That's A First.

Have you ever pulled an abdominal muscle trying to open a jar?
Freakin strawberry preserves.

Forgive Me.

I'm sorry. This just doesn't get old.

Eat Fresh.

Subway sandwich shops are probably the least offensive fast food chain. I mean, besides the fact that they all smell the same, that makes me a little sick. Do you think it's because of the bread? Or is it some trademarked Glade Plug-In with a ham smell? Either way it's trippy that the smell of Subway is so distinct. I was in a shoe store once and heard a girl say, "Ugh, it smells like Subway in here." And she was right, it really did. It doesn't bode well for the business if people are repulsed by the idea of a sandwich while looking for shoes.

But if "Super Size Me" had documented Morgan Spurlock eating Subway exclusively for a month it probably would have been boring more than anything else. I mean, Jared has worked that system for a while now and stripped to its essence, it's probably just a guy eating a lot of sandwiches.

Here's why I bring any of this up. The last few times I've been to Subway, the exact same series of events has taken place. And this is not at the same shop. This is a cross-sectional study I'm talking about. Tampa, NYC, Upstate NY, and some ridiculous setup inside a gas station the other day in Pennsylvania. The same thing. (Note: I have a paranoia that my life is secretly being taped for the purposes of a hidden-camera show and the fact that this keeps happening to me only helps solidify that theory.)

When I was in Tampa I noticed a sign that read, "Ask for the works" and showed a picture of every possible veggie. Since I always order the Veggie-Delite I thought, that's a time saver! How nice for me that I can limit my interaction with the kid making my sammy by simply saying "Veggie Delite with the works, please."

Right. I have to say that "The Works" has become the ongoing joke of my fast-food experience.

Clearly, corporate never got the memo about "the works" out to the people making sandwiches. But obviously something was sent out about totally ignoring the giant "Ask for the works" signs with pictures of veggies all over them.

To: Everyone making Sandwiches
From: Jared and Corporate
Re: Messing with this girl (picture of my face) and ignoring the signs that have images of veggies on them.

So for the last four times I've been into a Subway, this has been the exchange. I'm not kidding about any of this.
-Hi, can I get a 6-inch veggie delite, please.
-What kind of cheese?
-Um, no cheese but otherwise the works.
-What do you mean?
-The works. Like, every possible veggie.
-(pause, stare, wait for further instruction)
-Sorry, just everything.
-Wait, so you want cheese?
-Oh, sorry, no. No cheese, but everything else.
-Meat?
-Hmm, no. Sorry, just a veggie sub, with all of these veggies that you have in this area right here.
-Ok. You want lettuce?

This is where my eyes start to water. After that full exchange that happens EVERY time, they ALWAYS come back with, so you want lettuce? and I start to tear up. I always have to swallow my smile so I don't burst out laughing and it just gets worse as they work through all the toppings.

-Yes, lettuce, thank you. (eyes watering)
-You want tomato?
-(Laugh building, biting lips) Sure, tomato, thanks.
-Onion?
-(looking away from the counter so not to make eye contact and just nodding)

And this continues through every possible veggie. People, there are a lot of veggies on that sandwich. The other day I was so surprised that this was happening to me again, I literally had to grab napkins and wipe away tears as I was paying for my sandwich. The girl there who had had such a difficult time grasping the idea of the works was actually very sweet and asked with concern why I was crying. I shook it off saying I just really loved subs.

Ahoy!

Juliet is currently off shore in the Gulf of Mexico doing important seismic research for Columbia. While I have no idea what that means, it sounds cool. There's a part of me that can't help but love the idea of being out on a boat, taking readings and looking at big confusing charts. While I wouldn't know how to, or really want to explain said charts, it all sort of appeals to the kid in me.

My childhood best friend and I used to play for hours in his backyard pretending that his jungle gym was a large ship. His backyard led to the Erie Canal so we used to run to the water, and then back up the slide for lookout. Sometimes we were pirates, sometimes just lost at sea, sometimes explorers. It didn't really matter. It was always the same basic formula: Out on a boat, lookout for other boats, make stew.

The only reason we had any backstory at all concerning what we were doing was so making "stew" seemed more important. Simply collecting mud and twigs isn't fun. But if you were lost and starving and unsure of your fate, you needed that stew. You needed it for survival, to keep you going until you found land that you recognized. That's what we kept telling ourselves for the full afternoons we spent collecting grass and leaves and soil and mixing it together in the McDonald's Halloween Happy Meal Bucket. "Hurry! We'll have to jump ship! Bring the stew!"

We never ate it of course. And we had no problem putting the bucket of glop down to go inside, eat real lunch, and then go back out to the stew. I spent a few solid summers of my life on this stew kick. Bored? Want to go out and make stew? You would think that it would get old, but you'd be so wrong.

