Usually my family does some sort of secular-type activity involving food, like breakfast or brunch or second breakfast or elevenses. But this year, perhaps in keeping with their New Year's resolution to be crappy parents, my Mom and Dad totally ditched us to go hang out with their friends who have a hot tub. Oh yeah? Well, two can play at that game, progenitors. If you need me, I'll be sitting alone in my shitty little bathtub that's incapable of filling to a satisfying water level, shoving cold ham into my mouth and crying. Jealous? Too bad. You can't come.
Anyhoo. Yesterday was actually a very enjoyable day for me, despite any rumors you may have heard about crying in bathtubs. I had a very satisfying workout sesh (that's what we call them in The Business), followed by a very pleasant afternoon spent sitting on a bar patio, drinking my drank and reading a book. Did I mention that the weather was fucking fantastic? Well, it was. And we all know how I feel about pleasant weather: it's pleasant. After I was nice and liquored up, I went for a leisurely drive around town with all the car windows down, singing along to The Rolling Stones. Just kidding about that last sentence--I would never be so irresponsible. It was The Beatles.
After careening home, I took a brief nap on the couch (a feat of which I'm rarely capable) and then it was off for a walk around my various neighborhood parks, complete with the continuing perfect weather.
Oh, but wait--you thought Easter was over, didn't you? Or maybe you were just hoping that I was done with my mundane blabberings? Well, as Zombie Jesus would say (and in keeping with the spirit of the day): "Fuck you, I'm still talking."
So. After I got home from my fabulous walk (which, I'm proud to say, only involved one random car honking at my hott azzz), The Mister and I went over to a newly opened establishment, the ABQ Brew Pub, in order to watch the first Sox/Yankees game of the season and eat some schmancy, expensive appetizers (which were actually pretty good--we were just feeling a little cheap at that moment). It was a great game (for those of you who can actually pay attention to baseball on TV--I am not counted among you, however) and a very pleasant way to end a long, hard day of Easter worship.
Oh, wait! I almost forgot the most important part of the whole day: I was able to wear my hair in Heidi braids (what I like to call "milkmaid braids") for the very first time! This is a most exciting development, my friends, as this hairstyle was the original inspiration for growing my hair long. So, from now on, you can expect to see me with a glorious hair-crown atop my head at all times. Or at least until I get too lazy and/or hot once the summer hits and then chop off my ridiculously thick hair.
And for this, I thank you, Zombie Jesus. Great weather, relaxing activities, and awesome hairdos: you made the day of Your resurrection a truly glorious experience.
Alright, back to business. I promised you some epic tales of nerdery and I shall not disappoint.
However, on a side note, I have to say that I'm not entirely confident in my ability to properly convey the ridiculousness in all its glory. The thing that's both awesome and frustrating about being a keen observer (or, you know, at least a ruthless judger) of human interactions is that there are so many weird subtleties--from tone of voice to minute changes in facial expression to the general feeling the interaction creates--that are hard to communicate and that are also an integral part of the scene.
I frequently think (as I'm bumbling through a mangled explanation of some awferful [awful + wonderful] situation), "Why can't you just be inside my brain!?" Because then I wouldn't have to explain all this shit--you could just know--and then also you could experience firsthand the wonder that is Bored Sarah's Magical Food Dance Party Imagination Time--everyone wins! (Sometimes referred to as a win-win-win style of conflict resolution.)
But back to the point of all this: nerds in class.
Obviously, being exposed to the extremely nerdy is to be expected when one is going to school for computer stuff (and yes, that's a technical term); I labor under no illusions to the contrary. Somehow, however, I'm experiencing a heretofore unimaginable level of nerdom in my Flash class. The first few days of exposure I surprised myself by actually enjoying the nerdly goings on. "Perhaps," I thought, "I'm turning over a new leaf! Maybe I'm maturing and learning to appreciate the wonderful variety of human expression!" A few days later, of course, things were back to their normal, immediately-get-annoyed-and-yet-find-myself-compelled-to-observe state. No need to worry.
