. . . well, for one thing, more sleep. After eight years of a steady 9-to-5 (or, sometimes, 8-to-6) job, I've finally reached the point where I can't sleep in anymore. Don't get me wrong--this was never a goal, it just happened. I've become so accustomed to getting up at a certain time every morning (which, lately, is about 6:00) that, even on the weekends, I can't seem to sleep past 7:00 or maybe 8:00 if I'm lucky. I've always known people--even people without children!--who experience this, but I've never understood it. Sure, you might naturally wake up at a certain time because your body's used to it, but why not just go back to sleep? For many years, I was able to do this, but no more. Lately I've found that as soon as I wake up, my mind starts to race--I just start thinking about stuff, and it's impossible to get back to sleep. Is this just a part of getting older? Teenagers and young adults can sleep like the dead; older people, not so much. So, apparently I've moved into the category of "older people." I'm trying to look at this as a positive thing, though, for two reasons--one, I need to appreciate the fact that I have interesting things going on in my life to think about, and two, waking up early gives me more time to get stuff done.
But anyway, that's not what this post is about. I'm totally ripping off an idea I got from another blog. (I would link to this other blog, but I can't find it now. I do a lot of blog-trolling, and I lost track of which one I saw this on . . . oh well.) Anyway, the idea is to Google your name with "needs" after it (e.g., "Heather needs") and see what pops up. I totally recommend trying this at home, kids--everyone enjoys the narcissistic experience of Googling their own name, right? (Well, except child molesters, I guess, and other assorted criminals . . . but I digress.)
Anyhoo, here are my top five "needs," according to Google. This totally cracked me up.
Heather Needs Men . . . Now!
Heather needs to start wearing a brassiere
Heather Needs Two Therapists
Heather needs something more to be satisfied
Heather Needs Gatorade
So, apparently, the Heathers out there in Googleland tend to be slutty, thirsty, unfulfilled, and in serious need of therapy. (Two therapists are needed! One won't do!) Hmmm.
Saturday, June 09, 2007
Wednesday, June 06, 2007
Experiment
So, yesterday I left a half-full cup of chocolate pudding in the fridge at work. (In the work cafeteria, they sell these huge cups of pudding, so I usually only eat half of it, or I share it with someone. Sometimes our whole lunch table shares a cup. We're tight like that.) Anyway, today I get to see if the pudding is still there, or if someone took it.
This has happened before.
This has happened before.
Tuesday, June 05, 2007
Not Everybody Loves Raymond
Have you ever noticed how, if you have cable, some shows are on, like, all the time? It seems some of the smaller networks just don't have much in their reportoire, and so they wind up showing the same stuff over and over. Sometimes, this is a good thing--e.g., if I find myself wanting to just veg out for an hour or so in the evening, I can almost always watch Law & Order. And if I want to veg out for half an hour, I can almost always watch Scrubs. But there is a dark side to this phenomena, as I experienced the other day when I accidentally watched an episode of Everybody Loves Raymond, which is another show that's on all the friggin' time. Unfortunately.
So, how did I "accidentally" watch this show, you ask? Fair enough question, but I swear, it was a legitimate mistake. I was talking on the phone and had the T.V. on (muted) and was channel surfing (yes, while the T.V. was muted. Doesn't everyone do this??). Then the phone conversation got suddenly very interesting, and I stopped channel surfing to devote my attention to the call. The phone call went on for a while, and when it was over, I hung up the phone and unmuted the television in one fluid, subconscious movement. (Yes, I'm graceful like that.) And I sat there for a while, thinking about the conversation I'd just had. Gradually, it dawned on me that the T.V. was no longer showing the program I had landed on when I stopped surfing (The Simpsons) and was now showing another program (You Know What). And I had been kind of watching this new show for a few minutes (while thinking, you know?), and now I was kind of actively watching it, completely by accident. Makes total sense, yes?
And there's just no other way to say this--I fucking hate this show. It's not funny. The entire concept is so tired. (Seriously, how many sitcoms have been done or are being done right now centering around the whole suburban-family-with-idiosyncracies shtick? Count them. I dare you.) Every character in this show is a stereotype taken to the extreme. The nagging, intrusive mother-in-law. The boorish father-in-law who never misses an opportunity to say something hateful and not-funny about his wife. The doofus older brother. Adorable children who just kind of hang around sometimes but are mostly absent and have no discernible impact on the lives of their parents.* An assortment of wacky neighbors, acquaintances, maintenance guys, and hangers-on. And, my personal favorites--the bitchy, annoying wife with absolutely no sense of humor, whose personality has been molded by the fact that her husband is a whiny, childlike character who can't be depended on to rear their (mostly absent) children correctly or to make any thoughtful decisions whatsoever, and so the situation has devolved to the point where he is basically another one of her children and a constant source of stress to her, as well as a constant receptacle of her bitching, and they never have sex, and when they do it's a major event, and the whole show revolves around this. Absolutely fucking hilarious.
The really insipid part, though, is that this show was conceptualized and is presented as the Everyman Show. Everything about it is designed to appear . . . well, take your pick--normal (whatever that is), bland, average, unremarkable, inoffensive, noncontroversial. The people are average looking. The house is bland. There's not a single character developed to the point of being even slightly interesting. And nothing ever happens. (And not in the way that nothing ever happens on Seinfeld--that was intentional.)
So, what we wind up with is a show featuring the scenario like the one I saw the other night. Please forgive me for actually outlining the plot of an ELR episode, but it's kind of essential to the post:
In brief, Raymond and his brother are out of town on a trip for some reason, and they're hanging out in this hotel room (which is the noncontroversial thing for two grown men on their own in a strange city to be doing). One thing leads to another (through, of course, an unlikely yet wacky but still innocuous chain of events that I won't try to recreate here), and they wind up losing Raymond's wedding ring. As gripping and drama-ridden as this plot turn already is, it gets even more complicated. At the airport waiting for his flight home the next day, Raymond gets hit on by an extremely attractive woman who, of course, is irrisistibly drawn to this average looking, not very clever man due to the fact that he is not wearing a wedding ring. (Yep, that's pretty much how it is with us single women. We see a bare wedding-ring finger, we move in for the kill.) Raymond graciously yet politely turns her down, immediately (which is the noncontroversial thing for a grown man . . . ah, you get the point). So, whew! Close call there, huh? Isn't that enough drama for one episode?
Oh no, it is not. In fact, we're just getting started. Raymond makes it home, and eventually his wife finds out about both the lost ring and the hitting-upon incident (despite Raymond's not-very-smart-yet-wacky attempts to conceal both from her). And, of course, she totally hits the roof. She's furious with him for accidentally losing his ring and then being hit on by someone while he's just passively sitting around. The fact that he subsequently turns this person down doesn't seem to matter one bit--someone hit on him while he was sitting in the airport! And that's the dramatic tension that needs to be resolved by the end of the half-hour. This situation is presented as an actual problem.
You know what my problem is? The fact that this show ran for almost 10 years and was wildly popular. And the fact that it will probably be in syndication for about the next 125 years and will continue to be watched by millions of people every day--on purpose! This is the kind of thing that makes me cynical about the future of humankind.
*This will heretofore be known as the "Rachel and Ross's Baby Syndrome." That kid was never around. It was like they never had her. This, to me, has a much more negative impact on the minds on our youth than any depiction of drug use, premarital sex, etc. Really, you have all these shows where people have babies and then just carry on with their lives as usual. What a cruel message to send to young people.
So, how did I "accidentally" watch this show, you ask? Fair enough question, but I swear, it was a legitimate mistake. I was talking on the phone and had the T.V. on (muted) and was channel surfing (yes, while the T.V. was muted. Doesn't everyone do this??). Then the phone conversation got suddenly very interesting, and I stopped channel surfing to devote my attention to the call. The phone call went on for a while, and when it was over, I hung up the phone and unmuted the television in one fluid, subconscious movement. (Yes, I'm graceful like that.) And I sat there for a while, thinking about the conversation I'd just had. Gradually, it dawned on me that the T.V. was no longer showing the program I had landed on when I stopped surfing (The Simpsons) and was now showing another program (You Know What). And I had been kind of watching this new show for a few minutes (while thinking, you know?), and now I was kind of actively watching it, completely by accident. Makes total sense, yes?
And there's just no other way to say this--I fucking hate this show. It's not funny. The entire concept is so tired. (Seriously, how many sitcoms have been done or are being done right now centering around the whole suburban-family-with-idiosyncracies shtick? Count them. I dare you.) Every character in this show is a stereotype taken to the extreme. The nagging, intrusive mother-in-law. The boorish father-in-law who never misses an opportunity to say something hateful and not-funny about his wife. The doofus older brother. Adorable children who just kind of hang around sometimes but are mostly absent and have no discernible impact on the lives of their parents.* An assortment of wacky neighbors, acquaintances, maintenance guys, and hangers-on. And, my personal favorites--the bitchy, annoying wife with absolutely no sense of humor, whose personality has been molded by the fact that her husband is a whiny, childlike character who can't be depended on to rear their (mostly absent) children correctly or to make any thoughtful decisions whatsoever, and so the situation has devolved to the point where he is basically another one of her children and a constant source of stress to her, as well as a constant receptacle of her bitching, and they never have sex, and when they do it's a major event, and the whole show revolves around this. Absolutely fucking hilarious.
The really insipid part, though, is that this show was conceptualized and is presented as the Everyman Show. Everything about it is designed to appear . . . well, take your pick--normal (whatever that is), bland, average, unremarkable, inoffensive, noncontroversial. The people are average looking. The house is bland. There's not a single character developed to the point of being even slightly interesting. And nothing ever happens. (And not in the way that nothing ever happens on Seinfeld--that was intentional.)
