I'm not sure I care

O.k., so I know I'm mighty obsessed about the Olympics and all, and figure skating is supposed to be my sport and all, but I just can't get all worked up over this. On the one hand, I don't know why she has to go through this whole rigormarole to compete, on the other hand, I watched her four years ago, and I knew the only reason she was out then was just to get Olympic Gold, and when she didn't get it, well... part of me thinks she just should've left it. I mean, I believe she got third. I'd take third place on, well anything really, but especially anything Olympicy. If by some far stretch I make it on the women's skeleton team and we ended up getting third, I wouldn't be all "I'm going to denounce retirement and wait four more years and try to win gold" I'd probably be dancing around in my olympic dorm room, wearing nothing but the medal and dancing on my bed and singing the "Happy, Happy, Joy, Joy" song. But of course I'm not an Olympic athlete and I do not have the competitive drive that other Olympic athletes do and I also apparantly have a strange olympic medal fetish, fascination if you will, so what do I know....

I'm a Winter Olympics Dork

So, uhm, you know that receiving e-mail alerts thing I just told you about? I signed up for it. And, uh, I kinda didn't stop with curling. Actually, the number of things I listed I wanted e-mail alerts for is quite appalling actually. Quite sad actually. Uhm, you see I signed up for e-mail alerts for not only curling and figure skating, but also for everything short-track related, and also the luge and uhm, the skeleton, and uhm... Here, have a look for yourself...

I'm officially a dork aren't I?

It is a wonderful world in which we live when...

I can receive e-mail alerts on Women's curling. Life is great isn't it?

Leave the Torch alone!!!

Listen, I think I eloquently and elaborately explained my love for the Olympics, my desire, my need for the Winter Olympics to be here already. To be brief and to the point, I'm dying over here!!! I'm at the point that nothing, NOTHING! better interfere with my getting to watch the Olympics in their full, unadulterated glory.

Which brings me to my point, or moreover my rant. What kind of whack-job organization would think that trying to Hi-jack the fucking Olympic torch would be a good move in trying to align people to your big social cause? The only cause I want to align myself with is the Kicking Your Ass cause, because who the hell in their right mind would decide to mess with the fine institution as the Olympics (Well, Munich and the Dude who tried to Bomb the Olympics in Atlanta aside. Fine there are a couple of examples. Shut Up!), and why would you think that theiving the torch, the great symbol that it is, would be a way to bring your issues (which the anti-globalization movement is the least of your issues, especially considering that you're now on my shit list buddy, not that that garners a lot of weight. But my memory is long and my forgiveness is short. So if, someday in the distant future when we're all living in that sparkling, Jetsony, GLOBALIZED, just to piss your ass off vision that will one day be realized, you ever get a paper bag full of flame-engulfed bowel movement, just know that it was made with love from yours truly, Bloody Munchkin!) Just don't screw with the Olympics people!! Don't do it! It's not a good idea!!! You do not want to incur my wrath. Because I'm here to tell you that if my Olympics (yes, I'm claiming possessiveness) don't go off without a hitch, I will be a force to be reckoned with!!! Hell hath no fury like Bloody Munchkin scorned for figure skating!!! You can take that to the bank!!!

A Dissertation on my love of the Winter Olympics

O.K. So I've tried to keep this under wraps because I realize admitting this exposes another layer of geekiness that people don't want to be privy to, but I'm brimming with so much excitment, I almost can't handle it.

Eeee!!!! The Winter Olympics are almost here ya'll!!! I'm about to plotz!!!! I love the Olympics. Like obsessively love the Olympics. Currently, I'm scheming with a friend on how to get to China for the 2008 Summer Olympics in Beijing. She said she might have some family members who could score us some janitorial positions at one of the auditoriums. I'd gladly scrub a thousand toilets to witness first hand the air rifle competition. I gladly scoop horse poop to be present of the equestrian events. Just as long as I am there to bask first hand in the glory that is the Olympics. That's how far my love goes, people!!!!