So. Let me just tell you. Nerds.
There are most definitely nerds scattered throughout the classroom, but I think I've somehow managed to seat myself in some kind of Nerdmuda Triangle; I'm hemmed in on all sides. (But, actually, I'm glad that I'm not on the other side of the room, as, apparently, it's home to a small cadre of crazy alterna-xTiAnS who somehow manage to work Jesus into all of their animation projects. And talk about how Ben Stein/creationism are awesome. And how Obama is a commie. And how global warming isn't real, because "come on; the climate existed before people!" [How many days before? Like, four, by their extremely accurate Biblical reckoning? Maybe I should ask...])
Okay, so, there are three dudes that sit behind me who comprise a kind of nerd variety pack. There's the wispy mustachioed, anime-obsessed "ethnic" one; the "slightly less ethnic" comic book fatty, complete with constant, overly loud comments/jokes (which are immediately punctuated with his own awkward laughter); and the white, trying-to-look-normie-but-isn't-quite-succeeding general variety of nerd guy. The conversations back there generally consist of swapping various nerd-related suggestions (video game tips, pocket protector recommendations, etc.), spiked with a healthy dose of that weird one-upmanship (concerning things that no one should be proud of) of which nerds seem so fond.
A typical interaction goes like this:
Variety Pack Nerd #1: ...blahblahblah, something about how I like to eat ramen.
VPN #2: Well, have you ever had REAL ramen??
VPN #1: [said immediately, in a defensive/trying-to-sound-cool voice] Yes!
VPN #2: Well, my friend TOSHIKO, who's JAPANESE blahblahblah...
(This continues on for a good while, all the dudes attempting to establish their Dominance of Lame.)
Then there's the girl that sits next to me. I'm guessing she's all of 18 and has no idea what to do with the gigantic boobz with which she's been blessed. Pasty skin, stringy hair, and bad glasses (as distinguished from good glasses--which I, of course, wear); spends the whole time the teacher is lecturing drawing crappy anime pictures/fine tuning random, poorly spelled "sassy" statements (like the kind you see on t-shirts worn by annoying 12-year-olds) such as "To cute to care!" and "I stoped listening a hour ago." She is also responsible for one of my favorite animations thus far produced in the class: a scorpion blasting off in a rocket ship, followed by the words "Black Scorpion Cop. [I think she's trying to abbreviate "corporation"]: To the stars and beond!" Awesome.
Although she's not generally a part of the Variety Pack's conversations, sometimes she just can't help herself and has to turn around and insert her own proclamations of (her perceived) awesomeness:
Variety Pack Nerd #1: ...blahblahblah something about a videogame...
Nerd Girl with Big Boobz: [not actually a part of the conversation, but has obviously been listening, and so must swivel around to face the back row] I've beaten almost all the levels!
VPN #2: Yeahhhh [spoken in a drawn-out, obviously contrived "casual" tone], I've gotten 7,498 level-4 griffin-mage points [or something] already.
VPN #1: [again, said super "casually"] Oh, really? I'm up to 9,000.
NGBB: I would have 9,000, except that I don't want to have that many [or something equally ridiculous and defensive]...
The thing is, I have infinitely more respect for the Variety Pack than for NGBB--based solely on their higher level of intelligence (and not, as you might suspect, for their ability to shittily reproduce images of hot Japanese monster-girls getting violated by tentacles). Although my strong preference for intelligent people is broadly applied to the general population (and therefore isn't nerd-specific), there's definitely a special element of outrage (or at least bafflement) when I encounter an unintelligent nerd (UN).