So, what we wind up with is a show featuring the scenario like the one I saw the other night. Please forgive me for actually outlining the plot of an ELR episode, but it's kind of essential to the post:
In brief, Raymond and his brother are out of town on a trip for some reason, and they're hanging out in this hotel room (which is the noncontroversial thing for two grown men on their own in a strange city to be doing). One thing leads to another (through, of course, an unlikely yet wacky but still innocuous chain of events that I won't try to recreate here), and they wind up losing Raymond's wedding ring. As gripping and drama-ridden as this plot turn already is, it gets even more complicated. At the airport waiting for his flight home the next day, Raymond gets hit on by an extremely attractive woman who, of course, is irrisistibly drawn to this average looking, not very clever man due to the fact that he is not wearing a wedding ring. (Yep, that's pretty much how it is with us single women. We see a bare wedding-ring finger, we move in for the kill.) Raymond graciously yet politely turns her down, immediately (which is the noncontroversial thing for a grown man . . . ah, you get the point). So, whew! Close call there, huh? Isn't that enough drama for one episode?
Oh no, it is not. In fact, we're just getting started. Raymond makes it home, and eventually his wife finds out about both the lost ring and the hitting-upon incident (despite Raymond's not-very-smart-yet-wacky attempts to conceal both from her). And, of course, she totally hits the roof. She's furious with him for accidentally losing his ring and then being hit on by someone while he's just passively sitting around. The fact that he subsequently turns this person down doesn't seem to matter one bit--someone hit on him while he was sitting in the airport! And that's the dramatic tension that needs to be resolved by the end of the half-hour. This situation is presented as an actual problem.
You know what my problem is? The fact that this show ran for almost 10 years and was wildly popular. And the fact that it will probably be in syndication for about the next 125 years and will continue to be watched by millions of people every day--on purpose! This is the kind of thing that makes me cynical about the future of humankind.
*This will heretofore be known as the "Rachel and Ross's Baby Syndrome." That kid was never around. It was like they never had her. This, to me, has a much more negative impact on the minds on our youth than any depiction of drug use, premarital sex, etc. Really, you have all these shows where people have babies and then just carry on with their lives as usual. What a cruel message to send to young people.
Thursday, May 24, 2007
I may have just declared war
So, I've been conceptualizing this post that deconstructs "Everybody Loves Raymond" and explains why I hate this show so, so much. But I'm going to have to put that on hold and write about what just went down at the park, because it may be the beginning of an ongoing saga.
As many of you know, I walk Josie every evening in the park behind my apartment. It's a very lovely park, with wide open grassy fields and a little patch of woods with a dirt path that runs along the river. Oh, and a bike path . . . where our saga begins.
First, though, I have to say--I love this park, and I love walking Josie there, but I have issues with some aspects of it. They are as follows:
1. Two fellow dog walkers (both women) who hate me for no apparent reason. (But I don't really care, so this isn't much of an issue.)
2. The ultimate frisbee players, who stake out huge patches of the best field with their stupid orange boundary flags and play that game all the time like the fate of the free world depends on it.
3. The cyclists.
O.K., so there is a bike path that runs through the park, and I completely accept the fact that there are going to be people riding bikes on the path. Fine. I play by the rules. I keep Josie on the leash, always, when we are on the path, and she trots dociley ahead of me, always staying to the right, just like she's supposed to. And what are the cyclists supposed to do? They're supposed to warn us when they're coming and then pass us on the left. Everyone knows this. And if they followed the rules (like I do!), there would be no problem. But they don't always follow the rules. In fact, they often don't, and I'm getting fed up.
First of all, the bike path is there for a reason, basically that they're supposed to keep their friggin' bikes on it. Lately, though, some of them have been riding their bikes on the path through the woods. They've even gone so far as to build jumps on the path. (And I just have to say--a grown man taking his bike over these pathetic little jumps in a patch of woods that is obviously meant for dog-walking is just . . . wrong and sad. And it is always men who do this, by the way.) Then tonight, I saw two of them riding their bikes through the fields, which caused me to seethe a little. But the last leg of our walk, when we were actually on the bike path, heading back from the cemetery, was the last straw.
So I'm walking Josie in the manner described above, with her on the leash and just trotting along in front of me, well to the right. I see a cyclist heading toward us, coming pretty fast (as many of them do. The bike path is their little solo-Indy 500-on-a-bike.). We keep walking, and just as the oncoming cyclist approaches us, another one comes up from behind, also moving really fast, giving no indication of his approach. And in the perfect storm of circumstances that ensued, they both passed us at the exact same time, which meant that the guy approaching from behind didn't, couldn't, get over, and so headed straight down the middle, and actually brushed my shoulder as he flew by. Josie jumped, instinctively, and I, also instinctively, jerked her leash and pulled her off into the grass on the right. All of this, of course, happened in a split second. In the next second, I was shouting, "Jesus Christ!" I'm not sure why that particular outburst escaped from me; a much more appropos exclamation would have been, "You fucking assholes!" Which I must have picked up on subconciously, because a second later, I was shouting, "You fucking assholes!" (It just so happened that two more cyclists came up behind me at this precise moment and probably thought I was shouting it at them, which I wasn't, but anyway . . . .) So then, in the next second, I'm turned around and looking back at the guy who was originally the oncoming guy, and lo and behold, he actually turns his head around . . . to see what had happened? So of course, I give him the finger. And not some wimpy little semi-hidden finger, either--I gave it to him high and strong. I wasn't even thinking of what I was doing. I was livid. Of course, it was probably more the other guy's fault, but the other guy didn't turn around to look, so. . . .
Anyhow, in summary, I have now shouted obscenities at four cyclists and given the finger to one. And I'm not planning on backing down. This thing is bigger than just me, anyway. While I respect the right of cyclists to ride on the bike path, there is absolutely no reason they need to go that fast. The path can get crowded--lots of people, many of them with children, like the adorable Asian boy Josie and I met tonight. (Apparently, the Chinese word for dog is wa-wa. This kid didn't speak a word of English, and neither did his parents, but we all spoke the language of dog! He got the biggest kick out of petting Josie--it was really sweet.) Anyway, there's a lot of potential for people, kids, and dogs to be hit when these cyclists go so fast, and especially when they refuse to slow down even when two of them are obviously going to converge . . . ugh, I'm still pissed.
So basically, I'm not going to take it anymore. I have a speech all ready for any of the woods-path-jumping guys that come even close to hitting Josie (which involves them having no legal right to be riding their bikes in any unpaved part of the park). Same for the guys riding their bikes through the fields (which, why?? Why would you do that when there's a path right there??) And I'm not going to be shy about giving the lead-foot cyclists a bit of friendly advice, either. So yeah, I will soon be known as That Crazy Dog-Walking Woman Who Hates Cyclists, but I don't care, and I will have the support of many other dog walkers. Do not underestimate us. Mess with our dogs, feel our wrath!
O.K., I feel better. You should try writing, people--it really does help when you want to punch someone.
As many of you know, I walk Josie every evening in the park behind my apartment. It's a very lovely park, with wide open grassy fields and a little patch of woods with a dirt path that runs along the river. Oh, and a bike path . . . where our saga begins.
First, though, I have to say--I love this park, and I love walking Josie there, but I have issues with some aspects of it. They are as follows:
1. Two fellow dog walkers (both women) who hate me for no apparent reason. (But I don't really care, so this isn't much of an issue.)
2. The ultimate frisbee players, who stake out huge patches of the best field with their stupid orange boundary flags and play that game all the time like the fate of the free world depends on it.
3. The cyclists.
O.K., so there is a bike path that runs through the park, and I completely accept the fact that there are going to be people riding bikes on the path. Fine. I play by the rules. I keep Josie on the leash, always, when we are on the path, and she trots dociley ahead of me, always staying to the right, just like she's supposed to. And what are the cyclists supposed to do? They're supposed to warn us when they're coming and then pass us on the left. Everyone knows this. And if they followed the rules (like I do!), there would be no problem. But they don't always follow the rules. In fact, they often don't, and I'm getting fed up.
First of all, the bike path is there for a reason, basically that they're supposed to keep their friggin' bikes on it. Lately, though, some of them have been riding their bikes on the path through the woods. They've even gone so far as to build jumps on the path. (And I just have to say--a grown man taking his bike over these pathetic little jumps in a patch of woods that is obviously meant for dog-walking is just . . . wrong and sad. And it is always men who do this, by the way.) Then tonight, I saw two of them riding their bikes through the fields, which caused me to seethe a little. But the last leg of our walk, when we were actually on the bike path, heading back from the cemetery, was the last straw.
So I'm walking Josie in the manner described above, with her on the leash and just trotting along in front of me, well to the right. I see a cyclist heading toward us, coming pretty fast (as many of them do. The bike path is their little solo-Indy 500-on-a-bike.). We keep walking, and just as the oncoming cyclist approaches us, another one comes up from behind, also moving really fast, giving no indication of his approach. And in the perfect storm of circumstances that ensued, they both passed us at the exact same time, which meant that the guy approaching from behind didn't, couldn't, get over, and so headed straight down the middle, and actually brushed my shoulder as he flew by. Josie jumped, instinctively, and I, also instinctively, jerked her leash and pulled her off into the grass on the right. All of this, of course, happened in a split second. In the next second, I was shouting, "Jesus Christ!" I'm not sure why that particular outburst escaped from me; a much more appropos exclamation would have been, "You fucking assholes!" Which I must have picked up on subconciously, because a second later, I was shouting, "You fucking assholes!" (It just so happened that two more cyclists came up behind me at this precise moment and probably thought I was shouting it at them, which I wasn't, but anyway . . . .) So then, in the next second, I'm turned around and looking back at the guy who was originally the oncoming guy, and lo and behold, he actually turns his head around . . . to see what had happened? So of course, I give him the finger. And not some wimpy little semi-hidden finger, either--I gave it to him high and strong. I wasn't even thinking of what I was doing. I was livid. Of course, it was probably more the other guy's fault, but the other guy didn't turn around to look, so. . . .
Anyhow, in summary, I have now shouted obscenities at four cyclists and given the finger to one. And I'm not planning on backing down. This thing is bigger than just me, anyway. While I respect the right of cyclists to ride on the bike path, there is absolutely no reason they need to go that fast. The path can get crowded--lots of people, many of them with children, like the adorable Asian boy Josie and I met tonight. (Apparently, the Chinese word for dog is wa-wa. This kid didn't speak a word of English, and neither did his parents, but we all spoke the language of dog! He got the biggest kick out of petting Josie--it was really sweet.) Anyway, there's a lot of potential for people, kids, and dogs to be hit when these cyclists go so fast, and especially when they refuse to slow down even when two of them are obviously going to converge . . . ugh, I'm still pissed.
