How the Brave New World Arrives

Ringing in the new year for me involved geekdom (see right), a bottle of corked champagne, and... um... let's just say the Dropping of the Ball. Good times. Not the worst NYE on record, not by a long shot, but a pretty mellow one. Kind of how I like it though -- the roads of this town often look like the Zombie Apocalpse at about 2am on NYD. Staggering half-wits wandering out into the streets. Now mind you, we're talking 'Night of the Living Dead' zombies and not '28 Days Later' zombies.

I'm up in the Air

If you look out your plane window, and see labels on the wing, written in what appears to be Brother P-Touch, is that bad?

This one on the right says "Boost Pump" -- good to know. I wondered where I'd left that thing.


Conversely, the one to the left says "No Step Aft", and has a line that one can only assume you should not step aft of. All good, but if you were not supposed to, oh, step aft of a particular line on a 737 wing, wouldn't you want the label to be a skosh more permanent?

Up For Breakfast So Early In The Morning

Seen at one of my local Mickey D's. What happened to quality control here, folks? Times must change, but standards must remain.

I Know Where You've Been, I Saw You Walk in Your Door

I was at BFE's holiday party Tuesday night -- the annual hilarity of the Grab Bag Gift Exchange was up to its usual high standards (with a room full of improvisers, it was every bit the bit-fest one would expect). I walked away with a $15 iTunes gift card, which I traded to get (the original recipient does not have an iPod, so I gave her my girly bath stuff that I received).

The problem is, I am not an Improviser. I am not a Company Member. I am the Wife of a Company Member (okay, the Fiancée of a Company Member) -- as such, I go to a fair amount of shows and events related to The Company, and have seen all of these people Perform. So I know all their names, and have zero clue which of them know mine, or even know why I am there. Under normal circumstances, I find it hard to not act overly familiar with them -- I've seen them a million times, but as Random Audience Member.

Not surprisingly, many of them are also bloggers. And I have been known on occasion to read said blogs, and have learned all kinds of personal information about them as a result. So now, what was an already weird moment for me (being overly familiar with them just because I saw them in a bunch of shows) has become a Super Weird Moment because of all the personal details I'm now privy to. I know their kids names, where their parents live, what they ate this week, that their uncle/cousin/cat/career is dying, and other esoteric info... and the desire to comment on it when I see the bloggers in question becomes overwhelming. I want to make Overt Reader statements ("I loved what you wrote about peanut butter sandwiches - it really spoke to me") and Processed Information statements ("If it helps, our vet put the cat on the Waltham SO dry food, and it really seems to help with the seizures"). Either way, I am afraid they're going to get weirded out by the fact that I read their blogs, which is either insane of me to think or insane of them to do. Insane of me because their blog is public, and why make it public if you don't want it read? Insane of them for, well, the same reason.

It's not just BFE's co-workers blogs, though -- I have friends with blogs, friends who know I read their blogs, and I still blanche when I catch myself starting a reference to something I've read there. Why? I think it's something like getting caught in a lie -- if I say "Miette is so cute" and the blogger in question all of a sudden thinks "Wait... I never told her about Miette" then I come off as a stalker (which I'm not) rather than an information whore (which I am).

I think the answer may be Gratiuitous Comments. From now on, I am going to write comments on every post of every blog I read. They'll probably be more of Type 2 than Type 1, but even if it's just me commenting "Werd" on each & every post, at least that way the blogger in question will know that I read their shit. And THEN the conversation we'll have will be less "Wait, how did she know about my boob itch?" and more "Hey there, Inanegirl McCommentsmuch... back off a lits. Just a skosh."

Down Along Division Street

So we had our company's holiday luncheon Thursday the 14th -- traditionally, it takes place on a Thursday because the post-party is at Butch's, and many have a hard time making it in to work the next day. This is the ceiling of one of the rooms at Butch's -- I fell instantly in love with the place because of this ceiling. It reminds me of Indian restaurants in New York City, with all the lights and lanterns and crap? The first time I experienced same, I was delighted -- arriving at Butch's, I felt much the same way, despite the substitution of Xmas-y stuffed animals for the lanterns. It's a particularly fun choice for a bar, with the sense of play it creates. They tell me the lights are only seasonal, though, which makes me a little sad.