But honestly, it's the Winter Olympics that owns my heart. It grasps my attention like no other. But really, what's not to love? The Winter Olympics has it all: The short program, the speed skating, short track speed skating (or as I like to call it, Rollerderby on Ice), the ski jumping, the long program, the luging (Dear God the Luging!), the bobsledding, the tandem bobsledding, the skeleton, the pairs figure skating, the anticipating the myriad falls, trips and bunch ups in pairs figure skating (please let there be an accident involving lederhosen, that's all I ask), the pairs skating judging controversy (There has to be another one of those. It actually gave Costas something interesting to talk about for once), that one event Picabo Street was in before she retired, the events Bode Miller might not get to participate in any more because he’s a beer guzzling motor mouth, the International Homosexual Parade otherwise known as Male Figure Skating, the medal the will be revoked from some bastard Canadian's hands for testing positive for Marijuana, the compulsory figure skating event. Have I mentioned figure skating?
I can hardly stand it!!! I'm not sure I can wait for February!!! Hurry up and get here Winter Olympics!!!!

I could probably psychoanalyze where my love of the Winter Olympics comes from, but I'll refrain from boing you with the details. Just kidding. I'm totally going to bore you with the details. I can't completely recall my exact age (I'm guessing about 10, just giving age calculations) but I romanticize it more as the age in which I was on the cusp of adolescence, that tender age in which niavity combined with adoration can be a somewhat explosive combination. My parents informed me that a cousin of mine would be in an event in the Winter Olympics. I obsessively watched the Olympics for any mention of him. I actually didn't get to see him, or his event or any mention of his event, (but I later found out he placed 12th) but it brought on a kind of fervor in me that no other sporting event has brought on before. I became kind of enamored with this event that only happens once every four years.

And then the ‘92 Winter Olympics. And then I became more than enamored. I became obsessed. I can pinpoint my obsession of all things Winter Olympics and also to figure skating to one man. Well he's more of a legend actually, at least in my mind: Philippe Candelero (Can I just take a second to explain how bad I want this? Because, I want it bad). Oh Philipe you flamboyant Frenchman you, how I've come to love and adore you so. You've become this kind of mythical creature in my head, this kind of Hercules-like figure that slinks into the forefront of my mind, taking off his shirt to a medly of tunes featuring Bruce Springsteen's "Made in America" or to Will Smith's "Wild Wild West" only slink back out again only to slink back in again when my parents decide to bring up that unfortunate incident in which I fried a TV in the name of Candelero (long story, maybe someday I’ll actually recount it here). I even made Fighting Nun sit through the lamest figure skating exhibition (and I should know, I’ve sat through the Icecapades. In Person. Twice) known as Brian Boitano’s something or other skating with the zzzzzzz somewhat sober. In person. Just for five minutes of Candelero skating with his shirt off. Fighting Nun is soooo dedicated.

The Candelero was pretty much the gateway drug to my addiction to the Winter Olympics. And I need my fix. Bad. I’m itching here man. I’m like Brad Renfro in a treatment center. I’m like Leif Garrett in jail. Again. I’m jonesing. Only I don’t want to get clean. I want my feeeeexxxxx. So bad in fact, I’m even jonesing for the horrible parts of the Olympics. You know which parts I’m talking about. The announcers that crawl out of who knows what rocks every four years to bring us "enthralling commentary" on the exciting sport of... women’s curling. The annoying player vignettes that last For. Ever. that describe in excruciating detail the trials and tribulations that an athlete from the small village of Zuzbeckistaniovitch had to got through, including the death of her father in a freak chain saw accident but somewhow still found a way to train and compete, blah-blah-blah-rampant-pandering-to-the-sobbing-masses-cakes. The painful athlete interviews Bob Costas conducts after an athlete’s brilliant win or harrowing loss, which take forever when they could be showing the women’s downhill semi-finals. I’ll take it all, just as long as I have my Winter Olympics.

Only 23 days to go!

P.s. I’d like to make a promise to you, dear readers (all two of you) that I will recap all the ups, downs, and mehs that these wonderful Winter Olympics have to offer. Stay tuned.

What is up with Shatner?

"Khaaaaaan!"

No, Seriously? Usually where Shatner campily goes, I'll follow. Thanks to his Khaaaaan days and such, I generally like the guy. Remember the time he reenacted a tone of movie sequences that were up for MTV movie awards? His take on Seven still stays with me from this day forward. And, O.k. I hate to admit this, but I loyally watched Tek Wars. Hey, don't look at me like that. As I've stated before, No MTV growing up. I can't be held accountable. I even liked his Priceline commercials. And, another thing I hate to admit, I almost bought his album. Stop laughing bitch! You try resisting the hypnotic powers he harnasses on Common People. It's almost impossible!!!