So basically, I'm not going to take it anymore. I have a speech all ready for any of the woods-path-jumping guys that come even close to hitting Josie (which involves them having no legal right to be riding their bikes in any unpaved part of the park). Same for the guys riding their bikes through the fields (which, why?? Why would you do that when there's a path right there??) And I'm not going to be shy about giving the lead-foot cyclists a bit of friendly advice, either. So yeah, I will soon be known as That Crazy Dog-Walking Woman Who Hates Cyclists, but I don't care, and I will have the support of many other dog walkers. Do not underestimate us. Mess with our dogs, feel our wrath!
O.K., I feel better. You should try writing, people--it really does help when you want to punch someone.
A Whole New Meaning of "Freedom of Choice"
So, I guess I can take comfort in the fact that I have at least 22 years to change my mind?
Sunday, May 20, 2007
Anatomy of a First (and Last) Date
O.K., this is a good one.
So, Saturday night, I went on a date with a guy named . . . let's say, Drew.* I met Drew at, of all places, the convenience store down the road. We were both waiting in line, and he struck up a conversation with me, and I was strongly attracted to two things: his striking resemblance to Matthew McConaughey, and the fact that he was not buying Lotto tickets. (He was, in fact, purchasing a bottle of Arizona Iced Tea and a pack of gum.) He seemed interesting enough, and he was totally adorable. We walked outside and continued our conversation, for about 10 minutes or so, and eventually we did the phone-number exchange thing, and he called me two days later. So far, so good.
Of course, I broke the first rule of dating by agreeing to go out on a Saturday night. For those of you who have been married since the Stone Age, this is now a rule. You do not go out for the first time on a weekend night. You first go out during the week, either for coffee or lunch or drinks right after work. You do not commit to dinner right away, nor do you give over any of your weekend time. I'm not much for rules, though, so Drew and I made plans to go to dinner on Saturday. (Oh wait, that's two rules broken. Oh well.)
So around 7:00 he picks me up and we head to this Mexican place. Margaritas in hand, we begin the first-date talk. And things go downhill almost immediately.
Right now, I must diverge and share some of my thoughts on what a first date should be like. First of all, you shouldn't get too deep into the whole personal-history thing. The basics are O.K.--three siblings, divorced parents, attended college at __________, divorced yourself once, etc. But rehashing too much of the life story is a waste of everyone's time, on both sides, if things don't work out . . . which, frankly, they often don't after a first date. It's tiring telling your whole life story over and over again, especially if, as with me, it's kind of complicated. And again, quite frankly, as fascinating as we all find our own stories to be, the details just aren't that interesting to other people, at least not at first. This works both ways, of course.
So, what sorts of things should you be talking about? Here's my list of acceptable (and, in some cases, essential) first-date topics:
1. Books
2. Music
3. Movies
4. Politics (Unlike other social settings, you should talk about politics on a first date. That way, if someone, say, approves of the Bush administration in any way, shape, or form, you can excuse yourself to go the restroom and then never return.)
5. Hobbies, on a limited basis (Your date might not be nearly as interested in, say, poker, quilting, crossword puzzles, etc., as you are.)
6. Any unique experiences/adventures you've had in your life (e.g., my time in Africa)
7. Your job, on a limited basis (Again, your job, unless you are Brad Pitt's personal assistant, is not nearly as fascinating to other people as you might imagine it to be.)
8. Children, if you have them (Although I do not have children myself, I do recognize that they are important enough to be included in first-date conversation.)
O.K., that's just off the top of my head, but you get the idea. You need to keep things focused on the fun, interesting aspects of life. But the topics themselves fade in comparison to the most important rule, which is: You need to show a modicum of interest in your date and let them get in a word in now and then. Maybe even ask them a question on occasion, rather than turning the conversation immediately back to yourself at every opportunity. Maybe, sometimes, actually acknowledging what they just said, rather than carrying on with your own spiel as if you were being filmed for an HBO special on the fascinating specialness that is you. Do you know what I mean?
Well, Drew didn't get this. Not at all. Instead, I was treated to about an hour and a half of the Drew Monologues. About 20 minutes into it, I started thinking about how I would rather be home playing online poker. An hour later, I was on my third margarita, trying to make him more interesting (because he was so damn cute), but even that didn't help. By the end of the evening, I was trying to figure out how to fend off mention of a second date, in case he brought it up.
You know, I just don't get the whole thing with guys not knowing, at all, how to talk to women. I don't understand it from an evolutionary standpoint. It's such a simple thing, and it's not like it's a secret--and, it would help them get laid a lot more, so you'd think they would've found a way to adapt by now. Of course, Drew is good-looking enough that maybe he gets laid a lot anyway. But it didn't happen for him that night. Poor Drew.
*Actually his real name. You'll never meet him, and he'll never read this, so it doesn't matter.
So, Saturday night, I went on a date with a guy named . . . let's say, Drew.* I met Drew at, of all places, the convenience store down the road. We were both waiting in line, and he struck up a conversation with me, and I was strongly attracted to two things: his striking resemblance to Matthew McConaughey, and the fact that he was not buying Lotto tickets. (He was, in fact, purchasing a bottle of Arizona Iced Tea and a pack of gum.) He seemed interesting enough, and he was totally adorable. We walked outside and continued our conversation, for about 10 minutes or so, and eventually we did the phone-number exchange thing, and he called me two days later. So far, so good.
Of course, I broke the first rule of dating by agreeing to go out on a Saturday night. For those of you who have been married since the Stone Age, this is now a rule. You do not go out for the first time on a weekend night. You first go out during the week, either for coffee or lunch or drinks right after work. You do not commit to dinner right away, nor do you give over any of your weekend time. I'm not much for rules, though, so Drew and I made plans to go to dinner on Saturday. (Oh wait, that's two rules broken. Oh well.)
So around 7:00 he picks me up and we head to this Mexican place. Margaritas in hand, we begin the first-date talk. And things go downhill almost immediately.
Right now, I must diverge and share some of my thoughts on what a first date should be like. First of all, you shouldn't get too deep into the whole personal-history thing. The basics are O.K.--three siblings, divorced parents, attended college at __________, divorced yourself once, etc. But rehashing too much of the life story is a waste of everyone's time, on both sides, if things don't work out . . . which, frankly, they often don't after a first date. It's tiring telling your whole life story over and over again, especially if, as with me, it's kind of complicated. And again, quite frankly, as fascinating as we all find our own stories to be, the details just aren't that interesting to other people, at least not at first. This works both ways, of course.
So, what sorts of things should you be talking about? Here's my list of acceptable (and, in some cases, essential) first-date topics:
1. Books
2. Music
3. Movies
4. Politics (Unlike other social settings, you should talk about politics on a first date. That way, if someone, say, approves of the Bush administration in any way, shape, or form, you can excuse yourself to go the restroom and then never return.)
5. Hobbies, on a limited basis (Your date might not be nearly as interested in, say, poker, quilting, crossword puzzles, etc., as you are.)
6. Any unique experiences/adventures you've had in your life (e.g., my time in Africa)
7. Your job, on a limited basis (Again, your job, unless you are Brad Pitt's personal assistant, is not nearly as fascinating to other people as you might imagine it to be.)
8. Children, if you have them (Although I do not have children myself, I do recognize that they are important enough to be included in first-date conversation.)
O.K., that's just off the top of my head, but you get the idea. You need to keep things focused on the fun, interesting aspects of life. But the topics themselves fade in comparison to the most important rule, which is: You need to show a modicum of interest in your date and let them get in a word in now and then. Maybe even ask them a question on occasion, rather than turning the conversation immediately back to yourself at every opportunity. Maybe, sometimes, actually acknowledging what they just said, rather than carrying on with your own spiel as if you were being filmed for an HBO special on the fascinating specialness that is you. Do you know what I mean?
Well, Drew didn't get this. Not at all. Instead, I was treated to about an hour and a half of the Drew Monologues. About 20 minutes into it, I started thinking about how I would rather be home playing online poker. An hour later, I was on my third margarita, trying to make him more interesting (because he was so damn cute), but even that didn't help. By the end of the evening, I was trying to figure out how to fend off mention of a second date, in case he brought it up.
You know, I just don't get the whole thing with guys not knowing, at all, how to talk to women. I don't understand it from an evolutionary standpoint. It's such a simple thing, and it's not like it's a secret--and, it would help them get laid a lot more, so you'd think they would've found a way to adapt by now. Of course, Drew is good-looking enough that maybe he gets laid a lot anyway. But it didn't happen for him that night. Poor Drew.
*Actually his real name. You'll never meet him, and he'll never read this, so it doesn't matter.
Friday, May 18, 2007
Flying-Solo Friday
So, here it is Friday evening, and I'm blogging. WTF, you ask? Shouldn't I be at happy hour? Why yes, in fact, usually I would be. In fact, I can't remember the last time I stayed home on a Friday night. But frankly, I'm exhausted. Work has been kicking my ass lately--not in a bad way, and in fact it's kind of exciting, but it's tiring. Also, I'm kind of happy-houred out tonight. Currently, I've got . . . let's see, about five different happy-hour groups going on, and so I've been going out a lot during the week. (We don't all go out every week, but it adds up.) Despite this, I still make it a rule to walk my dog for about 45 minutes a night (every night! Seriously!), so that adds to the tiredness. And it's not just physical tiredness--I'm also worn out on social interaction in general. So, I'm staying in tonight. And it's going to be awesome. The evening's plans are as follows:
1. Walk Josie (of course). We've been going on our walks a little later recently, now that it's light out til late. This way, we avoid the bulk of the other dog-walkers. I like them and all, but we want to walk, not stand around chatting. (This alludes to a whole other theme, by the way--the way a lot of people do not actually walk their dogs, but instead stand around at the park for a while while their dog maybe runs around and maybe just lies at their feet, getting no exercise. But I digress.)
