yet anyway. However, all the other red
belts were doing it, so being a follower and all…
We spent the first 40 minutes of the class sparring. Since I'm a newly inducted
red belt, I am the lowest ranking student in class, which translates into,
I got my ass kicked for 40 solid minutes.
My last opponent (quite possibly the toughest) was female karate robot. She
wailed on me for several minutes. She nailed me with a spin back kick at least
a dozen times. You might think after getting hit say, oh six or seven times,
with it might cause me to anticipate her moves, no. I stepped into to it every
time.
She ended my sparring lesson with a punch to my stomach, which left me gasping
for air. Mercifully we moved on to forms. I have never been so excited to
practice forms before.
Today I am a walking bruise. In fact, I would have called in dead today but
we've got bigwigs in from out of town. For the next several days Advil is
my best friend.
16 February
A mission from Mom
And the uncle incident continues. After recapping Saturday's events for my
mother, she insists I return to the restaurant and "case the joint" - my mother
actually said that. Secret Agent woman reporting for duty.
She reamed me for several minutes about my lack of conversation with man who
could be uncle. What is wrong with me? Indeed, what is wrong with me - not
wanting to approach a stranger and inquire as to his bloodline?
She didn't seem to grasp the awkward level associated with the situation.
What do I say if it is my uncle? What up yo? So where in the hell have you
been for 9 years? Or why are you such a prick?
Better yet, what do I say to the stranger who is not my uncle? Sorry for the
confusion, I don't really know whom I'm related to.
According to my mother, Sammy's used to be one of his regular hangouts, so
the mystery builds around possible uncle man. My mother doesn't want to have
any part of the mission, but I'm supposed to return to the scene and pump
the locals for info. Where is Magnum, PI when you need him?
Next I'll plan some sort of recon mission to ascertain the identity of strange
man who could be my uncle. However, I'll need a team of trained investigators,
or at least drunk friends with no shame to assist with this situation.
15 February
TV crack
Since the unending rain began three weeks ago, Sunday's have morphed into
a lazy day. I've worked myself into a regular routine, which totally revolves
around a particular show. It just so happens, this show lasts five hours.
Ok, so the one show is a really a rerun of the week's episodes. I'm ashamed
to admit, I've become consumed with a soap opera.
It seems with all those digital channels available, there's never a decent
movie to watch on Sunday's. It started so innocently. Random flipping landed
me on SoapNet one afternoon. I swear I only watched it for a second; just
a quick glance. But then something happened or someone happened...Erica! Damn
her! Her melodramatics made me laughed, and then I scoffed.
Unknowingly I was hooked. I had to know who killed Michael Cambis? How will
Bianca hide her pregnancy? Why is TAD a Cad? It seems I'm addicted to schmaltzy
story lines, ridiculous characters and bad acting.
But who among us hasn't fallen into this trap of pointless tv? Of course most
of us out grew that phase after high school.
Soap operas are crack of the TV world. It is my scientific conclusion soap
viewers are hypnotized into a mind numbing trance. This trance becomes comforting,
calming, and maybe even peaceful. This explains how we rationalize outrageous
plot lines. Furthermore, the creators of daytime TV implant addictive viewing
suggestions while we're in this trance; thus guaranteeing return viewers.
Just look at the facts. The temptations are everywhere: previews on TV, magazine
covers at the grocery store, spoilers and recaps online. You can't avoid it
even if you try. On top of all that, the damn shows are on three times a day:
once at regular viewing time, once in early primetime and again at midnight.
Rather than fight the urge or kick the habit, I choose to give in. I will
allow myself this guilty pleasure because there seems to be no valid reason
to quit.
14 February
The man who might be my UNCLE
Say hello to the third wheel. Hello to you too! O'Dell and Mr. O'Dell invited
several people for dinner this evening; however I was the only one that actually
went with them. I was assured by Mr. O'Dell that they had no romantic notions
for the evening. Still, table for 3 on Valentine's Day?
Anyway, I suggested a small, local restaurant/bar for our dining pleasure.