But then, the Shatner Movie Club. I just, I don't think I get it. I want to get it, and given that I did watch all of Tek Wars, maybe I would get it, but I just don't understand. And then he sells his kidney stone to a gambling website? Granted it's for charity and that is great and all, but you sold your kidney stone to the same place who bought a half-eaten cheese sandwich for an exhorbatant amount, because it kinda, sorta had an image of the virgin mary on it? Dude, I'm not saying a psychiatric evaluation is in order, but you might wanna take some time off and "re-evaluate" your life's priorities. With that being said, I kinda want to join his sci-fi DVD club. Yeah I know I just snarked on him for it, but there is a part of me that is a wee bit curious about it. Like, what exactly would you receive from the William Shatner DVD club? Hopefully not a kidney stone.

*Edited to add that I did check out the William Shatner DVD club, and the geeky part of my brain wants in. Annual fee of 47.99 gets you a sci-fi subscription that looks to be one part sci-fi soft core porn, another part imported sci-fi movie, and another part sci-fi channel knock-offs. If this is actually some of the material that constitutes the Shat's movie collection, then I want in!

Because being a grown up sucks...

It's time to get all nostalgic and take the Video Game Sound Effect challenge. It's almost as fun as playing the actual videogames. I got 9 of 18. I think Fighting Nun could school me on this one. So sad.

I hate being a Grown Up!

So, I had this whole post drafted about growing up and trying to take responsibility and how I like being an adult now and blah, blah, blah I-wear-big-girl-pants-now-cakes. But you know what, that's not true. Being a grown up, or trying to be one bites big, well big something. See, this whole trying to buy a first house thing it so grueling that it's exhausted all my visual imagry.

So yeah, Fighting Nun and I are trying to buy a house. In the Bay Area. Because we are insane. At first, the process made me happy. The looking at homes and figuring out what we did and didn't like I was all "Yeah, I'm a grown-up now." But then we started talking about mortgages and closing costs and interest and we've already gotten testy at each other about the whole thing and now I'm like "Boo. I'm a grown-up now." Insert frownie face here.

This whole process has made me feel stupider. I'm at a loss, just utterly grasping at straws right now. I don't know what questions to ask, what it is I need to know about the loan process, whether we need to get pre-approval or not, what that means. My brain was filled with Real Genius quotes and the non-sensical knowledge of celebreties and now it's filled with Interest rates and what Homeowner's Association dues would mean to mortgage payement, and Gah!!! Get out of there important home-owning information. Do you know how much geomotry I dumped just to cram in Goonies DVD Commentary dialogue up there? All of it!! My pop culture knowledge usually takes precedence and now it isn't because I've got to figure out what an interest only loan might do to us in five years if the interest raises exponentially. I want my knowledge of all the Brat Pack's past rehab experiences to take precedence!! Knowing that Demi Moore helped Ally Sheedy's mom put Ally in Rehab during a Bon Jovi tour already proved useful once today! I don't want to have to throw it out for stuff involving, like math and like home loans and crap. I refuse!!! I don't wanna be a grown up damn it!!! This sucks....

Fun with Dooty

"Dooty."

Heh. I said Dooty. This little laugh brought to you by my new shining light in the pop-culture abyss... Gir!! I have much love to extrapolate for Gir, but I'll save it for another post.


So you remember back in the day when I recalled my tale of being held hostage in my company stall? Well, I've come to the conclusion that I'm no walk in the park either, bathroom wise. In fact, I'd venture a guess that I'm far from being the perfect stall mate that you'd want to have a stall next to once that bad decision known as the 3 pm cup of coffee decides to mass exodus your system. After what just happened, I'd venture you'd rather hold that 3 pm cup of coffee in your system until you get home instead of hold court next to the stall I'm in. And for that, I am truly sorry.

But it wasn't my fault. I didn't realize the cheese sandwich I had for lunch was going to lead to three acts of Pooter Theatre when I sat down on the seat. It just kinda happened. And I tried to hold it until after you left, but apparently my body had other plans. And yes, I'm well aware that you did not want to know that farts in that bathroom echo and echo well. I didn't want to know it either and I'm still trying to stop blushing from knowing it. And if I wasn't so embarrassed to make eye contact with you, I'd apologize. So can we both just forget this ever happened and get on with our day? Please?