2. Come home and fix myself some roasted garlic and chicken ravioli and drink wine.
3. Maybe blog again??? If not, read the awesome novel I'm into right now. (Review to come.)
4. Watch the season finale of my favorite show, which is, as we all know, Law & Order. (Just to clarify--I am not staying home in order to watch Law & Order; it's just a happy coincidence that the season finale happens to be on tonight.) While watching, I plan on eating some dark chocolate M&Ms, which may very well be the greatest invention of the last year and which I take total credit for.*
5. Play some online poker, hopefully while chatting with my male BFF, who also plays online. (I have a male BFF and a female BFF. They know who they are. Hi, you two!)
6. Go to bed at a decent time in order to get up and actually get something done tomorrow, for a friggin' change.
So, that's the plan. And now, I must go execute the first part and walk the dog. But first, before I forget . . .
Today I called the vet to schedule an appointment for one of my cats to get his shots. My vet's office is always extremely busy and so, of course, I was put on hold. When you're on hold with my vet, you get treated to this woman's voice talking constantly, plugging the various services the vet's office has to offer. Two things about her spiel today struck me:
1. She was going on about how, if your pet is over seven years old, a lot of shit (not her word) can happen that you're not even aware of. And so, you should bring your pet in every six months for a checkup. Um, right. This struck me as a scam in line with the three-month oil change, and it just ain't gonna happen. Are you kidding me? I have three pets--I would be bringing one of them in every other month! I don't get checkups myself that often--not nearly that often! These people are insane.
2. Need further proof of their insanity? She was also extolling the virtues of their new website, which is--I'm not kidding you--http://www.caninesemenbank.com/. Let me set the scene. I had the recording on speaker phone at work, and I was doing some other stuff and not really paying attention. Then all of a sudden, I hear this woman talking about how they were changing the course of reproduction. Since I was on hold with the vet, this naturally caught my attention. It's not as dramatic and freakish as it sounds, of course, but apparently, you can now freeze your male dog's semen and/or have your female dog impregnated by previously frozen semen. There are so many things wrong with this, I don't even know where to begin. First and foremost, I guess, is the question--what the hell is wrong with breeding dogs the old-fashioned way, i.e., just letting them have sex with each other as they will no doubt do if given the chance? (Although I must go on record as saying that, officially, I am against any kind of dog breeding at all until every dog and puppy in every pound and shelter in this country is adopted. Please adopt animals, people!) And second, there are so many things going on here that I do not want to think about--e.g., How do they collect this semen? How do they impregnate these dogs? What is wrong with these people? You know, stuff like that.
O.K., speaking of dogs, I'm off to do a totally normal thing and take mine for a walk. Enjoy your Friday night, whatever you may be doing.
*I take credit because I wrote to the M&M people about a year ago suggesting that they make dark chocolate M&Ms, and voila! They have. Yes, my narcissism really does run this deep at times.
1. Walk Josie (of course). We've been going on our walks a little later recently, now that it's light out til late. This way, we avoid the bulk of the other dog-walkers. I like them and all, but we want to walk, not stand around chatting. (This alludes to a whole other theme, by the way--the way a lot of people do not actually walk their dogs, but instead stand around at the park for a while while their dog maybe runs around and maybe just lies at their feet, getting no exercise. But I digress.)
2. Come home and fix myself some roasted garlic and chicken ravioli and drink wine.
3. Maybe blog again??? If not, read the awesome novel I'm into right now. (Review to come.)
4. Watch the season finale of my favorite show, which is, as we all know, Law & Order. (Just to clarify--I am not staying home in order to watch Law & Order; it's just a happy coincidence that the season finale happens to be on tonight.) While watching, I plan on eating some dark chocolate M&Ms, which may very well be the greatest invention of the last year and which I take total credit for.*
5. Play some online poker, hopefully while chatting with my male BFF, who also plays online. (I have a male BFF and a female BFF. They know who they are. Hi, you two!)
6. Go to bed at a decent time in order to get up and actually get something done tomorrow, for a friggin' change.
So, that's the plan. And now, I must go execute the first part and walk the dog. But first, before I forget . . .
Today I called the vet to schedule an appointment for one of my cats to get his shots. My vet's office is always extremely busy and so, of course, I was put on hold. When you're on hold with my vet, you get treated to this woman's voice talking constantly, plugging the various services the vet's office has to offer. Two things about her spiel today struck me:
1. She was going on about how, if your pet is over seven years old, a lot of shit (not her word) can happen that you're not even aware of. And so, you should bring your pet in every six months for a checkup. Um, right. This struck me as a scam in line with the three-month oil change, and it just ain't gonna happen. Are you kidding me? I have three pets--I would be bringing one of them in every other month! I don't get checkups myself that often--not nearly that often! These people are insane.
2. Need further proof of their insanity? She was also extolling the virtues of their new website, which is--I'm not kidding you--http://www.caninesemenbank.com/. Let me set the scene. I had the recording on speaker phone at work, and I was doing some other stuff and not really paying attention. Then all of a sudden, I hear this woman talking about how they were changing the course of reproduction. Since I was on hold with the vet, this naturally caught my attention. It's not as dramatic and freakish as it sounds, of course, but apparently, you can now freeze your male dog's semen and/or have your female dog impregnated by previously frozen semen. There are so many things wrong with this, I don't even know where to begin. First and foremost, I guess, is the question--what the hell is wrong with breeding dogs the old-fashioned way, i.e., just letting them have sex with each other as they will no doubt do if given the chance? (Although I must go on record as saying that, officially, I am against any kind of dog breeding at all until every dog and puppy in every pound and shelter in this country is adopted. Please adopt animals, people!) And second, there are so many things going on here that I do not want to think about--e.g., How do they collect this semen? How do they impregnate these dogs? What is wrong with these people? You know, stuff like that.
O.K., speaking of dogs, I'm off to do a totally normal thing and take mine for a walk. Enjoy your Friday night, whatever you may be doing.
*I take credit because I wrote to the M&M people about a year ago suggesting that they make dark chocolate M&Ms, and voila! They have. Yes, my narcissism really does run this deep at times.
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
New Onion Article Proposals
For those of you who read the Onion, here are some articles I'd like to see:
Tony Blair Visits U.S. to Stick Face Up Bush's Ass One Last Time
Final ass lick is "for old time's sake," outgoing prime minister says
Jerry Falwell Finds Self in Hell, Blames Gays and Lesbians
"And why aren't there more of them down here, anyway?" smoldering preacher asks
Tony Blair Visits U.S. to Stick Face Up Bush's Ass One Last Time
Final ass lick is "for old time's sake," outgoing prime minister says
Jerry Falwell Finds Self in Hell, Blames Gays and Lesbians
"And why aren't there more of them down here, anyway?" smoldering preacher asks
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
Drive By
So, I was off work one day last week and driving around doing errands, and on a whim I decided to drive by my ex's house. When we first split up a year and a half ago, I used to do this frequently, because . . . well, that's what you do, right? Or maybe that's just me? I'm not sure why I was doing it--I was the one who left, after all, and I didn't want to get back together, and I didn't really miss him either, because he was being such a jerk. I was just curious, I guess. Also, it was easy, because I pass so closely to the house anyway on my way to and from work. But I stopped doing the drive-by thing a long time ago. It's kind of pointless--I mean, yeah, there's the house, and yeah, it looks the same . . . now what? But I wanted to drive by last week just to see if he was still living there. I haven't heard from him in a few months, and for all I knew, he had sold the house and moved, as he had mentioned he might do. But no, it looked like he was still there--there were the same curtains (the ones I picked out and hung) in the front window, and there were the curtains my mom made in the kitchen windows.
It's always a little weird to see that house, the one in which I lived for five years but will most likely never enter again. It's weird, too, to live so close by--I drive the same route to work, basically, that I always did, I go to the same grocery store, etc. There are also a lot of shops and restaurants around here that I used to go to with my ex. I sometimes think I should have moved farther away, to a different neighborhood, at least, to make more of a fresh start . . . but I love it here, and I had kind of a proprietary attitude about the whole thing, like, why should I have to move to a completely different area? And now I'm glad I stayed--I love my apartment and my little part of the neighborhood, and surprisingly, I've never run into my ex, not even once. (Of course, now that I wrote that, I'll probably see him at the grocery store tonight . . . ) I do wonder sometimes if he and I will ever speak again, though. It's been a while--I called him last, let's see, about three months ago, and we talked for two hours. Then he e-mailed me the next day to tell me something he forgot, that one of his friend's moms had died . . . and then he just had to add a little patronizing bit to the e-mail that pissed me off. And I haven't responded. So I guess technically the ball's in my court, but something is holding me back from contacting him. I'm not sure what it is--just a can of worms I don't feel like opening.
I don't know why I'm blabbering on about this. It just strikes me sometimes how strange it is, to have a person in your life for years and years and live with them, and then all of a sudden, they're out of your life completely. It just makes everything seem . . . very fragile. There's your deep thought for the day.
It's always a little weird to see that house, the one in which I lived for five years but will most likely never enter again. It's weird, too, to live so close by--I drive the same route to work, basically, that I always did, I go to the same grocery store, etc. There are also a lot of shops and restaurants around here that I used to go to with my ex. I sometimes think I should have moved farther away, to a different neighborhood, at least, to make more of a fresh start . . . but I love it here, and I had kind of a proprietary attitude about the whole thing, like, why should I have to move to a completely different area? And now I'm glad I stayed--I love my apartment and my little part of the neighborhood, and surprisingly, I've never run into my ex, not even once. (Of course, now that I wrote that, I'll probably see him at the grocery store tonight . . . ) I do wonder sometimes if he and I will ever speak again, though. It's been a while--I called him last, let's see, about three months ago, and we talked for two hours. Then he e-mailed me the next day to tell me something he forgot, that one of his friend's moms had died . . . and then he just had to add a little patronizing bit to the e-mail that pissed me off. And I haven't responded. So I guess technically the ball's in my court, but something is holding me back from contacting him. I'm not sure what it is--just a can of worms I don't feel like opening.