Whatever your particular understanding of nerdiness is, I would bet that intelligence is one of the major defining factors. (I, of course, take issue with the fact that intelligence is considered a negative [read: nerdy] attribute. Then again, I'm, like, the reincarnation of Einstein and shit--so I might be slightly biased.) And when you (meaning I) encounter a UN--who isn't just not functioning at an above-average level of intelligence, but who is actually incredibly stupid...wow. It just throws my whole world view out of whack. And makes me kind of annoyed--what right do they have being a nerd if they're not smart?? And, mostly actually, just makes me feel incredibly sorry for them. Because, really, they have nothing going for them--no looks, social skills, or brains...how depressing.
Of course, there are many other little nerdlings in the class who I'm not describing (due to my lack of memory/stamina), so you'll just have to take my word that they're there. Oh, but briefly? One of the xTiAnS presented an animation for her photography business (which, supposedly, actually exists): Pazazz Designs [or something]! Pazazz! Unbelievable.
There's also a very pasty, lanky dude with long blond hair and glasses who wears (un-ironic) wolf shirts and makes animations involving swords/coats of arms. I kind of want to become friends with him. And then get him to design me a coat of arms--because you know I'm all about that medieval shit. [Note: I actually am all about that medieval shit.]
And now, very abruptly,
The End
PS: So, upon reflection, I'm pretty sure I did a shitty job of explaining things here...But I
warned you at the beginning, didn't I? Why can't all of you (two) just
be inside my brain? Mmmm, brain-meld.
PPS: I found this when I did an image search for "dancing food":
Last night as I was driving home I saw a bumper sticker festooned with crucifixes and praying hands that said, "Want our troops home? THEN PRAY!" Now, I don't even feel the need to mention that this logic is, as the French say, retarded. However, I do take issue with the fact that the person driving that SUV clearly thinks that you and I are not doing enough in this bringing-the-troops-home endeavor, and, moreover, is telling us what we should be doing.
Well, guess what? I thought of some other bumper stickers that this person could put on their car:
Want a glass of water? Then put a pencil under your bed and wait for two weeks!
Want to get married? Then throw hotdogs in your bathtub!
Want a college degree? Then write a letter to a squirrel and eat some marmalade!
Want to stop smoking? Then take a shit on a napkin and buy a hat!
Want to make a phone call? Then vomit!
To the Worldwide Consortium of Bumper Sticker Manufacturers: call me!
This morning I saw a Yahoo! headline which read "Thousands of Children Expected at White House Easter Egg Roll." I, of course, read it as "Thousands of Children Expected to Eat White House Eggrolls." I was confused. But then I read the actual article and I was even more confused...Why would Fergie perform at an Easter event for children? She doesn't exactly ooze wholesomeness (which is generally the way one expels one's wholesomeness, I'm told).
Which reminds me of two things:
1) Holidays that I don't celebrate1 are annoying. Yesterday The Mister and I wanted to go out for lunch and had to settle on our third or fourth choice because everything else was closed. "Oh, look at me! I want to be with my family on a special day! Wah wah wah!" Suck it up and cook me some quiche, asshole.
2) Rock of Love Bus with Bret Michaels makes my soul bleed. The women on this season are somehow even more hideous than the ones they managed to scrape up last time (Daisy, anyone?). I only saw part of one episode and I was severely disturbed. The women competed in the "First Annual Truck Stop Games" or some such cleverly named contest, which involved performing various tasks (belly flopping into a pool of beer, stripper pole dancing, etc.) whilst clad in basically nothing. They were judged by a panel of leering, overweight rednecks. The most disturbing part by far, however, was the fact that the audience was mostly comprised of families: lots of young girls and mothers who enthusiastically clapped and cheered. I kept searching the mothers' faces, sure that I would see a cringe, a frown, even a clearly faked smile--some indication that they realized their eight-year-old daughters shouldn't be exposed to such over the top misogyny...But, of course, no.