Last year was my first holiday luncheon, and I was feeling puny so bowed out before the post-party. This year I had to therefore help make up for lost time... and I would say I did. Feeling shockingly fine today, so either I drank the right combination of things (mostly Harp and Irish Car Bombs -- thanks, Juice), or just got lucky. Could just be that because I am an extremely lucid drunk, and am not prone to drunken sloppiness.

This brings to mind the recent conversations I have had about Corporate Policy -- I've read any number of news blurbs about people getting fired for blog content, and now when I read or write blog entries, I think "Is this sentence actionable?" It's effed, but it's true. So do I blog about this post-party? Do I blog about which co-workers fell down, or peed themselves, or made out in the basement (sorry, Ho-larm)? No. Because it would be wrong. Narf.

Mama's Pearl

So I broke down tonight and bought the new Blackberry Pearl. Was tired of weird glitchy things with my old 7100T, most of which may be attributable to several recent droppings thereof -- one, awkwardly, during an already strained call with my mother, caused the device to hang for about 10 mins, and even then it would not allow me to call out for another 5. I'm sure she thought I had hung up on her, and am surprised she spoke with me at all when I finally got her on the phone.

The major perk is the long-awaited addition of a camera feature -- love it. Loving this device in general so far -- set-up was incredibly easy, and now it's just about tweaking things to get them the way I like them.

And now I can finally take part in Project 365 if I want. :)

Oooh, and notice the sad glow of the cast-off 7100T in the background... that thing is so going to murder me in my sleep. In the horror version movie of my life, that is -- every pic I take with Pearl will be fine and normal, but then when I look at the image, the 7100T is looming somewhere in the background, perhaps ever closer in each image. Spooky.

If I Should Fail, If I Should Fold

Feeling really unmotivated right now. The wedding planning is coming together, so that I am excited about, but I feel otherwise really off-track and uncentered right now. And strangely cognizant that there must be hundreds of bloggers out there right now with at least one post of this ilk in their archives.

Why is lack of motivation and/or desire to get re-motivated not enough in and of itself to jump-start motivation? Wanting the thing is not enough. It is not the missing flint. And in many ways, it is it's own vacuum. Motivation is like love, it is a form of self-love [insert masturbation or auto-fellatio joke here]. And like love, wanting it does not make it so. You can sit at home and type into your blog all you want about you are ready for love, and how you want love in your life, but love does not fall into your lap. Love is a set of circumstances, bound by timing and mindset and fortune and sheer will, and then lit by a spark.

Maybe that's why I collected Zippos all those years. Who knew?

On The Black Satin Sheets...

Which NICOLE KIDMAN Character Are You?

"Satine" in MOULIN ROUGE! You're not just a star in your own mind, you're the real deal. Beautiful, talented, and gorgeous. But life is short: stop worrying about money and fame. Above all things, life for love. Take this quiz!

So basically I'm a tuberculosis-ridden whore...

In The Cold November Rain...

This picture hurts me...

What We Got Is Hotcakes

Hubba, hubba, hubba!

So now it looks like I'm going to have to do this thing... people are donating like hotcakes.* Guess that means I should train, huh? Actually, I confirmed that the high-rise I work in has stair access, so it's all about getting out several floors early and walking up the rest of the way. Then I just need to keep increasing the number of floors.

When I was a kid, the Hancock was my attraction of choice -- I used to love it, and got giddily excited every time we came around the bend on LSD and it came into view. Heidi and I went to the Observatory a few years ago for what was my first trip back up since the '70s -- I suddenly felt like I was five again. Giddy. Mesmerized.

Recently BFE and I had dinner at the Signature Room, and it was hard not to get that same feeling. I damn well love this building, so I am super excited to be climbing up 52 flights of it. This is of course intellectual/emotional excitement, not so much physical excitement. Because it's gonna suck. And then, it will be over, and it will be awesome again.

So give me money.

* Wouldn't it be awesome if you could donate hotcakes? Mmmm. Or Zücker waffles. Delicious and altruistic. They're altruicious! (TM)

Waiving Your Banner

Okay, so not being someone who knows much about writing in HTML, but still being someone that is pretty quick on the uptake, I've spent the past couple of days hacking the Blogger templates to modify they look and feel of 'Blah and Deee' -- isn't it sexy? SAY YES!