I don't know why I'm blabbering on about this. It just strikes me sometimes how strange it is, to have a person in your life for years and years and live with them, and then all of a sudden, they're out of your life completely. It just makes everything seem . . . very fragile. There's your deep thought for the day.
Monday, May 14, 2007
How To Woo Me
No, this is not a post about my love life--sorry if I misled you.
So, today I get home and check the mail, and there's a solicitation letter from Harper's Magazine. Normally I just throw junk mail like that away, but I do like Harper's, and I used to have a subscription, so I thought I'd check out what they were offering. And I have to say, someone put some thought into this marketing campaign . . . but with mixed results.
The letter they included is chatty with a conspiratorial tone, and it starts out by stroking my ego, warming me up to the pitch:
"Dear Heather,
You thrive on independent thinking. You're intrigued by events and ideas. And you read as much as you have time for."
So far so good! Harper's knows me so well! (But how do they know . . . ?)
The next part, however, proceeds to semi-insult me:
"But there is far too much information to cope with these days. Too much disinformation. Too much misinformation. The more you read, the more you wonder what it means."
O.K., so I read a lot, but I'm not so great with discernment, I guess? In fact, I even have trouble piecing together the meaning of what I read? Thanks a lot, Harper's. What's more, I'm left to wonder what the difference is between "misinformation" and "disinformation." (I'm guessing "misinformation" is unintentional, while "disinformation" is put out there on purpose? Of course, now I'm questioning my reasoning abilities in general, so who knows?)
Then I am reassured:
"Our mission is not to add to the information explosion but to help you defend yourself against it . . . to rout the propoganda peddlers . . . to make sense of a nonsensical world." [ellipses theirs]
Wow. I hadn't even realized that the entire world was nonsensical, let alone that a mere magazine could clear everything up for me! Oh, happy day! The letter then goes on and on in a rather patronizing tone, extolling the virtues of everything Harper's, occasionally tossing out some rather dubious claims:
"Harper's doesn't presume to tell you what to think. We simply tell you what people are thinking. Nor do we preach a particular brand of politics. We'll gladly ruffle feathers on both the left and right wings."
Oh, come on now. Like I said, I used to subscribe to Harper's, and it's definitely left-wing (as most magazines with actual thought behind them tend to be). Not that that bothers me--but don't pretend to be something you're not.
The best thing they did, though, was to include a complete version of the Harper's List, as well as a listing of recently published articles . . . and that is what eventually sucked me in. So, I'm going to resubscribe, but not because of anything they put in this really long letter that someone obviously took a long time to draft. Maybe I should let them know that.
[Despite their missteps, Harper's still knows me better than Ticketmaster, who today sent me an e-mail urging, "Don't Miss Poison!" Oh Ticketmaster, it is so over between us. You're pathetic. Really.]
So, today I get home and check the mail, and there's a solicitation letter from Harper's Magazine. Normally I just throw junk mail like that away, but I do like Harper's, and I used to have a subscription, so I thought I'd check out what they were offering. And I have to say, someone put some thought into this marketing campaign . . . but with mixed results.
The letter they included is chatty with a conspiratorial tone, and it starts out by stroking my ego, warming me up to the pitch:
"Dear Heather,
You thrive on independent thinking. You're intrigued by events and ideas. And you read as much as you have time for."
So far so good! Harper's knows me so well! (But how do they know . . . ?)
The next part, however, proceeds to semi-insult me:
"But there is far too much information to cope with these days. Too much disinformation. Too much misinformation. The more you read, the more you wonder what it means."
O.K., so I read a lot, but I'm not so great with discernment, I guess? In fact, I even have trouble piecing together the meaning of what I read? Thanks a lot, Harper's. What's more, I'm left to wonder what the difference is between "misinformation" and "disinformation." (I'm guessing "misinformation" is unintentional, while "disinformation" is put out there on purpose? Of course, now I'm questioning my reasoning abilities in general, so who knows?)
Then I am reassured:
"Our mission is not to add to the information explosion but to help you defend yourself against it . . . to rout the propoganda peddlers . . . to make sense of a nonsensical world." [ellipses theirs]
Wow. I hadn't even realized that the entire world was nonsensical, let alone that a mere magazine could clear everything up for me! Oh, happy day! The letter then goes on and on in a rather patronizing tone, extolling the virtues of everything Harper's, occasionally tossing out some rather dubious claims:
"Harper's doesn't presume to tell you what to think. We simply tell you what people are thinking. Nor do we preach a particular brand of politics. We'll gladly ruffle feathers on both the left and right wings."
Oh, come on now. Like I said, I used to subscribe to Harper's, and it's definitely left-wing (as most magazines with actual thought behind them tend to be). Not that that bothers me--but don't pretend to be something you're not.
The best thing they did, though, was to include a complete version of the Harper's List, as well as a listing of recently published articles . . . and that is what eventually sucked me in. So, I'm going to resubscribe, but not because of anything they put in this really long letter that someone obviously took a long time to draft. Maybe I should let them know that.
[Despite their missteps, Harper's still knows me better than Ticketmaster, who today sent me an e-mail urging, "Don't Miss Poison!" Oh Ticketmaster, it is so over between us. You're pathetic. Really.]
Sunday, May 13, 2007
Road Trip
So, this weekend I headed up to scenic* Medina, Ohio, for a poker tournament--a little mini road trip. (It's about two hours away.) I know that seems like a long way to go for a poker game, but seriously, I'm having a hard time finding any decent games in Columbus, and I was really itching to play in a live (as opposed to online) game. I discovered this game through an online meetup group and, as much as I was hesitant at first to send a $200 buy-in check to a total stranger, my gut told me it was all completely legit, and it was. The tournament was held at this other guy's house. There were about 30 people there, and everything was very well organized. Also, since the thing started at 6:00 and I was optimistically planning on being in it until the end, I got a hotel room so I wouldn't have to drive back at midnight--making the whole thing even more of a road trip.
At the tournament itself, things did not go exactly as planned. Due to a completely stupid play on my part, I got knocked out about two hours into the thing. I don't want to rehash the hand that doomed me--believe me, I've played it out in my head enough. I didn't get a bad beat--it was just a bad, bad play, and I should have known better. But, as everyone who plays poker knows, every game is a learning experience in a number of ways, and at this particular tournament, I discovered a new leak in my game.
For those of you who don't know, a "leak" is exactly what it sounds like--a bad habit that causes your chips to leak away from your stack and, of course, money to leak out of your pockets. There are lots of common leaks--playing too many hands, for example, or not letting go of a good hand even when you're almost positive you're beat by an even better hand. Discovering your leaks and trying to fix them is key to improving your game, so I'm always on the lookout for my own. And my game has gotten better because of this, although I will admit I've still got a long way to go in live play. (My online game has actually gotten a lot better, but online poker has different leaks than live play.)
So, to describe my leak, let me set the scene a little bit--there are 30 of us in two big rooms, and I'm one of two women in the whole place. And as much as gender shouldn't matter in poker (as I like to say, it's not weight lifting), it does. And it's necessary for me to acknowledge this and evaluate how it affects my game. I've discovered that there are basically three types of guys at any given poker table, and they tend to be pretty evenly distributed. One type will play against a woman in the exact same way he'd play against a man--that is, he evaluates the player without regard to gender. (Naturally, these are the good players.) Another type doesn't believe that a woman is capable of bluffing (oh, those naive, silly boys), and they will fold to me whenever I raise unless they have the nuts. The third type just can't stand folding to a woman, and they'll call when they shouldn't. So, on top of the usual job of trying to figure out everyone's playing style and tells, I've got to evaluate which type of guy everyone is. It's a lot to think about. When I'm concentrating well and really paying attention to all of this, I play a good game.
Unfortunately, that wasn't the case at this tournament, and I didn't figure out why until later. As it so happens, the guy on my immediate left was a total cutie pie and, as I discovered through talking to him, smart and interesting as well. (He's an attorney, which is no surprise--I'm like an attorney magnet. If there's an attorney in the room, I'll wind up meeting him or her. I don't know why this is.) Anyway, naturally we started flirting a bit, and I was just . . . very aware of him sitting there. And looking back on my final hand in which I made a very bad decision, I realize I was thinking more about my conversation with this guy than I was about the hand or the game in general. Bad, bad leak.
Interestingly, the guy in question busted out as well a short while later and joined me in the cash game that started up . . . so maybe I affected his game in a similar manner? And by this time, everyone had had a few drinks and the flirting was even more prevalent, so I just started looking at the game as more of a social event than a money-making opportunity, which of course meant I dumped off some more money--$80, in fact. So, to recap, I spent $200 on the buy-in, $60 on the (rather cheap) hotel room, $80 on the cash game, $15 on beer and food, and about $30 on gas, for a total of $385 to play in a tournament in which I wasn't really paying close attention to the game. This was not smart poker, people. It was, however, a lot of fun, and totally worth it. Also, I just cashed out $500 online, so I'm still ahead. (If, in fact, the money ever actually finds its way into my account, which is an extremely complicated process in online poker these days--more on that later.)
[By the way, I was struck by something during my drive to Medina and back--what the hell is up with that "Leaf" restaurant you see all over Ohio? At almost every exit, you see those signs telling you which restaurants are where, and it's always like, McDonald's, Taco Bell, Wendy's, Burger King . . . and Leaf. First off, what a totally stupid name for a restaurant. "Leaf"?? That's good--name your restaurant after something inedible. And second, has anyone ever actually eaten there? If you have, let me know. I'm just curious.]
[*I'm being kind. It's not that scenic.]
At the tournament itself, things did not go exactly as planned. Due to a completely stupid play on my part, I got knocked out about two hours into the thing. I don't want to rehash the hand that doomed me--believe me, I've played it out in my head enough. I didn't get a bad beat--it was just a bad, bad play, and I should have known better. But, as everyone who plays poker knows, every game is a learning experience in a number of ways, and at this particular tournament, I discovered a new leak in my game.