Anyway, not sure why I brought all that up. I guess just because when I heard about Juliet's adventure it reminded me of little kid adventures and suspended disbelief, and how fun that can be. I've been thinking about her and her coworkers out on the water and wondering if they had to hold back shouting "Iceberg!" or "Land Ho!" or any of that.

She sent out an email yesterday with the subject, "Very hard at work." I opened it immediately wanting to know all about it and found only this picture.

Note the life-jacket. Note the napping. Note the lack of stew.

sigh.

Good Morning America, Indeed.

I'm not a fan of morning shows. It's all just too much. I think the Today Show is now 4-hours long, and it would need to be, what with the two and a half hours worth of greetings.

"Good Morning Ann"
"Good Morning Matt, Thank You. Morning Al. And good morning to you. Back to you Matt, thank you. Good morning."
"Thanks Ann. Good morning. And now let's send it back to Ann for a look at today's world news."
"Thanks Matt. Good Morning."

And then your head explodes.

Plus, these shows really think they can change pace and tone simply by tossing it to somebody else in the surrounding area.

"Authorities say this is the worst case ever recorded and that the world will never be the same. (pause) Now let's go out to Al who's grilling on the plaza."

"Thanks Ann. Good Morning. Who likes chicken?!"

And I get the feeling that all the other reports that fill in the hours are meant to be a joke played on the American people. It's the graphics they use, bullet-pointing the useless information they're dispensing. Matt Lauer will be covering sunglasses and a PowerPoint presentation will roll across the screen.

"Here are some tips when wearing sunglasses. Sunglasses should be worn on your head and should cover your eyes.
1) Wear on face.
Make sure your lenses are 100% UV protective.
2) Sunglasses should have lenses.
And I know a lot of people wonder if the tint of the lens affects protection. I asked local experts at the Sunglass Hut kiosk in the Manhattan Mall and they assure me it doesn't.
3) Tint Don't Matter.
As Always, all of this information can be found on our website."

Thanks, I'll be sure to print that out.

I can't digest hard-hitting news, music, national weather and useless reports that early in the morning. And I really don't think I need to. Throw in a little Willard Scott and I become quite confident that no one should start their day out with a combination of all these things. "Marjorie is 135 years old. She credits her long life to laughing, fishing on Sundays and oatmeal. Happy birthday, dear. You look fantastic. Now back to the studio."

"Thanks Willard, Good morning. News just in about the dangers of laughing, fishing and oatmeal, but first, this is Today on NBC."

Right. So if I can avoid the mess of these shows while drinking my coffee, I do. But flipping through this morning I saw that Diane Keaton was on Good Morning America and I had to stop. I love Diane Keaton. I would watch her on an Oxy-Clean infomercial. I just think she's great. I caught the interview halfway through a story about her stealing belts. I don't know the context but she sounded hilarious and I enjoyed it. And then she interrupted Diane Sawyer to tell her how beautiful she is and that she loves her lips and Sawyer became a little flustered. I swear they were flirting. It was wildly amusing. And then Keaton dropped the f-bomb and because it's live the word just sort of resonated around the studio. And that was also amusing. But really, what a refreshing way to start the day. A little sexual tension, some rough language and the 5-day forecast. Thank you and good morning.

Shh! I'm Listening To Reason!

Francis: Morning Pee-Wee.
Pee-Wee: Hello Francis.
Francis: Today's my birthday and my father says I can have anything I want.
Pee-Wee: Good for you and your father.
Francis: So guess what I want? (flips a handful of dollar bills)
Pee-Wee: A new brain!
Francis: No! Your bike.
Pee-Wee: ha! hahahahahaha! It's not for sale, Fran-CIS!
Francis: My father says anything's negotiable. (Pee-Wee rolls his eyes) Come on Pee-Wee! Remember the first time I saw your bike, you were riding it past my house and I ran out to tell you how much I liked it even way back then?
Pee-Wee: I love that story.

OK first off, that movie is brilliant. But I read an article in the NYT this morning about Michael Bloomberg and it sort of reminded me of this scene with Francis and Pee-Wee. If unfamiliar, Bloomberg is the billionaire Mayor of New York and political pundits have been hinting that he may or may not join the Presidential Race. Note: It must be nice to have a cushy job like political pundit, or sportscaster, or local weatherman, or telephone psychic. You can basically say anything you want if you say it confidently enough and if you turn out to be wrong just mention something about how nothing is ever really certain in (fill in your occupational field here).

Bloomberg can take his sweet tea time deciding if he wants to run because he'll use his own cash for his campaign. If it's his birthday and he wants a bike...that sort of thing. Not sure how I feel about this. On the one hand, how great that Americans won't pump millions of dollars into commercials and flyers--dollars that could have been spent building a healthcare program for an entire state. On the other hand, it's pretty annoying that he can just wait around while somebody else makes the bike all cool and easy to ride, and then decide, hey, i want that bike. The bike is a metaphor. Are we on the same page?