Previous experience, although not recently, has taught me most moderate to
up scale restaurants are booked solid for this, the most romantic day of the
year. I intended to beat the system with my plan, but it didn't work. Hordes,
upon, hordes of people were waiting at Sammy's when we arrived. However, it
was clear that I was not the only third wheel in town. Apparently all of us
third & fifth wheels eat at Sammy's. As well as, frat boys without dates.
While waiting for our table, I noticed a man who looked vaguely familiar,
possibly my uncle. But since I haven't seen my uncle in more than 9 years,
I'm wasn't sure if it was him. You see, nine years ago my uncle disappeared.
Not all missing persons like, but more like I refuse to communicate with my
family. More like, I'm moving to away and you'll never see me again; very
much like a Lifetime movie of the week, with Meridith Baxter-Burney and Marlo
Thomas.
Let me explain. Back in 1977, my uncle and his best friend robbed a bank.
They locked all the employees in the vault and stole thousands of dollars.
They fled to Missouri, started families and hid from the law. For something
like 5 or 6 years my family had no indication if my uncle was alive or not.
We received no communication from him. The police had my grandmother's phone
tapped in case he called. Then one day for reasons unknown, the details are
sketchy here because I was a young un, he turned himself (and money) over
to the police. He went to prison for 8 or so years and moved to Virginia when
he was released.
According to my mother, my uncle is a bad, bad man. He's her brother so she
should know. However, just because your brother is a bad man doesn't mean
you love them any less, or so my mother says. I don't really know my uncle
and honesty don't care to know him. He hurt my mother and my grandparents
repeatedly with his selfish ways.
I specifially remember one conversation with my uncle where he revealed he
was the major pot dealer for all of Baton Rouge in the early 70's. I'm inclined
to think he was lying about the whole thing, but based on his previous adventures,
it was probably true.
Christmas of 95, my uncle called to borrow money from my mother. And for the
first time in her life she said no. We haven't heard or seen from him since.
My mother suspects he did something stupid and went to jail, again. This is
how she explains his absence. Occasionally she tossed out the idea he might
have died, but then relents to the jail story.
You can understand my reluctance to approach strange man, who could be my
uncle, to initiate a conversation that goes like this, “Excuse me are
you my uncle?" I'd look like a nut. Or how about this one, "you look
familiar, are we related?" How do you ask a total stranger if you're
family?
I'm not sure, but I think man who could be my uncle was working at the restaurant.
Upon reflection, I could have asked the waitress if man's name was [insert
name here] and be done with the speculation.
The story is far from over because I'll tell my about my little adventure
tomorrow and then the real drama begins. Stay tuned.
ramblings by Whitey on 10:23 PM
107712054045422072
Whatcha talkin' bout?
[
]
13 February
Seeing Red
It's official; I am now a red belt. We, as in OBC and I, have decided that
I will now become a cocky red belt instead of an arrogant green belt. Personally
I think I was born to be cocky.
We went to Fox and Hound to celebrate our new belt status. Among the usual
party goers, Lutey's father, a lapsed karate student, attended, as well as,
a new addition to our circle, let's call her Wispy. Wispy is a young, small,
wisp of a woman who looks frail, kinda Kate Moss-ish. Last year, I managed
to smack Wispy in the chest with a not so subtle side kick. In addition to
injuring her, it caused me hours of guilt for beating down a twigish woman.
Wispy seemed to enjoy the evening although I think the random sex talk surprised
her. Within my circle, random sex talk always seems to pop up (HA! pun intended)
after beer. In fact, I can't remember the last round of drinking that didn't
evolve sex talk. Hence last week's comment about tube lubing. (shout out to
mawk!) Wispy might have been on the receiving end of TMI when OBC mentioned
her "crush." Or maybe it's because OBC's crush also happens to be Wipsy's
most hated person in karate. It's probably a good thing that Wispy didn't
hear about our party favor at my end of the table.
It seems that an innocent onion ring stick became a party favor. And by party
favor I mean a tool, if you will, for the women. That onion ring stick had
more female hands on it than most of the men at out table. I'm not sure, but
I think the onion ring stick got lucky tonight.