The word of the day

I learned a new word for the day: expectorate. Pretty awesome huh?

I have a plant!!!!

So, about September I was moved into a new wing of our company building, which was parts frustrating and awesome at the same time. Moving into the new cube was in turn parts happy-making and saddening, because on the one hand I wasn't actually sharing a cube with anyone anymore (let's just say, our old seating arrangements left a lot to be desired) and I got this brand new shiny cube all to myself, which was very nice. But on the other hand, my old cubemate was totally awesome and we use to make Star Trek jokes and he would google short movies about what happens when you mix corn starch and water together and put it on a woofer.

Since I moved into the new office space, I've been lamenting, well several things, but mostly that I don't have a nice plant to share my window with. Well my awesome old cube mate proved his awesomeness once again by bringing me a plant. I can no longer lament not having a plant! I am not longer plantless but now I'm plantful, or plantiful or planted or planitified or whatever you want to call it. Now I'm no longer alone in my cube again. I'm sharing it with a plant just like I used to share my old cube space with the awesome guy who gave me the plant. I am at peace now.

Fighting Nun says the darnedest things

Fighting Nun had the following diatribe this morning that is too good to pass up.

"So, if a gas line or water line breaks, how is it that there is always one policeman and a camera crew and nobody else? There's like one news crew van and it happens to be off in Oakland somewhere. How the hell did it get to Richmond so God damned fast and there isn't one fucking water mane or gas line van in sight? There's got to be twenty water guys or gas line worker dudes or whatever, but the first people at the scene is the one news crew within twenty miles. How the hell does that happen? Where are the water guys? Really? That's what I wanna know."

To which my reply was "Honey, the water guys? They're union. Those donuts won't eat themselves."

When the apocalypse comes...

And I have to build an army to fight off the legions of Tomkat hellspawn, I want this guy on my side... Seriously.

My Life has reached its Pinnacle....

"Joe is letting me close the store." Just kidding, it's actually much cooler than that! I just received the Girl's Bike Club spoken word album!!! Fighting Nun simultaneously proved his worth and his love for me in this single token! This is awesome!!! Like many Tomato Nation readers, I've been obsessed with the GBC, so much so that I had to send 50 bucks to Canada to get the shirt, which is now my most favoritist shirt ever in the whole wide world. Now I have the album, which makes me happy and complete. I have reached a zen state, being able to listen to the girl's bike club whenever I want.

The Muppets Gone Wrong

So, it may or may not come as a surprise to some people, but I love the muppets. I love everything about them. The Muppet Movies, Seasame Street, I even had Miss Piggy ornament that I put on my mom's tree every year at Christmas. I ate Der Swedish Chef's cereal for Christ's sake. Yes, he did have a cereal called "Der Swedish Stars" and the stars were good and they made me happy, and Der Swedish Chef was on the cover and all was right with the world. I still contend that when they stopped making that cereal , our nation went into a steep decline and hasn't recovered, but I'll save that theory for another post.

But the muppets still have my heart, and I will watch them in all of their various reincarnations. That one Weezer Video? Absolutely. The episode of Robot Chicken where they had to put Animal down cause he took a bite out of Ed McMahon? Awesome. Which brings me to my point. I perversely enjoy this. I know I shouldn't. I know that Wiley is probably doomed for all eternity for bastardizing the "Rainbow Connection", but that won't stop me from loving it. I don't know why. I know it's wrong, but I still enjoy it. Now if you don't mind, I'm going to enter a fantasy world in which Lords of Acid covers something from Muppets Take Manhatten...

Old Man Hair

I was in the lunch room. Yes, I was getting some coffee, but that is not what this post is about. Anywho, I was talking to a couple of people when I notice Frank W's hair. It took me a second then I realized what was wrong with his hair. The hair appeared to be grouped together in a shiny black helmet. Such, an unnatural black color, it screamed "Hey, look at me I was dipped in grease to cover up my gray roots".
I guess I will never understand haircolor for men because I've been blessed with good hair to go with my mind to rhyme and two hype feet.