Clearly, something has to change with campaign financing in the near future. I get that it takes a lot to run but I don't think we're all dumb enough to keep giving millions and millions of dollars to all of these candidates so they can fly around the country a few 100 times eating breakfasts with voters.

If someone came up with a plan to take campaign contributions and invest them, then agreed to set up programs using said dollars once elected, they'd have my support. And if they didn't win, to have a contingency program ready to pump all that money into, like education, or the environment, or alternative energy research. If today's candidates can't even get creative with how they spend money that's been given to them willingly, how can we expect them to care about the money that just flows in through taxes?

I get that transportation, ads, food, and offices cost money. But running for office should be like office Secret Santa--set a price limit. You're either going to run a really creative campaign on that price limit, or a really shitty one. Just depends on how clever you are. Every person will have x amount of dollars for their campaign. Any money raised after that will be invested. If you're doing well, you'll stay in the race longer and that contribution money will accrue interest, adding to the social policy you support. If you win the election, cool. People will be stoked their candidate won and you'll start your presidency off with this wicked new program that people support. If you don't win, fear not! That issue you believe in will still be served with all the money you've raised and set aside.

Ok, I know. But dare to dream, right?

Anyway, the Bloomberg thing ultimately worries me. Sitting back, waiting to see how everybody else does and if at the last moment it seems beneficial to him to get in on it, he will. Like that kid in a group lab who does nothing and then puts his name on the paper once the work is finished. I don't like that other candidates and their staffs have worked so hard only to have Francis possibly come along and say he could buy their bike.

You Read My Mind.

Found this little "How to Read Minds" article online today. AOL featured it on its homepage with a link that said, "10 Mind-Reading Tricks (Really)."

I would have passed right by it had it not been for the "Really." I tend to believe anything that ends with "...really" because that seems like the ultimate marker of truth. I use "really" or more often, "no, seriously" all the time to emphasize that I'm making the truest point possible.

"Hey, you're on fire. No, seriously."

See? It works.

So I thought to myself, hey, reading minds could be helpful in certain situations, why not read that little article. After all, they are actual tricks to help you read minds. Really.

This is straight from the article written by M.E. Williams:

*Eye contact denotes interest. Brief eye contact denotes nervousness or some disinterest. Prolonged eye contact may denote an attempt at intimidation.

*Eyes looking straight up may denote contempt or annoyance, unless the conversation is religious in nature.

*Eyes looking to the left suggest that someone is imagining what something sounds like.

*Eyes looking to the right suggest that someone is recalling what something sounds like.

*Eyes looking up and to the left mean that someone is imagining a picture.

*Eyes looking up and to the right mean that someone is trying to recall an image.

*Eyes looking down and to the left mean someone is thinking about their emotions.

*Eyes looking down and to the right denote an "internal dialogue" of some kind, whether it's the recollection of a past conversation or an internal debate about what to say next.

*The directions may be the opposite for some people, but they should be consistently so for the person concerned.

*To see if someone is lying, establish a "baseline" for them by asking questions you know they won't respond to with a lie; observe what they do when you know they're telling the truth.

As I read through each tip I thought about a picture or a sound and waited to see where my eyes went. This is also called, instant headache and/or how to make yourself dizzy while sitting still in a chair.

I like how it says "the directions may be opposite for some people." Ha. "You're thinking about your feelings. No? You're picturing an image. No? Are you praying?" And apparently what people think about is limited to noise and artwork.

Also, people move their eyes a lot I guess but nothing like this list suggests. To get a chance to use all that info would almost require that all your friends have eyes like this.




Note: I wanted to find a pic of those eyes but couldn't remember what they were called so i just typed in "googly eye" and apparently that's their name. There's actually a site on Wikipedia dedicated to them. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Googly_eyes

And this was the definition on urbandictionary.com

Googly Eye:
The googly eye (or just googly) is the eye-contact used to relay your interest in another.
"Girrrrrl, he TOTALLY just gave you the full-blown googly."

I'm sorry. Full-blown googly? I'll admit my fingers may have been off the pulse of streetwise American lingo for a little while now, but I will bet my two regular eyeballs that no one has ever in the history of the world said, "Damn girl, you just got the full-blown googly."

The Write Stuff.

Robin Williams said something really great when the Writers Strike had just begun. Something like, "I was the only person on the picket line with nothing on my sign."

Funny. But there's also a lot of truth there. TV shows give us all something to talk about. They're safe. They're neutral. Perfect conversation when meeting someone new. (Except for those "Kill your television" types. Why are you so angry people? Watch Planet Earth and relax.) But if our shows aren't on, what the hell are we supposed to talk to strangers about?