I'm convinced men from the Lutey lineage have the uncontrollable urge to fall
for me. It's common knowledge that lil' lutey has a crush on me. It's also
possible that Dad of Lutey has the hots for me. This is not me practicing
my cockiness; this is me pointing out the obvious. DOL did mention my sassy
hair last time we saw each other. The hair, it always gets em. It's also possible
DOL is my soul mate, except for his anti-meat status.
DOL turned away from meat about a year ago for what he claims is health reasons.
I, as you know, my faithful readers, am a meat eater. The meat versus non
meat debate raged on for the entire evening. I ate chicken while DOL ate soup.
DOL criticized my meat choices while I stared disapprovingly at his cheese
soup in a bread bowl. I taunted him with bacon while he railed on Dr. Atkins.
Possibly a passionate debate between destined lovers?
DOL announced to the waitress that he was not a beer snob although it was
apparent he was, in fact, a beer snob. I decreed just weeks ago that I am
on my way to becoming a snob of vast proportions. In addition to being a beer
snob, imports only please, I am an imported (African) coffee snob, digital
cable snob and a DVD snob. Imagine my glee when he proclaimed his snobbery.
I think DOL was impressed with my vocabulary, the word pica seemed
to peak his interest. Leaving certain pieces of chicken on my plate earned
me the title of complex from my would be partner. He bought the entire table
a round of beer. He is a beer snob with deep pockets. Even his bizarre confusion
about the mirrors inside the bar warmed my heart cockles. He mistook the windows
inside for mirrors and contemplated his life long dream of meeting a vampire
in person. Sigh.
If only I can get him back on the meat wagon. Which, if my calculations prove
correct, should only take a grilled steak and bbq sauce. Oh and divorce his
wife of thirty plus years. Lutey has always praised the love of an older man,
although I doubt she would praise my love for her old man. I've always dated
men within my age range or younger. Perhaps an older, beer snob man is what
I need.
ramblings by Whitey on 11:58 PM
107695525064451900
Whatcha talkin' bout?
[
]
12 February
Quoting Donald Trump
Although my title has the word manager in it, it carries little weight around
the office. Rarely do my suggestions or comments get logged as valuable. The
word manager is simple a suggestion.
Technically my title is Project Manager; however my business cards are printed
with the title of Program Manager. THE WOMAN made a mistake (gasp!) last year
when ordering my cards and has yet to rectify the error. I have asked for
cards with the appropriate title, but was reprimanded with a lecture about
using my current supply before new cards will be ordered.
Although I do manage several full-time staff members, my manager title only
seems to matter when concerning student workers. My word is law in the world
of the student worker (evil laughter ensues!). After weeks of struggling with
the decision, I decided to fire a student today. It wasn't an easy decision,
but one I felt was necessary to keep my department on track.
I mentally prepared for days; rehearsing what needed to be said and how it
should be said. I didn't want to come across as a cruel ogre but also didn't
want to seem overly sympatric. I made a promise to myself not to use the word
"sorry" in anytime during the firing process. For me, using sorry while firing
someone is a total cop-out. If I'm truly sorry, why would I fire them?
I tried to be honest and factual when I laid the smack-down on my student
worker. The whole event went remarkably well even though I was nervous. No
matter what anyone tells you, firing someone from their job isn't easy - unless
the employee is a complete dirt bag thief.
Strange, but I'm a better manager for having fired someone. I will also add
that little nugget to my resume for future reference.
ramblings by Whitey on 10:14 PM
107695187812827174
Whatcha talkin' bout?
[
]
10 February
Sasha's Party
Sasha is one year old today. Yeah! In honor of her birthday, Litch threw
her a birthday party and invited Fritter join in the celebration. You can
understand how exciting this is for Fritter because she's never been to a
birthday party before.
Fritter was anxious at first because she didn't know anyone at the party,
but she was welcomed into Sasha's circle of friends after several minutes
of butt sniffing. After the introductions were made, Sasha gave everyone a
tour of her house and her toys.
As it turns out, Fritter is a bully. Ok that's just not true, but one of the
guests, Heidi, was a bitch. It seems both Fritter and I have issues with Heidi's
of the world. Unlike me, Fritter didn't take any crap from Heidi. If she wasn't
barking demonically at her, she chased her around the house nipping at her.