It freaks me out that adolescents grow up with such twisted examples of desirability and sexuality these days. I mean, clearly idealized images of women have always been just that--idealized and therefore not real to some degree. But it seems like things have reached some sort of stripper aesthetic extreme in the past decade or so, with this weird sense that women are empowered by being hyper-sexual, even while they're helping to exploit themselves. It's all too bizarre.
It seems pretty clear to me that shit like this is part of a long-building backlash against feminism--or at least a backlash against strains of feminism that existed several decades ago, or maybe even just what people wrongly perceive feminism to be--even if they don't consciously realize it. There's a book that addresses all this stuff, called Female Chauvinist Pigs: Women and Rise of Raunch Culture. Maybe I should actually get around to reading it someday?
And that, children, is the story of how the Obamas, Fergie, and Bret Michaels ate eggrolls with the Easter Bunny and a cadre of strippers on the White House lawn.
The End.
1When/if we have les bebes, we will definitely be doing the secular Easter Bunny thing--you know, jellybeans not Jesus?
I'm not going to beat around the bush, people: The Mister and I have commenced Operation: Get Me Knocked Up (AKA, Operation: With Child; AKA, Operation: In a Fambly Way; AKA, Operation: No Child Left Behind That's Not in My Uterus). Phew. That's a lot of colons for one paragraph.
Needless to say, this endeavor has got me thinking on many topics which I had never heretofore (seriously) considered--things like co-sleeping, carrying slings, and how much I hate the name "Brayden." I'm slowly discovering the plethora of great (and not so great) parenting resources on the the interwebs, including Babble, OhDeeDoh, and The Meming of Life (which are, btw, included in the former category).
That last site, which I linked to my previous post, has really got my gears turning regarding the type of parents The Mister and I would like to be. It has also (shockingly!) had me reflecting on religion quite a bit--something which I usually try to avoid, as it only seems to work me up into a frothy rage. Which is fun every once in awhile, but usually it just gets boring and produces way too much froth for my personal taste.
So, of course, I have a lengthy post on the topic a-brewin'...but who knows when/if it will ever see the light of day. For right now, I just wanted to let you know that a baby is hopefully in the (my) works. I'm not sure if "I'm trying to get pregnant" is something one usually tells people--particularly strangers on the interwebs--but, jesus, we all know I can't keep anything to myself, particularly when it involves my genitals.
We interrupt your regularly scheduled program of misanthropic bitching in order to recommend a really great blog: The Meming of Life. It's by a guy named Dale McGowan, the author of Parenting Beyond Belief and Raising Freethinkers (both on my to-be-read-very-soon list).
That is all.
Oh, also, I made these amazing cookies* last week; I highly recommend them. I was very excited because my version looked exactly like the picture in the book. Huzzah!
*Note: The web version differs from the printed version (available in Martha Stewart's Cookies), and based on the online comments, you should definitely make the following adjustments: 1) Change the amount of molasses from 1/2 cup to 1/4 cup; 2) Dissolve the baking soda into 1 1/2 teaspoons of boiling water. Now go make cookies. Yahweh commands it.
Fuck Republicans and their bullshit campaign of bald-faced lies and cheap shots, including all their tripe about an "elitist" (nee "liberal") media. And then fuck the media for being too deep in the pockets of rich Republicans to call them on this or any other load of horse manure they shovel on the American public. Fuck them for being immoral assholes, who care more about money than people, and who are willing to play dirty, manipulate, and flat out lie to get their way. Fuck them for being racist, sexist, homophobic assholes who want to regulate people's lives and deny them basic human rights. Fuck their retarded populist platform--which seems to work, somehow, magically; I can't figure out why. Fuck them for balking at a national ("socialist") healthcare system, and then wanting us to waste $700 billion to bail out their rich asses after they fucked everything up by being greedy and unethical.