I have no shoulders

My body and my clothes have always had this passive-aggressive hateful relationship. The leettle-too-long pants are always getting stepped on by my heel and decide to "show" my feet a thing or two by unraveling at the hem and looking like they are in the process of devouring my ankles. I'm breaking a very basic Go Fug Yourself principle by because my pants are declaring a not-so-subtle war on my heels. My favorite blouse with a plunging neckline is mad at me for wearing a necklace that always gets caught up in it's lace and therefore refused to lay right and instead of flattering my cleavage, mangles it in retaliation. The strap on my favorite holiday party dress breaking right before the company holiday party, forcing me to make the strappy dress into a strapless dress, just because this is the first light of day (or night) the dress has seen in a few years.

Having got a ways through this rant, I realize two important things: A) I have totally lost any male readership I may have had, including Fighting Nun, because of my sartorial related rant and B) I've just made it out that my clothes are an animate objects with their own little agendas, which yes is a bit strange, but not totally unbelievable. As the great Sars once stated, inanimate does not mean insensate. Which means all my clothes, like I choose to believe, are passive-aggressive meanies who take out their aggression on me in the most severe of ways.

And none is more severe, more passive-aggressive, more mean to me than the bra. On a typical day the bra is like a typical self-destructing relationship. In the morning, when I slip on the white lacy bra, it's so simpatico. I look in the mirror and I swear to God it compliments me, tells me how good I look in it, all passionate and fiery at the start. The second I put on a shirt, or do anything other than admire my reflection in the mirror, it decides to literally pout (what with the straps immediately dropping down off my shoulders and all). I try to make amends by readjusting the strap, convincing the bra that I don't like my shirt more than I like it. I just happen to need both. Just when I think I get a reasonable simblance of mutual cooperation between my bra, my shirt and myself, it happens. The strap drops off my shoulder. Again. And then again. And again, and again. Just like the bad boyfriend you keep taking back even though you totally know better. By the end of the day, I'm so glad to have to whole bloody thing off, I feel liberated, until the hem on my pajama bottom decides to give way...

But I wish it was just the one bra that I seem to have this relationship with. Alas, I think I have the same relationship with all of them. I think some of them also get really pissy with me because even though I put them in the nice little laundry bag to make sure their underwires don't get torqued, they all inevitably get tangled up in each other, a bra orgy if you will (or maybe a bra catfight [hee, bra catfight, that's an awesome band name]) and when I put one of them on, the black one with the clasp in the front, it decides that the whole ordeal was way to demeaning and decides not lay flat but creates a little lip which makes it looks like my cleavage has a skin flap underneath a sweater.

But, the one that still gets me mad is still the bra-strap falling down whenever it damn well feels like it. It just really infuriates me. I've tried readjusting most of my bras to the absolute limit, and they still fall down, which infuriates me more and makes me think I should retaliate by getting out the safety pins (That'll learn you), but the thought of safety pinning my bras at the shoulders makes me really sad. And then I start reflecting, like you do in every self-destructing relationship. "Maybe it's not them. Maybe it's me. Maybe I'm really flawed. Maybe it's my posture, or that my shoulders are more round than every one elses and therefore can't handle the strap." The problem is getting so bad that today, even though I'm wearing a strapless bra, I'm still feeling as if my straps are down around my elbows. I mean, can you believe that? Residual Strap Droppage? It bites! So it got me to thinking, maybe the reall problem is I have no shoulders. I'll get back to you on that....

The Company Christmas Party

Over the last couple of days I've been asked the same question "How'd you like the company Christmas party on Saterday? Did you have a good time." to which I have created the following reply "Well let's see. An eleven-year-old boy in a sweater vest tried to get fresh with me in the dessert line and apparantly, the kid had been eyeing me like I was a hamhock fresh off the rotisserie from the start of the party. So you tell me where that falls in your spectrum of a good time."

That's right, along with all the mingling and chatting which goes along with every party, somehow I was able to trump the regular party galavanting and go right into being in another kid's spank bank for at least a good six months. Ah, company holiday parties, what a feel good time of year. I just grossed myself out.

Made-Up Band Names: Submission 8

The band name for the week is:

Wildebeast in Mexico (Tm Fighting Nun)

Time Machines suck!

I've come to the realization that I will never build a time machine. If I will, my future self would have already come back and told my present self how to make lots a money. Now this is a depressing thought, which the owner of this blog just spits milk out of her nose when I approach the subject with her.
That's why time machines suck, if you dream about them you just left in utter depression that nothing happens. It's kinda of like the porn industry. You watch porn, and you think to yourself next time I see a hot girl and her friends all you have to do is burp and fart and they are getting naked. The real world is so depressing.