But she didn't let that bitch ruin her day, she frollicked with Zoe, frightened
Ginger and ignored the guest of honor Sasha.
Since Fritter had such a good time, I'm thinking about throwing her a party
for her 3rd birthday. Check out the photos from Sasha's party.
09 February
Once you go black...
In honor of my upcoming promotion to red belt, I decided to paint my nails
black. Ok, so maybe red should be the color of choice here, but since a black
belt is my ultimate goal, black it is. Motivation by color. That's my latest
philosophy, but it sounds an awful lot like Color Me Beautiful - uber 80's
trend. Anyway, my philosophy is sort like dressing for success or dressing
for the position you want not the one you have. I'm coloring my nails for
the rank I want to achieve.
However I never, ever, paint my fingernails...until now. Why now? Why not?
Some consider this trendy, yet others, consider it Goth. I'm in the trendy
camp. Dave Navarro paints his nails black. Kelly from BH 90210 painted her
nails black and she was the extreme opposite of Goth. Errr, perhaps using
an example from 90's TV drama is not the way to build a case for trendy.
Musicians and the color black go way back. In fact, can you be a musician
and not wear black? Isn't in the rules of cool, somewhere? Cool or trendy,
yeah that's it; but that's not it at work. With the exception of Mawk (rock
on!), the overall opinion is WTF? I even wore a concert t-shirt to work today.
Concert t-shirt, jeans and black nails - epitome of cool, right?
My boss, THE WOMAN, said I look witchy. Others continue to dote on the Goth
reference although I'm clearly not Goth. In fact I'm so white-bread conservative
there's a picture of me in the dictionary under white-bread conservative.
Some co-workers even hate my nails. Apparently the color distracts them so
much they can't concentrate on anything other than my nails. So in the spirit
of being childish, I've decided to keep em for at a spell. HA! witch pun intended!
Yes I'm keeping them this color because other people hate the color. Yes I'm
childish, but it feels good.
ramblings by Whitey on 11:00 PM
107664860343519164
Whatcha talkin' bout?
[
]
08 February
TV learnin'
Hi, my name is Whitey and I watch TV. There I said. Everything is out in
the open. I feel much better.
If you believe THE popular opinion, many folk believe too much tube is bad
for you. This is simply not true. Many a valuable lesson can be learned from
television. I can hear the disbelievers demanding an example, so allow me
to pull from personal experience where television learning provided a positive
statistic.
In high school, I was on the first and only quiz bowl team. You do know what
a quiz bowl is, right? Competing teams of nerds, dorks and brainiacs try to
out think each other with trivial, yet, sometime historical, information.
I think prizes were involved, but since we never won a match... Did I mention
we were the school's first and only team? I blame the team captain (looking
at you GVER).
So I know what you're thinking now; your suspicions are finally confirmed,
I was a nerd. A nerd on the quiz bowl. Sigh.
At a key match against bitter rivals BR Magnet, television led me to victory.
Notice I said me, not the team, I think we lost. Anyway the question was "What's
the name of London's biggest airport?" Nary a sole raised their hand
for their minds were blank, except mine. With mechanical precision, I buzzed
in with "Heathrow." But the real question is how did I know that
answer? - not from any book or lesson in school. No siree. Dr. Who was my
salvation. Hours upon hours of quality sci-fi entertainment lead me to this
small victory.
Quiz bowl + Dr. Who = super nerd
My point being, television can and does provide entertainment, as well as,
valuable information. Always striving for valuable information, I decide to
upgrade my subscription to digital cable. Digital cable assures me that I
am learning, at the highest possible capacity, on a daily basis.
After being a proud digital cable subscriber for a month plus, I have some
gripes. Are you surprised? All learning aside, you can not tape one show while
watching another. It seems cheap basic cable is very compatible with VCRs
but move up the tier, and all vcr options disappear. Digital cable is finicky
that way. Ok, so I'll travel back in time to the age of the dinosaurs and
limited recording vs. watching time. Since we're on the subject, my VCR qualifies
as a T Rex.