Fuck Sarah Palin. She is batshitcrazy, what with all her wanting creationism to be taught in schools, believing our being in Iraq is a "task from God," and wanting to ban abortion even in the case of rape. Fuck her for pushing abstinence only sex education (clearly that's a strategy that has worked well for her family). Fuck her for being a religious nut and fuck her for using her little Down syndrome baby to win her sympathy and admiration. Fuck her for being a lying sack of shit--a sack whose lies, by the way, can be disproved by anyone with internet access and sixty seconds to spare. Fuck her for claiming that she doesn't know what the Bush Doctrine is when she's W's goddamn mirror image, only slightly more attractive and with a hooha (I can only presume). Fuck her, her party, and the conservative pundits who suddenly seem so concerned with sexism in the campaign and feign horrified offense when she's asked perfectly reasonable questions about her conduct and opinions--now that is sexist. Fuck Sarah Palin for actually believing and helping to disseminate horrible, damaging ideas about women. Fuck her for wanting to drag women's rights back a century plus.
Fuck the spineless celebrities who refuse to say who they're voting for (especially when it's clear that they're voting for Obama); you have the potential to influence people, so use your goddamn power for something worthwhile for once in your shitty career. Fuck the American public for being so stupid as to actually swallow all the Republican bullshit and make important decisions based not on politics, but on "personality." Fuck them for thinking that conservatives actually have middle and working class interests at heart. Fuck those people who think that Palin shouldn't be running because she has a new baby (and a shotgun baby) on the way; she shouldn't be running because she's grossly unqualified, has despicable politics, and is fucking insane.
Hating lawyers and making stupid jokes about how awful they are.
Anti-intellectualism, particularly when it is perpetuated by intelligent people, and even more particularly when it is perpetrated against potential governmental leaders.
Eyelid rashes, which may or may not be caused by rosacea.
People who don't think that I actually have rosacea.
Republicans.
People who think Republicans are "financially conservative."
People who talk unnecessarily in class, thereby extending the time spent discussing boring topics like "business-technology integration." What kind of a person has personal anecdotes about business-technology integration, anyhow?
Stores that don't stock items which are available on their websites, or vice-versa.
Crystallized honey. Even when you try to revive it, it just never tastes the same again. Sigh.
Bands with extraneous letters, like Puddle of Mudd(ddd) or Rascal Flatt(ttt)s(ssss).
People who believe in literal interpretations of religious texts.
People who tell me to "Smile! It's not that bad!"
Overstocked refrigerators (to the point where you can't actually see what's in there).
Crumbs in the butter.
Painting my house.
Forgetting things (what the fuck was I about to say?).
So, several weeks ago I started this post about our insane (and now former) landlady. I never got back to it, and now, of course, I'm way too lazy to try to finish the tragic tale using the excruciating detail with which the post was originally rendered. Therefore, my proposed solution is this: read the original chunk of text below, then I'll tack on a little summary.
Aaaand go:
Our landlady is crazy. I mean craaaaaaazy. She's also whiny, extremely passive-aggressive, and "Buddhist." Not to say that being a Buddhist is necessarily a bad thing...Let me explain:
So, let's call the landlady "Mabel." Mabel is a long-time friend/patient of my parents. When we moved into the shitty house we currently rent from her, we tried to get her to draw up a rental agreement, give her a damage deposit, etc.--but she insisted it was unnecessary. Okay, fine. Somebody will probably get bitten on the ass for that one, we figured, but we were willing to bet it would be her.
As it was summer when we moved in, she told me that I needed to water a certain wisteria bush (which has since come to be known as the hysteria bush) with very specific watering instructions: two hours a day, two days a week. Sure, great, fine. And I did water it...at first.
See, the thing is, I'm forgetful. Especially when the thing I'm supposed to remember about is something which is outside of my normal sphere of activity. This basically means that unless it involves what time Miss Rap Supreme comes on, or how long to microwave some Trader Joe's frozen chicken gyozas, I pretty much won't remember anything about it.