I try to avoid asking people what they do for a living (various stretches of unemployment have made me HATE this question). I figure if someone really loves what they do and want to talk about it, they'll bring it up. I'd so much rather ask, "What do you do for fun?" or "What's your favorite snack...and why?" You always need that follow up. I really believe that the small stuff tells you just as much about a person as the big issues do. If someone takes a board game too seriously, guess how they probably approach life? I don't really have to know the political views of the person who keeps challenging everybody's words on the Scrabble board. I've got a pretty good idea of who they are.

For me, the most important small-stuff indicator is what a person finds funny. I think what a person laughs at tells you almost anything you need to know about them. In terms of TV, if someone says they love 30 Rock so much they want to take it behind a middle school and get it pregnant, we're probably going to get along. That's part of the reason why the 2-month Writers Strike is so significant. The lack of new catch phrase quips poured out and absorbed by the masses, limits the connection we have with each other. Hearing a stranger repeat something from TV that you found amusing creates an instant little connection, and I don't think we can overstate the importance of instant little connections. Because if in a room full of strangers someone was to say, "These pretzels are making me thirsty" it's a joke we'd all be in on. Inside jokes establish a bond between buddies but are only funny if you happen to be on the inside. Sitcom lines create inside jokes for the whole world. Outside, inside jokes. That's effing huge!

That's what she said.

Oh, right. I do have to say that the one positive of the Writers Strike has been the cancellation of the Golden Globes. Woody Allen so perfectly summed up award shows with his line in Annie Hall. "Awards! They do nothing but give out awards! I can't believe it. Greatest fascist dictator, Adolf Hitler."

Just Nod.

The other day around 10:00 in the morning the doorbell rang. I've been expecting a delivery so I ran happily to the door because a) even if you know it's coming, mail in a box is fun and b) signing for packages makes me feel important. I always take the plastic stick like I can't be bothered and then scribble my mark as fast as I can so that "Jessica Martin" looks like a combo of a Richter reading and a gummy worm.
Writing my name illegibly also makes me feel important.

I opened the door and saw two men in suits. UPS goes formal? FedEx does the buddy system? The older gentleman introduced himself and his friend while I stared at their hands looking for my delivery and a place to sign. Seconds after realizing I wasn't about to get my fun boxed mail, the older man asked me, "Do you believe peace is possible?"

OK, I should mention that sweeping philosophical questions kill me.

I have a hard time making on-the-spot points (making points in general isn't my forte) and when a question is so large and so open, I close up as a way to counterbalance it. I jump into my head and try to remember things about loaded questions and informal fallacies while simultaneously trying to think about how I want to answer.

So, standing at the door, working through a mental Rainman-esque rundown of how peace is defined, how power is distributed, the history of war and the innate human desire for stuff, I was about to point out to this guy the problem with his question when the younger man pulled out a Bible and started talking about that.

Right.

I'm always reading so much into questions and overanalyzing the best way to answer when 10 times out of 10 I forget to consider who's asking me. Clearly, people don't go door to door before noon looking for debates. I'm an idiot.

I was sharing this story with a friend and it reminded me of something similar that happened this summer. I was at the post office in Astoria and a man with a very thick accent came over to me.

"S'cuze me ma frund. What mean forever?"

I looked at him and considered the best way to explain this vast concept of time in limited English. Should I skip Kant's ideas of space and time? Probably. But maybe hit upon the whole frame of reference thing? Gah.
I just ended up extending my arms a lot.

"Very loooong. It lasts a long long time. Forever means always. On and on and on. It has no end."

The man looked at me with absolutely no expression. Holding up a Forever Stamp he said, "Dis stamp. Ees good?"

Right.

Fact.

Guitar Hero III offers a person the fastest and most entertaining way to become a pathetic loser.

I should know.

Duck Hunt came close in the 1980s with its "sporting rifle" that looked like it should shoot lasers. It wasn't exactly the most entertaining, however, given the fact that most people learned to sit inches from the TV to increase their score. Games are quickly ruined when your eyes start to burn. But if as an 8-year-old you happened to slip into conversation that you enjoyed clay shooting, well, then it was fully successful in turning you into a tool box. To this day I'm still tempted to write "skeet shooting" when asked to list my hobbies/casual interests regardless of the fact that I've never actually held a gun that didn't have a cord.

The Power Pad was pretty great and "World Class Track Meet" filled the track star void for kids who say, skipped (not as in skipping, but as in faking a major illness) the mile-run every year for gym class. But one soon learns that people only care about track athletes once every four summers, so the Power Pad lost its cool. Dance Dance Revolution is a variation on its theme, but I'll argue that if you need a computer to tell you where to put your feet, you're not dancing. That'd be like saying you can spin records after playing a few rounds of Simon.