Inevitably this is how I approach computers... I turn my head & play dumb for a while, then quick-like-bunny teach myself til I'm current, then turn my head again. It's kind of how I approach laundry: Wait til too much has piled up, then do 48 hours of laundry, then let it all pile up again because the memory of the Launderfest 2006 is still too fresh and painful to risk getting a little All in it.

Dork.

Sleeping With The Television On

BFE just woke up from his TV-induced slumber on the sofa. He asks me "How did it end?" but I've been researching blogging tools/web hosting, and was not watching his programme. If anyone has any recommendations -- for blogging tools or if you know how 'it' ended -- please send me a message.

Suffering Until Suffrage

Prepping to vote tomorrow. Because I can. What say we all go out there & protect our rights? C'mon, America!*

*Pee before you get in line, though. I believe, though I am not certain, that peeing down your leg while in line to vote means your ballot is automatically converted to a 100% Republican slate. Of course if you ARE Republican, you can just save yourself some time by peeing down your leg as soon as you get in there. That's democracy in action.

When You're All Alone (With a Loaf of Bread)

Another reason the Japanese are kicking our asses: Kogepan.

I, You, and Everyone We Knew

Senioritis kicked in for me mid-November of my senior year of HS. I was already accepted to the college of my choice -- that is, to the college of my second choice. My first choice was ruled out when my mom said I could not go to an out-of-town college because "[she was] not going to scrimp and save to put [me] through school while [I] ran around with [my] friends." Think that would make a kid bitter? Oh, I was bitter -- I was soaking in it, like a finger-bath of negative-energy Palmolive.

By the time graduation rolled around, I did not even want to attend the ceremony. There are pictures of me on Graduation Day looking surly as hell because I was being made to walk. I wanted them to mail me my diploma. I wanted out. And I sure as hell did not want to see 99% of those fuckers again. [Note: With 698 people in my graduating class, that means I wanted to only ever see about 7 of them again. Sounds about right.]

By the time my 10 year reunion rolled around, I had warmed to the idea. Again, I love transformation (in a time-lapse-photography sort of way, not a Francis Dolarhyde sort of way), and although one decade is not as marked a metamorphosis as two, I suddenly wanted to see how we all turned out. At the time, though, I was playing Winnifred in Once Upon A Mattress -- stranded in Michigan with no understudy, and the reunion was the middle weekend of our run.

So now, as a result, I am bizarrely hunting down my classmates on purpose, trying to assist the 20-year reunion point person with tracking down my whole class. Some of it so far has been fun. Some has been bizarre. But I'm looking perversely forward to seeing us all in August. Of course for me, with my work, I will only be able to run out there for the weekend, hopefully with BFE (BHE by then), but how long to I really need to ogle these folks for anyway?

Ticking Away With Me

Ever want to fake a post date/time? I just discovered all you have to do is log on, safe a blank draft, and then complete the post later. It will list the finished post as being written on the day and time you saved that first draft, even if the post was completed days later. Bastard people!

It's a Little Too Little, and You're a Little Too Late

So I just now discovered this... BOO! Talk about missing your window of opportunity. I want free shit too! Brilliant idea, though. Especially for people like me that forget for weeks at a time that they have a blog or three.

I Woke Up at Seven and My Body Was Vibrating

So yesterday morning I was up at 7am for a dental appt -- my current employer provides for medical but NOT dental insurance, so dental's out of pocket these days. Hey, at least I have medical, right? A teeth cleaning two weeks ago resulted in the need for a small filling in my #30 molar -- quoted to me as a $185 expense. Prior to Tuesday, mind you, I wouldn't know my #30 molar from my #31 molar, but since I now do (it's you third molar from the back on the lower right, starting with your wisdom tooth), I figured a little specificity here might endear me to any dental school geeks that may be reading, possibly resulting in future dental discounts.

Now that I pay out of pocket, I am back with my formerly-beloved dentist -- figure shit, I might as well enjoy paying someone, right? Since my last visit to them, they've renovated the building -- everything from the street-level entrance to the elevator banks to the in-cubicle TV for the patients. Not gone is the waterfall in the lobby. My chiropractor has one too. Between these two water features and the Drinkwell Pet Fountain we have at home, I may never stop peeing.

Turns out one filling became four, to the tune of $410 -- there were two other spots that were iffy, and rather than come back in 6 months and be shot full of novocaine again, my dentist and I agreed to do them all now while the decay was microscopic. Plus, while he was in there, he pulled out a silver filling in a tooth he was already working on and replaced it with tooth-colored amalgam. So now the entire lower right quadrant of my mouth is pristine. Again, for $410.