For those of you who don't know, a "leak" is exactly what it sounds like--a bad habit that causes your chips to leak away from your stack and, of course, money to leak out of your pockets. There are lots of common leaks--playing too many hands, for example, or not letting go of a good hand even when you're almost positive you're beat by an even better hand. Discovering your leaks and trying to fix them is key to improving your game, so I'm always on the lookout for my own. And my game has gotten better because of this, although I will admit I've still got a long way to go in live play. (My online game has actually gotten a lot better, but online poker has different leaks than live play.)
So, to describe my leak, let me set the scene a little bit--there are 30 of us in two big rooms, and I'm one of two women in the whole place. And as much as gender shouldn't matter in poker (as I like to say, it's not weight lifting), it does. And it's necessary for me to acknowledge this and evaluate how it affects my game. I've discovered that there are basically three types of guys at any given poker table, and they tend to be pretty evenly distributed. One type will play against a woman in the exact same way he'd play against a man--that is, he evaluates the player without regard to gender. (Naturally, these are the good players.) Another type doesn't believe that a woman is capable of bluffing (oh, those naive, silly boys), and they will fold to me whenever I raise unless they have the nuts. The third type just can't stand folding to a woman, and they'll call when they shouldn't. So, on top of the usual job of trying to figure out everyone's playing style and tells, I've got to evaluate which type of guy everyone is. It's a lot to think about. When I'm concentrating well and really paying attention to all of this, I play a good game.
Unfortunately, that wasn't the case at this tournament, and I didn't figure out why until later. As it so happens, the guy on my immediate left was a total cutie pie and, as I discovered through talking to him, smart and interesting as well. (He's an attorney, which is no surprise--I'm like an attorney magnet. If there's an attorney in the room, I'll wind up meeting him or her. I don't know why this is.) Anyway, naturally we started flirting a bit, and I was just . . . very aware of him sitting there. And looking back on my final hand in which I made a very bad decision, I realize I was thinking more about my conversation with this guy than I was about the hand or the game in general. Bad, bad leak.
Interestingly, the guy in question busted out as well a short while later and joined me in the cash game that started up . . . so maybe I affected his game in a similar manner? And by this time, everyone had had a few drinks and the flirting was even more prevalent, so I just started looking at the game as more of a social event than a money-making opportunity, which of course meant I dumped off some more money--$80, in fact. So, to recap, I spent $200 on the buy-in, $60 on the (rather cheap) hotel room, $80 on the cash game, $15 on beer and food, and about $30 on gas, for a total of $385 to play in a tournament in which I wasn't really paying close attention to the game. This was not smart poker, people. It was, however, a lot of fun, and totally worth it. Also, I just cashed out $500 online, so I'm still ahead. (If, in fact, the money ever actually finds its way into my account, which is an extremely complicated process in online poker these days--more on that later.)
[By the way, I was struck by something during my drive to Medina and back--what the hell is up with that "Leaf" restaurant you see all over Ohio? At almost every exit, you see those signs telling you which restaurants are where, and it's always like, McDonald's, Taco Bell, Wendy's, Burger King . . . and Leaf. First off, what a totally stupid name for a restaurant. "Leaf"?? That's good--name your restaurant after something inedible. And second, has anyone ever actually eaten there? If you have, let me know. I'm just curious.]
[*I'm being kind. It's not that scenic.]
Wednesday, May 09, 2007
Holy Crap II*
[*Note: This phrase has become my go-to exclamation for whenever something is outrageously, shockingly expensive or whenever my financial stupidity far exceeds its usual level. So, you kind of know where this post is going.]
As you know, I have written before about the inherent dangers of text messaging. Yesterday, I encountered an entirely new hazard--financial ruin. O.K., not ruin, actually, but stress and strain for sure. This happened when I logged on to my cell phone account and discovered that my text message bill for the month of April came to . . . $100!! This is on top of my usual bill of about $60. Shocked yet fascinated, I pulled up my itemized bill and was amazed to discover that in a single month, I had sent and received over 600 text messages. WTF?? I had no idea I was texting that often. It was a real eye-opener.
So today, I did what I should have done a long time ago, which is to sign up for unlimited text messaging for one low monthly fee. ("Low" is relative, by the way. Sometimes I feel like I'm getting low monthly fee'd to death.) But it's too late for this month's bill--$100, down the drain.
In the meantime, I also found out yesterday that my work phone (the Treo), which I thought had unlimited text messaging (and which I've been trying to get people to text to rather than my cell phone), does not, or at least, it didn't--I'm trying to remedy that too. I guess it's a lucky thing that people weren't using my work number during the month of April--I doubt a $100 text-messaging bill would have gone over too well with the finance people.
So anyhoo, all of this has led me once again to contemplate the role of text messaging in the dating scene of today. It truly is a brave new world. Before my divorce, I had never sent a single text message, but as soon as I started dating, I realized it's THE form of communication with new people you meet these days. Who knew? And it's not just a trend among the young, either--guys my age do it as well. (O.K., in reality, the closest I've gotten to someone "my age" is 34, but close enough, yes?) And I have to say, at first I was pretty resistant. Why go through the annoying process of punching all these little phone buttons (and learning a whole new language--T9! Some of you know what I mean!) when it would be much easier to just call the person or, if an immediate response isn't needed anyway, e-mail them.
But there are some definite advantages to texting that have become apparent to me as I've gotten more into it. The most obvious one is that, unlike on a phone call, you don't have to respond right away--you can let the phone just sit there while you go about your business, and you can answer when convenient. A happy side effect of this is that you can think about your response more--you have time to come up with something witty and clever before answering. (No more thinking of the perfect thing to say after it's too late!) This explains why it's such a hot phenomenon in the dating world--you always want to come off as witty and clever to people you're dating, right? Now you can! (Of course, the converse is true as well: If someone takes a while to text me back, and the response is still dull, unintelligible, etc., a big red flag goes up with me, and I tend to kind of write the person off. Harsh, but true.)
Another advantage is that you can be much more . . . flirtatious, sooner, in text messages than you would be on the phone. Things you might be hesitant to actually say to a person you can put in a text, with a little wink-wink icon . . . you can get away with a lot this way. The recipient can't really tell if you're joking, teasing, whatever, when they don't have the tone of your voice to go on, and it just makes things more interesting at times.
Anyway, since I also text people I'm not dating, here's some info--for now, use my personal cell phone number, not my Treo number, for texting. If this changes (again!), I'll let you know.
As you know, I have written before about the inherent dangers of text messaging. Yesterday, I encountered an entirely new hazard--financial ruin. O.K., not ruin, actually, but stress and strain for sure. This happened when I logged on to my cell phone account and discovered that my text message bill for the month of April came to . . . $100!! This is on top of my usual bill of about $60. Shocked yet fascinated, I pulled up my itemized bill and was amazed to discover that in a single month, I had sent and received over 600 text messages. WTF?? I had no idea I was texting that often. It was a real eye-opener.
So today, I did what I should have done a long time ago, which is to sign up for unlimited text messaging for one low monthly fee. ("Low" is relative, by the way. Sometimes I feel like I'm getting low monthly fee'd to death.) But it's too late for this month's bill--$100, down the drain.
In the meantime, I also found out yesterday that my work phone (the Treo), which I thought had unlimited text messaging (and which I've been trying to get people to text to rather than my cell phone), does not, or at least, it didn't--I'm trying to remedy that too. I guess it's a lucky thing that people weren't using my work number during the month of April--I doubt a $100 text-messaging bill would have gone over too well with the finance people.
So anyhoo, all of this has led me once again to contemplate the role of text messaging in the dating scene of today. It truly is a brave new world. Before my divorce, I had never sent a single text message, but as soon as I started dating, I realized it's THE form of communication with new people you meet these days. Who knew? And it's not just a trend among the young, either--guys my age do it as well. (O.K., in reality, the closest I've gotten to someone "my age" is 34, but close enough, yes?) And I have to say, at first I was pretty resistant. Why go through the annoying process of punching all these little phone buttons (and learning a whole new language--T9! Some of you know what I mean!) when it would be much easier to just call the person or, if an immediate response isn't needed anyway, e-mail them.
But there are some definite advantages to texting that have become apparent to me as I've gotten more into it. The most obvious one is that, unlike on a phone call, you don't have to respond right away--you can let the phone just sit there while you go about your business, and you can answer when convenient. A happy side effect of this is that you can think about your response more--you have time to come up with something witty and clever before answering. (No more thinking of the perfect thing to say after it's too late!) This explains why it's such a hot phenomenon in the dating world--you always want to come off as witty and clever to people you're dating, right? Now you can! (Of course, the converse is true as well: If someone takes a while to text me back, and the response is still dull, unintelligible, etc., a big red flag goes up with me, and I tend to kind of write the person off. Harsh, but true.)
Another advantage is that you can be much more . . . flirtatious, sooner, in text messages than you would be on the phone. Things you might be hesitant to actually say to a person you can put in a text, with a little wink-wink icon . . . you can get away with a lot this way. The recipient can't really tell if you're joking, teasing, whatever, when they don't have the tone of your voice to go on, and it just makes things more interesting at times.
Anyway, since I also text people I'm not dating, here's some info--for now, use my personal cell phone number, not my Treo number, for texting. If this changes (again!), I'll let you know.
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
At last, I can rest easy . . .
The mystery is solved.
I love the picture of the guy pumping his fist. What do you think is going through his mind? Pick one:
A) Yay, I'm a father!
B) Yay, millions are coming my way!
Please please please let this story go away now.
I love the picture of the guy pumping his fist. What do you think is going through his mind? Pick one:
A) Yay, I'm a father!
B) Yay, millions are coming my way!
Please please please let this story go away now.
It's Worse Than We Thought
My favorite part is the ominous "7 DAYS" at the end, just like in The_Ring. Thanks much to boingboing for this image.
Sunday, April 08, 2007
Diversion
So, today is one of those free weekend days that I love--no committments, nothing specific to do. I know this is not true today for a lot of you, as it's Easter--lots of family dinners and such going on. But truthfully, Easter just isn't even on my radar anymore. As an atheist, I sort of gave up on it a long time ago. I would prefer a more paganesque, spring-welcoming celebration . . . and it's kind of hard to get in the mood for that when it's 30 degrees outside and cloudy with snow on the ground. So, today is just a me-day, which is perfectly fine (and much needed after all the traveling I've been doing).