I never had the Power Glove, but I saw a kid wearing one on the train once and I thought that was basically awesome.

But back to the cold hard fact. Guitar Hero III puts every other game to shame. Christmas Day my cousin brought over all of his games to my grandma's house, and 9 hours later--really--the guitar had to be ripped from my hands. My little cousin Julia is amazing and during her perfect version of Metallica's One, she goes, "Grandma, aren't you proud that all of your grandchildren are so good at Guitar Hero?"

That single question might keep me from ever playing again.

But probably not.

Oh Christmas Tree, Ugh Christmas Tree.

Vanessa's birthday is around Christmastime so growing up, the tree was always setup in the living room by the time she had her party. One year, she might have been in fifth grade, I forget, her friends came over for a birthday slumber party. The tree that year was huge, and as a result every possible ornament was used. Smaller trees often require that some ornaments won't make the cut. Hallmark Santa? You're in. Jessica's preschool macaroni framed picture on a hook? Maybe next year, slugger.

So Nessa and her friends laid out their sleeping bags right by the tree (because there's something so cozy about the glow from strings of indoor/outdoor lighting) and went to sleep. Cut to like 3 in the morning and we hear a loud thud. I was in my room and just assumed it was somebody doing a back handspring (why did people always want to do gymnastics at sleepovers?) but it wasn't. The tree had fallen over and onto one of her friends. I remember hearing my mom screaming, "Heather! Can you hear me?!" and then screaming for my dad to come lift the tree off of this poor girl. Heather was fine, but because my mother is worry wort supreme, she called her parents to let them know what happened. I always have my mom retell that conversation because I think it's hilarious.

Me: So you called them in the middle of the night?
Mom: I had to!
Me: And what did you say?
Mom: I just said, 'Mrs. Jennejohn, this is Debbie Martin. Heather is fine, but I wanted to let you know that our tree fell on her.'
Me: And what did she say?
Mom: Thanks for calling.

So my dad picked the tree up, put a sofa in front of it and everybody went back to sleep. But since that year, every time we set up the tree it's always with instructions to make sure it doesn't Jennejohn.

This is the first time in four years I've been home in time to go out and find the tree and help set it up. It was a lapse in memory to think this would be an enjoyable process.

A farming friend of my father's grows Christmas Trees and insists that we take the biggest tree off the lot every year. He's honestly such a nice guy but always yells at my dad in this overly enthusiastic tone and gets all up in his face when he's talking to him. However, my dad invented close talking, and speaks to everyone he meets in an overly enthusiastic tone, so he doesn't even notice what this other guy is doing. Honestly, seconds after getting out of my dad's truck, Joe came running over to us.

Joe (Standing just ridiculously close to my dad): STEVIE!!! What's it gonna be this year, Stevie? What are ya thinking? Fraser Fir, Stevie? Wanna go with a Douglas Fir?

Dad (Standing just ridiculously close to Joe, yelling back in his face): Oh, I don't know Joey, what do you think? They look good this year, real nice, Joe.

I looked over to my mom with a confused face. It was like a bizarro world or something. These two guys, screaming at each other through huge smiles, moments away from what looked like an embrace.

So picking out the tree was a treat. But then tonight, trying to keep the tree upright proved to be worse. The trunk simply wouldn't fit in the stand. Screws went in from one angle, but then not through another. Just when I thought it was stable it would lean horribly to one side. My mom insisted on stringing lights around it while I was still trying to make sure it wasn't going to Jennejohn, and thus ensued a yelling match of blame. You're doing this, stop with that, why not try this, why not give this defected tree back to Joey.

After an hour, seriously, the tree finally stood on its own. All it needed was a Tupperware dish shoved between the stand and the trunk, and about 8ft of twine attached from the branches to a twenty-pound free weight sitting on the floor.

Merry Christmas.

Movie Night! I'll Make Popcorn Lung.

Reading the newspaper daily is a surefire way to become a killjoy. Debbie Downer wasn't necessarily a bad person, she just knew too much. With information thrown around throughout the day, one learns that almost anything enjoyable is also bad for you, wrong for the Earth, or the result of the exploitation of Chinese people. Those Barbies are "toxic." Don't "put them in your mouth." Wrestling wildlife might "kill you." "Don't burn tires for fun." But I ask you, is nothing sacred? I read today that a pulmonary specialist has released findings that suggest our lungs are in danger due to the buttery flavor fumes released by microwave popcorn. The condition is known as Popcorn Lung.
This is for real.

Apparently, the microwave popcorn industry already knew of the lung damage caused by fumes because factory workers have complained of ailments.