They asked me if I wanted the TV on, to watch while I waited for the novocaine to take effect (and the topical anesthetic before that) -- I said sure, and when they asked me if the Today show was okay, I said yes. What the hell, it's like 830am in the morning, it's not like I'm going to find Electric Company on, so Today will do. In their studio (because it was cold as tits outside), they had little miss Kellie "What's a calimari?" Pickler on, singing the first single off her post-American Idol debut album -- a little ditty called "My Red High Heels" that Kellie told Billboard online she just (co-)whipped together at the last minute because she felt the album needed a shoe anthem (I shit you not). Thank god (or Yuck Mouth) I was there to see the live performance.

Kellie comes out looking a little puffier than usual, which enough upper-arm pudge to make me send her a silent prayer titled "Be Careful, Lest You Go Where I Hath Gone (Requiem for Sleeveless Shirts)." She was wearing a shapeless black shift dress, that besides being neither a little bit country nor a little bit rock-n-roll, was completely unflattering to her bustline or cute little figure. This of course further supporting my theory that the figure has become less little and/or cute. Accompanying this disaster was a pair of black opaque tights. Lest anyone in Middle America think she has become a Koken, she set all this off with her platinum hair pulled back in a severe ponytail* and enough makeup to render her slightly unrecognizable. Oh, and ubiquitous red high heels... mary janes, to be precise.

The song? Forgettable. The song, the look of the band, the lamentable styling** on Ms Pickler... all of it made the performance seem like a bad public access show. She overworked the camera, in that Early Tori Amos way that makes female singers seem more psycho than confident. And, laughably, about six people applauded at the end of the performance -- since they were not outside at their performance stage, there was no audience except a couple of crew, a stage manager, and probably Kellie's reps (including her stylist/saboteur), and therefore hardly anytone to applaud. Made it all the more Public Access-like. Hell, even Chic-A-Go-Go acts draw a warmer response.

Luckily, other than Kellie, all I had to sit through was Matt Lauer's interview with Tim Allen, and a story about a little girl with brain tumors -- she and her family raised $4.5 mil for her local Texas hospital to buy their own copy of the machine that enabled doctors to save her life. It was a heartwarming tale bookended by Meredith Viera, who then introduced the folks in charge of the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade -- they informed the now-twelve year old that she was being awarded the honor of Grand Marshall or Chief String-Holder or whatever for the parade. Oh, and they have her a coupon for a free Caramel Coolatta from her local Dunkin Donuts. Okay, I made that last bit up, but wouldn't that be awesome? "Hey, congrats on beating The Cancer! Here's a coupon for a free box of Munchkins!"

*The hair is extensions, I'd bet my fup on it. Don't believe me? Watch the actual music video and tell me that's not extensions she's sporting these days.

** We've got one of two problems on our hands: Either they're letting her dress herself (MISTAAAAKE!), or her stylist hates her. Either way, everything that was charming about this girl has been spackled over.

Stay In Motion, Keep An Open Mind

So today, I inexplicably signed up for the Hustle Up The Hancock half climb. I have never done ANYTHING like this before, only walked a couple of 5Ks, that sort of thing. It's terrifying in a good way. Gives me a nice tangible goal pre-wedding to train for -- it's one thing to be going to the trainer with the wedding in mind, but another to have something that requires training, you know? I mean, I don't have to train for my wedding, other than perhaps getting my tolerance up for booze and dysfunction.*

So wish me luck. Or, better yet, throw me a bone. No donation is too small -- would you buy me a latte? Pledge the $3 instead.

* Please note that the aforementioned dysfunction refers not to my wedding, my marriage, or BFE. It refers instead to my family, his family, and the zombie apocalypse that may occur as a result of putting both of said familial units in the same room together. Then again, there are few things that I love more than a good zombie apocalypse....

I Really Can't Exist if You Don't See Me

So I know I have spoken before of my invisibility... I've been out on the streets at lunch with Amy & Sarah and wound up getting walked through recently. But THIS is taking things to a new and ridiculous level:

HowManyOfMe.com

There are: 0 people with my name in the U.S.A. How many have your name?

Descarte would love me. :)