On days like this, I like to break up my activities into segments--surf the Web for a while, do some cleaning, watch T.V. or read, do some more cleaning, write, etc., whatever the mood strikes. (The cleaning part I have to force a little, but it's direly necessary right now. I'm actually considering hiring a cleaning service . . . more on that later.)
So anyway, I was just poking around on the Web a while ago, and I found this quiz about opening lines in novels. And I was kind of intrigued--I like quizzes, and, as a former English major, I was curious about how much of that stuff might still be stuck in my head 15 years after graduation (!). So, I took the quiz and got 10 out of 13 correct, which I felt pretty good about. It's nice to know that I have managed to retain a certain portion of my education despite years of brain-cell killing recreational activity. I will divulge that I missed questions 8, 11, and 13, and one of those was a sci-fi question, which I don't feel badly about missing. There were 2 others that I kind of had to use process of elimination and guess at, but the rest I knew outright. It helps that most of the lines are pretty iconic--you may very well know the answer even if you've never read the novel. So, if you want to kill a few minutes, give it a shot.
(Sorry about the fluff post, by the way. I'm working on something else--stay tuned.)
On days like this, I like to break up my activities into segments--surf the Web for a while, do some cleaning, watch T.V. or read, do some more cleaning, write, etc., whatever the mood strikes. (The cleaning part I have to force a little, but it's direly necessary right now. I'm actually considering hiring a cleaning service . . . more on that later.)
So anyway, I was just poking around on the Web a while ago, and I found this quiz about opening lines in novels. And I was kind of intrigued--I like quizzes, and, as a former English major, I was curious about how much of that stuff might still be stuck in my head 15 years after graduation (!). So, I took the quiz and got 10 out of 13 correct, which I felt pretty good about. It's nice to know that I have managed to retain a certain portion of my education despite years of brain-cell killing recreational activity. I will divulge that I missed questions 8, 11, and 13, and one of those was a sci-fi question, which I don't feel badly about missing. There were 2 others that I kind of had to use process of elimination and guess at, but the rest I knew outright. It helps that most of the lines are pretty iconic--you may very well know the answer even if you've never read the novel. So, if you want to kill a few minutes, give it a shot.
(Sorry about the fluff post, by the way. I'm working on something else--stay tuned.)
Monday, April 02, 2007
Bounty
A kind of strange thing just happened. Today was gorgeous--warm, sunny, lots of birds out and about. After work, I broke out the capris to wear while walking Josie. We set out on a fantastic walk--started out on the bike path, veered out into the woods right along the river for a while, then back to the bike path, then finished with a romp through the cemetery. (Not as morbid as it sounds, by the way. It was still very light out, and Josie loves to run back and forth across the cemetery path, for some reason. Also, it's peaceful--naturally.)
Anyway, we got back, and I fed her and the cats. I was starting to clean up the apartment a bit when I noticed, for some reason, something in the back pocket of these capris I hadn't worn since last fall. It was a $10 bill. Woo hoo! There's nothing quite like finding money in a pants pocket to make your day, even if it's not that much (and especially if it's more than a buck or two).
Then, however, I found myself just staring at this $10 bill, and I started feeling kind of gloopy. Gloopy, by the way, is an odd mix of nostalgia and guilt that I feel on occasion and have so dubbed. The $10 made me feel nostalgia about (not for, by the way--not like I'd want to go back) the days in my life in which $10 would have been a very big deal. And there were many, many days like that. The $10 also made me feel guilt--guilt about the fact that $10 actually doesn't make any difference to me anymore. This $10, that represents an amount more than some people in the world take home in a week, doesn't even show up on my radar, at all. Is this an American thing, this guilt? Should it be an American thing? But then, what can we do about it? Besides trying to make the world a better place by ________________________ [fill in your favorite cause here]. All this stuff was running through my head, triggered by nothing more than that $10 bill. (I have no solutions or answers to these questions, by the way--I just find the thought-triggering process interesting.)
On the other hand, that $10 will pay for lunch for a couple of days. So, woo-hoo, anyway.
Anyway, we got back, and I fed her and the cats. I was starting to clean up the apartment a bit when I noticed, for some reason, something in the back pocket of these capris I hadn't worn since last fall. It was a $10 bill. Woo hoo! There's nothing quite like finding money in a pants pocket to make your day, even if it's not that much (and especially if it's more than a buck or two).
Then, however, I found myself just staring at this $10 bill, and I started feeling kind of gloopy. Gloopy, by the way, is an odd mix of nostalgia and guilt that I feel on occasion and have so dubbed. The $10 made me feel nostalgia about (not for, by the way--not like I'd want to go back) the days in my life in which $10 would have been a very big deal. And there were many, many days like that. The $10 also made me feel guilt--guilt about the fact that $10 actually doesn't make any difference to me anymore. This $10, that represents an amount more than some people in the world take home in a week, doesn't even show up on my radar, at all. Is this an American thing, this guilt? Should it be an American thing? But then, what can we do about it? Besides trying to make the world a better place by ________________________ [fill in your favorite cause here]. All this stuff was running through my head, triggered by nothing more than that $10 bill. (I have no solutions or answers to these questions, by the way--I just find the thought-triggering process interesting.)
On the other hand, that $10 will pay for lunch for a couple of days. So, woo-hoo, anyway.
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
Holy Crap
As most of you know, I'm in NYC this week for work. So I get back from the office a little while ago after a long day of meetings, and I stop at the hotel bar for a beer to take to my room. I'm staying in Times Square, so maybe this shouldn't actually shock me, but the result of my bar visit? One Corona: $8.13. Thankfully, I didn't pay for it myself--thanks, Corporation!
Saturday, March 24, 2007
Choices, choices
Still working on the SXSW recap . . . O.K., I'm lying. I haven't started it yet. But, I am planning on writing the whole thing this weekend. Right now, I'm still working on the mental recap, and spending a lot of time listening to some of the music we heard to trigger the creative juices. (A little glimpse into the writing process there, people.)
Anyway, one thing SXSW did for me this year was to plant the idea that I need to start going to more shows. Contrary to what some people think, Columbus is an actual city, and we get a lot of good acts coming through, and I almost never go. And there's just no excuse for that. I can afford it, I don't have to worry about finding a babysitter, and it's something I love--so what the hell is wrong with me? So, as much as I generally hate resolutions, I am resolving to go to more shows this year.
In that spirit, I just spent some time on the website of one of my favorite local venues, the Lifestyle_Communities_Pavilion. I know, the name sucks. It used to be called the PromoWest Pavilion, until, for some mysterious corporate branding-driven reason, they decided to name it after a condom instead. Still, it's a good place to see a show. They've got this cool rotating stage that can be set up for the inside venue during the winter and the outside venue during the summer. The inside venue has good acoustics, and the outside venue is a small, sloping hill, so that you can see the stage pretty well no matter where you're sitting. It's a nice size, too--not too big, not too small--and they get some great acts at times.
Anyway, I haven't been there in a while, so I decided to check out who's coming through in the next few weeks. And I gotta say, after looking at the lineup, I can kind of see why they named it "Lifestyle Communities"--they're pretty much all over the place in terms of audience appeal. Here, for example, is a slice of what they've got going on in the near future:
4/20: Lucinda Williams
4/21: Upper Arlington High School Prom
4/24: Taylor Hicks
4/28: Dublin Coffman High School Prom
5/2: Ziggy Marley
5/5: Bo Kimly's Extreme Fighting Challenge 17
5/12: Hilliard Davidson High School Prom
5/21: Mastodon--Against Me!--Cursive
5/28: Damien Rice
6/1: Insane Clown Posse
So, we've got three great shows, two really sucky shows, one show I've never heard of, three proms, and one bizarre rednecky event. (Like the color coding, there? Editors are big on that.) Apparently, they really are trying to cover all the lifestyle bases (as well as pull in some serious cash, with the proms and all). I'll be going to Lucinda Williams for sure, and I might try to catch Damien Rice. Ziggy Marley I'll pass on--I heard enough of his dad when I was in Africa to last a lifetime, and they sound pretty similar. (Seriously, in Botswana, you can't go a day without hearing Bob Marley blasting out of some store or bar or bus. I like him and all, but geesh. There are other reggae artists out there, people of Botswana!)
Bo Kimly's Extreme Fighting Challenge 17? I'll probably pass on that one too. I have managed to live my life without seeing the first 16 Extreme Fighting Challenges, after all.
Anyway, one thing SXSW did for me this year was to plant the idea that I need to start going to more shows. Contrary to what some people think, Columbus is an actual city, and we get a lot of good acts coming through, and I almost never go. And there's just no excuse for that. I can afford it, I don't have to worry about finding a babysitter, and it's something I love--so what the hell is wrong with me? So, as much as I generally hate resolutions, I am resolving to go to more shows this year.
In that spirit, I just spent some time on the website of one of my favorite local venues, the Lifestyle_Communities_Pavilion. I know, the name sucks. It used to be called the PromoWest Pavilion, until, for some mysterious corporate branding-driven reason, they decided to name it after a condom instead. Still, it's a good place to see a show. They've got this cool rotating stage that can be set up for the inside venue during the winter and the outside venue during the summer. The inside venue has good acoustics, and the outside venue is a small, sloping hill, so that you can see the stage pretty well no matter where you're sitting. It's a nice size, too--not too big, not too small--and they get some great acts at times.
Anyway, I haven't been there in a while, so I decided to check out who's coming through in the next few weeks. And I gotta say, after looking at the lineup, I can kind of see why they named it "Lifestyle Communities"--they're pretty much all over the place in terms of audience appeal. Here, for example, is a slice of what they've got going on in the near future:
4/20: Lucinda Williams
4/21: Upper Arlington High School Prom
4/24: Taylor Hicks
4/28: Dublin Coffman High School Prom
5/2: Ziggy Marley
5/5: Bo Kimly's Extreme Fighting Challenge 17
5/12: Hilliard Davidson High School Prom
5/21: Mastodon--Against Me!--Cursive
5/28: Damien Rice
6/1: Insane Clown Posse
So, we've got three great shows, two really sucky shows, one show I've never heard of, three proms, and one bizarre rednecky event. (Like the color coding, there? Editors are big on that.) Apparently, they really are trying to cover all the lifestyle bases (as well as pull in some serious cash, with the proms and all). I'll be going to Lucinda Williams for sure, and I might try to catch Damien Rice. Ziggy Marley I'll pass on--I heard enough of his dad when I was in Africa to last a lifetime, and they sound pretty similar. (Seriously, in Botswana, you can't go a day without hearing Bob Marley blasting out of some store or bar or bus. I like him and all, but geesh. There are other reggae artists out there, people of Botswana!)