A quick aside: How horrible must it be to leave work everyday and have to explain to everyone you run into that you haven't just come from the movies? Or worse, every time you enter a room have to hear, "Hey, it smells like popcorn!" Did you ever notice that people can't help but say, "Smells like popcorn!" when they smell popcorn? And they're always so pleased with themselves like they've cracked some impossible case of mystery smell. (sniff sniff) "Popcorn!" Go make some popcorn, [wear a mask] and then wait for someone to come in. If they don't say "popcorn", I'll give you $100. But I digress.

This recent study focused on the consumer, after someone developed lung disease from making several bags of microwave popcorn everyday for several years. I had to read that part twice. It seems this man reeeally enjoyed the popcorn button feature on his microwave and was making bags of the stuff daily, for years. OK, so clearly, this is weird. But the poor bastard probably just loved popcorn and had no clue it was hurting him. Orville Redenbacher's respiratory system seemed fine.

Aside from being just about the most random thing I've read in recent weeks, this story is pretty annoying. Few things match the simple perfection of a movie night.
Couch--good.
DVD's-good.
Waiting to see who says "popcorn" first--good.

Why modern medicine and research? Why did you have to ruin something so good? I hate to think that a chill Friday night will now have to include some sort of SARS guard. Or that Philip Morris will release a low tar butter-flavored cigarette with a label that reads, "These still kill, but at least you won't die fat."
I guess until all of this is straightened out, let's just stick with Junior Mints.

You, uhh, Got Any Gum?

It must be nice to do whatever the hell you want and know the people around you will love you more because of it. Dogs have this distinct honor. Extremely good looking people come in a close second, but a wink and a toothy grin will do little to help the hottie who, say, takes a shit on the floor. People will forgive their dogs anything. The greater the offense, the deeper the love. "You ate my entire sofa! How did you manage to do that? You're superdog, that's who you are!"

New parents always think their children are the best and dog owners are the same way with their pets. Benchmark moments like feedings, potty training and new tricks are all shared with such enthusiasm. And the silly things a baby does are recounted with such pride. Only, parents eventually stop sharing these stories because what was once cute becomes embarrassing. They don't want you to know that their son is now 20 and still dropping his keys in the toilet. But a dog? A dog can be a lifetime idiot and still seem like something to brag about.
I love that about dogs.

My sister's dog, Stella, adds all new descriptions to the definition of cute. It's really ridiculous. My phone conversations with Nessa almost always start or end with, "Can you put me on speakerphone?" But since I just start cooing, "Stelllla, hi Stella!" without exception, Vanessa refuses to do it.

This morning she called to share that Stella had gotten into an entire pack of Winterfresh and described what she looked like trying to chew the gum. Head tilted, trying to figure out what was going on, a huge wad of gum and foil wrappers hanging out of her mouth, gum on her front paws causing sheets of paper to stick to her wherever she walked. Nessa said, "Listen, if you've never seen a dog chew gum, sprint to a pet store with a pack of Eclipse."
I wish more of my days would start with such great sentences.

Ever since seeing "Bedknobs and Broomsticks" as a child, I've wanted all animals to walk on their hind legs. It's been a hard wish to shake. I've basically narrowed it down to only really wanting domestic cats to walk on two legs at all times (and wear pants). But now the visual of a dog standing up, walking down the street chewing gum is something I think could happen.

Small, reasonable goals. That's how I approach life.

These Are Getting Old.

Remember when you realized Kristen Schaal is the funniest person on the planet?

That was an important day.

Alas, A Lapse.

Remember when i said i was going to have "Remember When Fridays?"
Well, I forgot about it. Ha.

Anyway, remember when R. Kelly and Usher were dating the same girl, even though the girl was the love of R. Kelly's life and his potential wife?

Yeah, I remember that too.

Um.

A woman in Arkansas just gave birth to her 17th child.

Read that sentence again.

And now go back and read it one more time.

I thought I would have 1,000 different things to say about this, but I guess I don't.

This Is A Nice Find.

I'm on the farm with Deb and Steve during perhaps the most inopportune time of the year. My mother goes through phases where she thinks she hosts a show on Home and Garden Television and as a result 3,000 random projects ensue simultaneously. I'm reminded of her scrapbooking/stenciling summer in the early 90's. Half of the pictures from our childhood were cut and pasted to the pages of "Footprints In The Sands of Time" (her scrapbook's actual title) and all of our bathrooms had seashell borders.

This summer will be remembered as "The Clearing." She must have gotten her hands on some books about Minimalist design because I swear she is determined to wipe out the contents of the home. Everyday there's a carload of things to be dropped off at the Volunteers of America and every night my father asks what has been thrown away. "Debbie, where did the table by the door go?" And my mom's eyes grow wide as she sort of shakes her head to say, "oh I don't know." But we all know she knows.