But seriously. Both The Mister and I have lived in a combined total of dozens of apartments and rental houses and we have never been expected to do the yard work. Either the landlady comes and does it herself or she hires someone to do it for her--or, you know, there's at least sprinklers or a drip system or something. But, of course, Mabel is too cheap and/or stupid and/or Buddhist to attempt anything like this.
And so, last week, I found myself the recipient of no less than four frantic voicemails left within a span of three hours (the last two, essentially communicating the same insanity, left within fifteen minutes of each other)--in the middle of day, in the middle of the week, while I was at work with my phone turned off, mind you--bemoaning the supposed death of the hysteria (nee wisteria).
Alright, now here's the updated, shortened summary of events:
After much craziness (including a weird confrontation with The Mister, various e- and voicemails, and much horrified shrieking on my part), we received a certified letter telling us that we had to pay a damage deposit (which we would clearly never get back), plus sign a rental agreement which would either a) increase our rent by $150 a month and we wouldn't have to worry about the yard, or b) stipulate very specific regulations for the yard, with no rent increase.
I flipped out. I cursed. I yelled. I threw a clod of dirt on the sidewalk. I wrote her a very nasty email (which I sent to her after letting her know that we would be moving out by the end of the month), of which I am extremely proud. Oh god, there are so many more details to this story which would just enhance your understanding of her insanity...but I really just can't get into them all over again.
Oh, except for when she tried to make me promise to fucking email her every time I watered the hysteria, so she could know exactly when and for how long the water was on. Or how about when she tried to give us a guilt trip for paying an amount in rent (which, duh, she set) that didn't actually cover her mortgage payments. And also when she complained that we hadn't given her thirty days notice of moving out--a notice which we gave her the day after we received her certified letter (10 days into the month). Or the time when she tried to hold our shit ransom, saying that once we moved out she would inspect the house and then give us the shed key (which she had recently taken from us) and let us retrieve our items stored in said shed. What a fucking nut.
Oh, yes; I also need to explain the Buddhism references in the original post: This sprang from her constant and non sequitur conversational insertions that she practices this religion--basically as a way of saying, "Any problems we are experiencing are your fault, as I'm a Buddhist and therefore simply incapable of acting like a jerk." Which is, like, so incredibly fucking annoying. I can't stomach people who cite their religion (or any other "identity" they cling to) as some sort of indication of their character. If you are actually whatever it is you claim to be...well, you don't really need to publicly and constantly claim it, now do you? You just are that.
Jesus.
Of course the craziness continued even after we moved out, prompting me to send her yet another nasty email. I seriously enjoy sending mean emails, by the way. Sometimes I think I should start charging people to write all their mean, yet professional and intelligent sounding, electronic disses. You would pay for that service, right? "Yes. Yes I would." Why, thank you.
Just for fun's sake, here's a list of things we were accused of while renting from the pseudo-Buddhist:
Not knowing how to use a faucet (and thereby breaking the internal mechanism of the bathtub's hot water handle four fucking times [a problem which had already occurred, btw, before we even moved in]).
Not "knowing anything about owning a house" (a fact of which I was informed after I called a plumber when the bathtub broke the first time, was in danger of overflowing, and I couldn't get ahold of the crazy landlady).
Letting "everything die" in the yard (clearly indicated by a few brown leaves on one plant).
Potentially trying to steal some nastyass, dog fur-covered fabric that she had hanging up as curtains.
Breaking, and then throwing away of, one (1) bedroom window (which had been taken out and stored in order to allow the installation of window-mounted air conditioner).
Stealing of some shitty little drapery clips, with which she hung the aforementioned fur curtains.
General assholery (i.e., not being Buddhists).
So, in conclusion...Oh, hell, I don't know. Even with all the insane insanity of the past few weeks--and even with other people confirming her craziness quotient to me--I still, from time to time, wonder if maybe we were overreacting or misinterpreting things or something. I guess it's because I have a hard time believing that someone could actually act thatirrational or be that stupid...
But then I think, no, Mabel is definitely a shit slice.