Bo Kimly's Extreme Fighting Challenge 17? I'll probably pass on that one too. I have managed to live my life without seeing the first 16 Extreme Fighting Challenges, after all.
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
What's in a Name?
O.K., here's something new--for the first time, I'm going to mention my real name (not my Blogger name) in my blog. It's necessary for this little story. You'll see.
So, my name is Heather, in case there's anyone out there reading this who doesn't know. I've always liked my name, and I think it suits me. It doesn't even bother me that all the famous Heathers--Heather Locklear, Heather Thomas, Heather Mills--tend to be blond and a little . . . bimboesque. Nor did it bother me when the movie "Heathers" came out, depicting all of us as evil, conniving social climbers. Doesn't matter. I am my own Heather.
I've always been aware, of course, that my name is also a flower and a color--kind of a pretty, greyish purple. In fact, I own a few heather-colored items of clothing. I can live with my name being a color, but now things have gone too far. Now, apparently, my name is also an adjective. Walking through Target yesterday, I noticed a display of shirts labeled "heathered tees."
Of course, I had to stop and check this out. The shirts were not all a pretty, greyish purple--they came in a wide variety of colors. So what, exactly, made them "heathered," and more importantly, who decided this was even a word? What did it mean? I examined the shirts. The only thing different about them that I could see was that they were all kind of pre-faded out. Was that it? Great. Apparently, if something comes pre-faded, it is now referred to as "heathered." This makes no sense to me, and I feel kind of strangely, personally offended.
Advertisers are ruining the language, people. This must stop.
So, my name is Heather, in case there's anyone out there reading this who doesn't know. I've always liked my name, and I think it suits me. It doesn't even bother me that all the famous Heathers--Heather Locklear, Heather Thomas, Heather Mills--tend to be blond and a little . . . bimboesque. Nor did it bother me when the movie "Heathers" came out, depicting all of us as evil, conniving social climbers. Doesn't matter. I am my own Heather.
I've always been aware, of course, that my name is also a flower and a color--kind of a pretty, greyish purple. In fact, I own a few heather-colored items of clothing. I can live with my name being a color, but now things have gone too far. Now, apparently, my name is also an adjective. Walking through Target yesterday, I noticed a display of shirts labeled "heathered tees."
Of course, I had to stop and check this out. The shirts were not all a pretty, greyish purple--they came in a wide variety of colors. So what, exactly, made them "heathered," and more importantly, who decided this was even a word? What did it mean? I examined the shirts. The only thing different about them that I could see was that they were all kind of pre-faded out. Was that it? Great. Apparently, if something comes pre-faded, it is now referred to as "heathered." This makes no sense to me, and I feel kind of strangely, personally offended.
Advertisers are ruining the language, people. This must stop.
Predawn Surreal Dumpster Diver
O.K., so blogging from the Treo in Austin didn't exactly work out. When I devised this ambitious plan, I failed to take two factors into account:
1) We were way too busy and/or drunk most of the time for me to be able to blog; and
2) Unless you have fingers the size of rice grains, it's really difficult and annoying to type much on those tiny Treo keyboards.
So, I am working on my SXSW recap, but it probably won't be ready until this weekend. Sorry to keep everyone in suspense! (By "everyone," I mean the two or three people who actually care about which bands they've never heard of we saw when.)
In the meantime, it's 6:00 in the morning, and here I am blogging. Why, you might ask? As most of you know, I'm not exactly a morning person. This particular morning, though, I woke up around 4:00 (after going to bed at 12:30) and just could not go back to sleep. I tossed around for about half an hour, then finally gave up and got up. Not sure what made me wake up so early, but I will admit that I was thinking about work and couldn't get it out of my head. Despite how it sounds, this is not a bad thing. I've woken up early before thinking about work, but it's always been due to stress. This time, it was due to something else--excitement, I guess. Great things happening there! But I don't want to write about work right now. What I want to write about is what waking up so early led me to witness outside my back door a short while ago.
So, I'm in the kitchen making coffee, and while I'm waiting for it to brew, I decide I might as well take the garbage out. I take the bag out of the can, slip on some shoes, and open the back door. Of course, the dog has to come with me. I walk out, and Josie rushes past me, sniffing around in the yard to the right. I head to the left toward the dumpster . . . and stop dead as I notice something climbing quickly out of it, apparently startled by my sudden appearance. At first I think it's a freakishly large cat, but the thought pops into my head that cats don't generally eat out of dumpsters. (They tend to be much more discerning than that.) Then I think--I kid you not--that it's a bear cub. That's what it looks like, all huge and hunched over. As it leaps to the ground, I suddenly realize what it is--the biggest fucking raccoon I've ever seen in my life (and I've seen me some raccoons).
Panic sets in. I have something of a phobia about raccoons. I won't deny that they're kind of cute, but they also tend to be mean, preternaturally smart, and frequently rabid. (O.K., I doubt that they are frequently rabid, but I have this irrational idea in my head that they are all just riddled with rabies.) And this one was huge--I'm not kidding, it must have been 25 or 30 pounds, maybe more? Apparently, these city dumpsters make for some good eating. (Frankly, I'm surprised it was even able to jump up into the dumpster.) But I wasn't afraid for myself--I was terrified for my dog. As this freakishly humongous raccoon waddled away, I had visions in my head of Josie catching sight of it and taking off after it, and then I thought about the awful, bloody battle that would ensue, a la Where the Red Fern Grows. (All right, so it was actually a cougar, not a raccoon, that killed Old Dan in that story, but a raccoon started the whole thing . . . I'm sorry, this is just how my mind works.)
Of course, all of my freaking out was completely ridiculous. The raccoon was long gone almost immediately (being a pretty fast waddler, as raccoons tend to be), and Josie didn't even notice it anyway. Still, I frantically called her name and herded her back into the house as fast as I could, keeping my body between her and the general departure direction of the raccoon; all the while, she's looking at me like I'm completely nuts. And I guess I was, a little--still thinking that we had barely escaped death by rabid dumpster diver.
See, I'm really not a morning person.
[Update: Upon leaving for work this morning, I realized that the raccoon was eating the old, stale pizza that I threw out myself last night. So, it was my own actions that summoned the huge, rabid beast. Must be more careful.]
1) We were way too busy and/or drunk most of the time for me to be able to blog; and
2) Unless you have fingers the size of rice grains, it's really difficult and annoying to type much on those tiny Treo keyboards.
So, I am working on my SXSW recap, but it probably won't be ready until this weekend. Sorry to keep everyone in suspense! (By "everyone," I mean the two or three people who actually care about which bands they've never heard of we saw when.)
In the meantime, it's 6:00 in the morning, and here I am blogging. Why, you might ask? As most of you know, I'm not exactly a morning person. This particular morning, though, I woke up around 4:00 (after going to bed at 12:30) and just could not go back to sleep. I tossed around for about half an hour, then finally gave up and got up. Not sure what made me wake up so early, but I will admit that I was thinking about work and couldn't get it out of my head. Despite how it sounds, this is not a bad thing. I've woken up early before thinking about work, but it's always been due to stress. This time, it was due to something else--excitement, I guess. Great things happening there! But I don't want to write about work right now. What I want to write about is what waking up so early led me to witness outside my back door a short while ago.
So, I'm in the kitchen making coffee, and while I'm waiting for it to brew, I decide I might as well take the garbage out. I take the bag out of the can, slip on some shoes, and open the back door. Of course, the dog has to come with me. I walk out, and Josie rushes past me, sniffing around in the yard to the right. I head to the left toward the dumpster . . . and stop dead as I notice something climbing quickly out of it, apparently startled by my sudden appearance. At first I think it's a freakishly large cat, but the thought pops into my head that cats don't generally eat out of dumpsters. (They tend to be much more discerning than that.) Then I think--I kid you not--that it's a bear cub. That's what it looks like, all huge and hunched over. As it leaps to the ground, I suddenly realize what it is--the biggest fucking raccoon I've ever seen in my life (and I've seen me some raccoons).
Panic sets in. I have something of a phobia about raccoons. I won't deny that they're kind of cute, but they also tend to be mean, preternaturally smart, and frequently rabid. (O.K., I doubt that they are frequently rabid, but I have this irrational idea in my head that they are all just riddled with rabies.) And this one was huge--I'm not kidding, it must have been 25 or 30 pounds, maybe more? Apparently, these city dumpsters make for some good eating. (Frankly, I'm surprised it was even able to jump up into the dumpster.) But I wasn't afraid for myself--I was terrified for my dog. As this freakishly humongous raccoon waddled away, I had visions in my head of Josie catching sight of it and taking off after it, and then I thought about the awful, bloody battle that would ensue, a la Where the Red Fern Grows. (All right, so it was actually a cougar, not a raccoon, that killed Old Dan in that story, but a raccoon started the whole thing . . . I'm sorry, this is just how my mind works.)
Of course, all of my freaking out was completely ridiculous. The raccoon was long gone almost immediately (being a pretty fast waddler, as raccoons tend to be), and Josie didn't even notice it anyway. Still, I frantically called her name and herded her back into the house as fast as I could, keeping my body between her and the general departure direction of the raccoon; all the while, she's looking at me like I'm completely nuts. And I guess I was, a little--still thinking that we had barely escaped death by rabid dumpster diver.
See, I'm really not a morning person.
[Update: Upon leaving for work this morning, I realized that the raccoon was eating the old, stale pizza that I threw out myself last night. So, it was my own actions that summoned the huge, rabid beast. Must be more careful.]
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