The other day she went through each cabinet in the kitchen and basically threw away everything. To be fair, so much was not needed. She had a crystal deviled egg tray with actual grooved out little place holders for deviled eggs. This is not necessary in life. How often do people make deviled eggs that a tray made specifically for that food would be warranted? And she kept pulling out tons of stuff like this. In fact, so much random stuff that my sister and I had no choice but to play "Antiques Roadshow."

If you've never seen Antiques Roadshow, a part of my soul weeps for that incomplete part of your soul. But for those of you who have, you must agree that the best part of the show is when people bring something they think is valuable only to learn it's worth 11 cents. Anyway, Nessa and I took turns playing owner and appraiser and would have to tell the story of how we acquired the item or share the actual history of the item. Note to reader: This is instant fun.
We must have spent an hour making up fake stories about strainers (Viking helmet), metal kebab skewers (ancient Korean sword), and a lemonade pitcher with "Happy Holidays" written on it (lemonade pitcher with "Happy Holidays" written on it).

When my mother emerged from the basement with a bag of stuff to be given away she found me standing over a pile of ice cube trays giving a detailed account of their history as Ness listened intently. We ignored the random thing she was doing, she ignored ours.

Bobby, You'll Be Tree Number 4.

I saw an article online that said a man robbed a bank in New Hampshire dressed as a tree. I can't help but love everything about this story. I love thinking about his mindset going into the robbery, I love the cartoon nature of the disguise and I love imagining what the other people in line at the bank thought as a tree waited patiently to make a transaction. Crime is wrong, obviously, but if someone demanded my wallet dressed as some sort of shrubbery (or anything really) I think I'd go along with the whole thing. Yes, I'd be out some cash, but just think of how many times I could mention that I was robbed by a pencil (or cat, or spruce). You can't put a price on that.

For anyone who has ever seen The Bushman at Fisherman's Wharf in SF, you have to appreciate how hilarious this story is. I hate Fisherman's Wharf, but 5 minutes of watching this guy scare people was worth getting stuck behind slow-walking tourists. The Bushman is brilliant for 2 reasons.
1) Watching startled people jump and scream is one of life's simple pleasures.
2) People are actually surprised someone is behind a random group of branches sprouting out of nothing on a city sidewalk.

I like to think the Tree-Man in NH had the Bushman in mind when he robbed the bank. "I'll just move slowly along, la de da, I'm just a tree, nothing to see here, and then when they least expect it, 'Give me all your money!'' The more I started to think about the whole thing, the more I started to really like this guy. How sad is that? I just can't help but smile when I imagine him breaking twigs off the trees in his yard. "Oh, this one is good! I am so going to look like a tree."

But all of this raises the question, why? Why would a grown man think dressing as a tree and robbing a bank would work? Or, not even work, but why would he think this was a good idea? Or, not even a good idea, why would he even think it? I know little (read: nothing) about the origins of the criminal mind but I'd say the source is a childhood trauma. For this man in New Hampshire, it's quite clear to me that he played a tree in one too many an elementary school play.

Do you remember elementary school plays? The quiet kids were ALWAYS trees. It was the only way to get Shy Sally on stage so her parents could get a picture and she wouldn't feel left out. But even when I was in first grade it amazed me that these kids didn't tell the teachers to fuck off. Trees never had lines, they literally stood there, and I swear to you, I remember one kid being a tree that didn't even have a hole for his face. He was literally behind the tree, holding it up. That kid is without a doubt in jail right now. Telling a child to be a tree (particularly during aquatic scenes) does very little to build his sense of self and establishes within him the idea that he won't be noticed. Enter Tree-Man, stage right.

I like to think that if he'd been given a few lines in a play as a kid, he might have done something more sophisticated than robbing a bank dressed as a tree. Maybe a soft soliloquy delivered at the ATM.

Existential Crisis On A Bun.

Today I watched the Nathan's Hot dog Eating Contest for the first time ever. I've seen enough highlight footage to get the gist, but I thought I owed it to myself to actually witness the full 12 minutes. I tried to go into it with an open mind. I thought, perhaps it isn't the worst display of gluttony the world has ever known. Perhaps there's a level of sportsmanship that trumps the blatant disregard for millions of starving people. Maybe it's just really fun to watch.

It turns out, the answers to those thoughts are as follows:
1)Yes it is.
2) No there's not.
3) Are you effing kidding me?

Around 3 minutes into the event (which is of course, an eating competition but also,"The World's Biggest Dumbass" contest) I grew predictably nauseous. If there is anything more disgusting than consuming mass quanities of hot dogs, it's eating wet hot dogs. The dipping of the buns into water caused me to dry-heave in a manner that is usually reserved for finding hair in food. But the eating wasn't necessarily the main source of my discomfort. I think it was the spectacle.