Back in the day, my VCR was the shit. It came to me as gift in 1996, proud,
black and new. It was quite the recording savior. But when I tried to add
the new channels to the VCR system, the auto add stopped at channel 125. I
tried to manually add the new stations but it rejects any entry over 125.
I just wanted to add a few key stations, i.e. movie channels. Which, if you
think about it is totally silly. Everyone knows they replay the same movies
over and over repeatedly unless it's a movie you've never seen and actually
try to schedule time to watch it.
I have unsuccessfully tried to watch The Hours and K: 19 The Widowmaker for
a month. Both movies are on about five hundred fifty five times a day, but
I can never catch em in the beginning. I refuse to pickup in the middle of
an unseen movie. I must watch the entire thing from beginning to glorious
end.
My quest for knowledge has been usurped by an outdated vcr. Lucky for me my
quiz bowl days are in my past, along with my best tv learning.
06 February
Want your tube lubed?
Yes, it is exactly what you are thinking.
05 February
Let Me Show You Something!
Allow me to share my karate wisdom with you, as I did with a small group
this evening. My cup runnth over...my karate cup that is. I taught class for
the first time...ever.
I've migrated into the world of senior student although my official red belt
promotion is 1 week away. Perhaps all that arrogance as a green belt has paid
off. (looking at you OBC)
While my instructor held a make up test for other students, I gloriously lead
everyone else through basics and forms. However, my favorite moment was when
I was told we were too loud. To completely understand this comment, you must
understand it is our goal to always be as loud as possible. And to be told
that our group was too loud was an extreme compliment.
I'd like to thank Righty for her efforts with the new white belt. I'd like
to thank KJ for the routine I stole. I'd like to thank Red Belt From Hell
for being a bitch.
03 February
Wanted: advice
Looking for answers to life's little questions? It seems that I am more than
qualified to dole out advice on several topics. According to my log files,
surfers of the world wide web need answers that only I can answer.
It seems I can assist with you fashion dilemmas. Several surfers wanted to
know:
how to get semen stains out of clothes?or where they could
find a p diddy pinky ring
Maybe you need help determining your personality traits: are you a
Neanderthal?
Perhaps you need cooking tips: how long does it take to fry chicken?
Or it's possible you need a professional to answer heath questions:
crabs foam at the mouth or my personal favorite my
ovaries are diseased.
Through the power of the internet, you too can find worthless information
on important topics. I'm proud to offer this valuable service to the world.
ramblings by Whitey on 10:23 AM
107591272672288062
Whatcha talkin' bout?
[
]
02 February
Personal space invader
The Powers That Be closed ghetto Wal-Mart and opened Super Ghetto Wal-Mart.
As a loyal shopper, I made my Mecca to the new store this evening, along with
every other person in city. Nothing brings a crowd together like the grand
opening of Wal-Mart. Yee-haw! Damn this city is boring.
Somehow I got lured into the "excitement" of it all. Ok, not really. I needed
to go grocery shopping and I usually hit Super Wal-Mart, just not this location.
It still sounds pathetic.
The shelves were stocked, the buggies were new and floors were clean. In a
bizarre way, the whole experience felt unnatural.
The powers that be made a very poor estimate of projected sales because only
half of the available registers were open, lines of hell. As I waited, a teenager
girl in her McDonald's uniform got in line behind me. And by behind me I mean
within two inches of me. This girl, let's call her PickPocket, stood so close
to me I could feel her exhale.
You know my rules for engagement:
1. no hugging
2. no touching and (here's a new one)
3. don't invade my personal space.
I don't take kindly to people violating any of the above rules.
PickPocket is making me feel very uncomfortable, which, I think, is her goal.
I can only speculate as to her reasoning, but maybe, just maybe, if she got
close enough to me I'd move my buggy up in line. However, I was trapped; there
was no more room to advance.
Then I thought, hey my money is in my pockets. I didn't bother to bring my
purse inside and she knows it. She can clearly she there's no purse in the
buggy or on my shoulder. She knows! She knows my money is in my pockets. Son
of a...
As I stood there with her breathing on me, I got mad. I got mad that she wouldn't
back up; I got mad that she was succeeding in her quest to make me uncomfortable.