The announcers introduced each competitor with a laundry list of their achievements. World record holder in oysters! World record holder in cheesecake! Birthday cake! Fried Asparagus! Chicken Wings! Ribs! Shoo-Fly Pie Champion of the World! This man ate his own baby! And with each name announced the crowd roared with enthusiasm. Roaring crowds for people who eat. "Hey! I eat food too! But you eat waaay more food than me so I painted your name on my face! I love you! I love the way, you know, you eat food... and stuff."
I don't understand the cheering. If you've ever been to a buffet and noticed the gross guy who keeps going up with the same plate, you might not be inclined to clap so hard.

And I'd like to think the announcers weren't being 100% serious with their commentary but it was honestly hard to tell. When introducing the American hopeful Joey Chestnut one commentator said that some American heroes people think about on Independence Day are "Abe Lincoln, Neil Armstrong, Taylor Hicks, and Joey Chestnut." Normally I'd find this comical. But coming from a man who is paid to moderate a hot dog contest, I'm not so sure what to think.

Events like this, where there seems to great excitement over something I don't understand on any level, send me into introspective overdrive. People could be cheering or dressing up or taking pictures and I'm left in a slight panic questioning what the hell is going on. So as each minute ticked off the clock, and 30, then 40, then 50 hot dogs were devoured by each eater, I heard my inner Alvy Singer grow louder and louder. The universe is expanding and these idiots are eating 60 hot dogs.

It was impossible for me to make it through the 12-minute gorging without questioning our collective purpose. And maybe, that's what this whole thing was about. Nihilism, solipsism syndrome, and the meaning of life all called into question outside of Nathan's on Coney Island, Brooklyn.

Or maybe it was about eating hot dogs really fast.

Broker's Fee (Fie Foe Fum).

Fee! Fie! Foe! Fum!
I smell the blood of a renter in a desperate situation
Be she live, or be she dead
I'm going to charge 10% of annual rent because I can, and you'll pay it, because this space is really nice and you can't have it until you give me my money first. Sorry, It's just sort of how the industry works.

Note: This is an actual excerpt from an actual Real Estate Marketing Fairy Tale, "Jack and the Two Bedroom, One Bath, Quiet Tree-Lined Street Close to Shops Beanstalk." It's not great. It has this really annoying ending where it turns out that heat and hot water aren't included and jack just decides to live in his sister's living room until he's 30.

So I'm going crazy. Looking for an apartment in NY is basically the worst thing in the world. Some people might enjoy it. Those people might also enjoy soft rock, mystery smells on a crowded train or watching strangers eat corn on the cob. Different strokes. I for one, would prefer not to spend the vast majority of my weekends walking around Brooklyn in intense heat looking at places that either A) Scare me in a, "Will a bug eat my face off when i sleep?" kind of way
or
B) Are so amazing I can't believe I can afford to live there, and then the Broker chimes in with a ps--I can't.

The whole process is frustrating, and that's why people should really limit it to looking at one or two places a day. But you can't do that because everyone is telling you that the great spaces will be picked by noon and that good apartments won't last longer than the day they're posted. But no pressure. Just get out there and have fun with it!

Do you know how painful it is to spend hours a day looking at apartment listings on Craigslist? Do you?! It's a modern day cilice. Craig Newmark lived in my neighborhood in SF and I always ran into him when grabbing a coffee at Reverie. I never thought to look for a hairshirt, but I'm quite certain he was wearing one.

Saturday was a real treat. I woke up early to search open-houses, made some calls, and Vanessa and I set out. Long story short, by 11AMi was delirious and sweating like some sort of sweaty animal (pig, i guess? are there others?) because of the heat and the billionth floor walk ups. Note: Be leery of "Views." An ad that reads, "Nice View" just means that by the time you reach the top floor, you'll be very dizzy and start hallucinating that you're dancing on a giant cupcake (if it's giant i guess it would just be a cake) and a pony walks up to you and says, "Hi, I'm Buttons."
That's all "Nice View" means when you have a budget.

By 2:00 we had walked so far away from anything we knew that we were searching for any establishment that served or sold food. Where the hell do people eat in random parts of Brooklyn?! We ended up getting a sandwich at a convenient store with one aisle--(complete contents of aisle included: Fantastic spray cleaner, a 6pk of Sam Adams, beef jerky, and kotex products--that IS convenient!) A woman who looked like she was about to die, walked to the back of the aisle and started coughing violently. I was so punch-drunk by this point I go to Ness, "Clean up on aisle...aisle." and literally burst into tears laughing.

The whole process is unhealthy.
Looked at a few no-fee apartments yesterday and fell in love with one, but when I spoke with the guy today it turns out there is a broker's fee. Well, sure. It's only fair. I mean, he did unlock the doors for us, and then he had to lock them back up when we left. Makes sense that I should give him a few thousand dollars.

Foe Fum.