I got mad that she might try to pick my pocket. I started to formulate a plan
just in case she made a go for my money. [elbow to head, wrist twist, leg
sweep, arm lockout, my foot firmly planted on her shoulder]
I tried shifting slightly, hoping she might move, but she didn't budge. I
shifted again. Damn! I turned slightly to examine the candy selection at my
left. She moved! She moved! Directly behind me. So the check out counter is
to my right, the candy is in front, and she is still standing behind me. What
the hell? It's like she is my Siamese twin attached at my ass.
After I twisted back towards the check out counter, she followed my motions
and was again standing within inches of me.
You might wonder, why don't you just say something to her?I thought
about that, for about a second. But I was afraid she'd cause a scene. You
know what I'm talking about. The kind of person who would make a big production
out of a simple, polite request on my part.
So I stood in line, mad and uncomfortable until it was my turn to place items
on the counter. I got my revenge though, yes I did. Before leaving I gave
her THE LOOK. That's right, THE LOOK. It's says, hey you, go to hell.
The lesson learned today is next time a personal space invader is inches from
you, accidentally drop something on the floor, bend down to pick it up and
make sure your butt brushes against them. I think that move is more powerful
than any look.
ramblings by Whitey on 11:34 PM
107578655525544423
Whatcha talkin' bout?
[
]
01 February
Super Sassy Sunday
Can you feel the love for my hair? Well I can. Since I haven't mentioned
my hair in two weeks, it's about time for a sassy update.
My sister had her annual superbowl party this evening and my sassy hair was
a topic of conversation. Would you expect anything less?
My stylish hair mesmerized my sister’s friends. I received a lot of ooohs
and ahhs upon entering the room. Then I proceeded to give a sassy lesson to
interested parties.
Although it was a football party, not many of us actually watched the game.
Some people, mostly the women, only watched the commercials. I watched a little
of both...until I found the peanut butter cookies. The rest of the world disappeared
while I found true love in the form of a warm, small cookie. Thing is, one
cookie was not enough. Hell five cookies weren't enough. I really just wanted
to stand in front of the cookies and eat the entire plate. It's quite the
party trick to gorge yourself on only one food without the other guests noticing
your feeding frenzy.
Try this technique for eating food away from the watchful eye of partygoers:
Pick up one cookie, move into separate room, eat cookie. Make your way back
into food room, pick up one cookie, quickly eat it, and leave room. Count
to ten, go get another cookie, eat it on the way to another room. You get
the idea. The goal was to make the rounds, grab a cookie, move to another
room, circle back and grab another cookie. I successfully ate half a plate
of cookie with this maneuvering. (Oh shut up, they were only the size of $.50
pieces)
When I wasn't eating cookies, I had to talk to people. Sigh.
You might be shocked to read this, but I'm not a Chatty Kathy. I like to lurk
in the shadows and mock people from the safety of the internet. Unfortunately
as hard as I try, sometimes I get trapped into boring conversations.
The only thing worse than a boring conversation is a boring conversation with
a drunk person. One of my sister's friends trapped me mid cookie in a conversation
about...crap it was so boring I can't even remember. Anyway, not only was
she drunk but she was touchy-feely drunk. She laughed at something that wasn't
funny, then grabbed my hand. She laughed at something that wasn't funny again
then grabbed my forearm. To be fair, drunk-touchy women was touching a lot
of people, but they were also drunk.
Let's reminisce about my hugging policy - no. My policy on being touched by
strangers is very similar - no.
"Are there any extraneous items in that dish?" - asked concerned male partygoer
to surrounding women. The crowd pauses unsure of what in the hell he means.
He pointed to a dish covered with pecans. It looked like cream cheese covered
with some red jellyish stuff topped with pecans, but what do I know. What
extraneous items? Who describes food as extraneous?
"Why don't you tell me what you're worried about?" - said thoughtful female
partygoer. Then he said the unexpected, "mayonnaise, it looks like it's made
with mayonnaise." What the hell? Mayonnaise? Seriously? Who makes a desert
dish with pecans and mayonnaise?
To quote Mogoto - "I feel like I'm taking crazy pills!"
|
|