Tuesday, November 1, 2011

Why are they following me???

Do you ever get the strange feeling that you are surrounded by idiots? No, not the one where it seems like everyone and their mother is auditioning for MTV "reality", the one where you feel as if stupid people purposefully befriend you and follow you around. Are the stray cats of failed education drawn to your intellectual meat dumpster? Did you mistakenly set a bowl of Knowledge Milk out on the Porch of Conversation?

Well, you are not alone. I am developing a theory for this phenomenon. I call it, "The Jealous Moth Postulation." No, I did not steal that from CBS.

As years of exposure to cliche, owning outdoor incandescence, and Wikipedia have taught me: moths are attracted to lights. "By maintaining a constant angular relationship to a bright celestial light, such as the Moon, they can fly in a straight line." This means that light is a sort of compass for the moth, and without bright guidance he can become confused and useless.

If we follow this logic, we can assume that Stupid People have some sort of inner instinct telling them to seek guidance, or to straighten themselves out. This Jiminy Cricket causes the Stupid People to bind themselves to more intelligent life forms, and perhaps learn something useful. This explains why they ask dumb questions, copy our behavior, and follow us around. The instinctual voice also has a defense mechanism which literally turns off the parts of the brain that are capable of detecting sarcasm, condescension, and annoyance - explaining why Stupid People with seemingly normal social skills are incapable of receiving these signals. This keeps the invisible leash between Stupid Person and Smart Person well maintained.

Romantics, however, might insist that the moth is drawn to the flame because of its profound beauty. Wings of gray - dull and powdered with that gross moth dust, this unattractive beast is cosmically pulled towards the thing it desires most: to feel pretty. This also seems applicable, as subconsciously (providing there is a conscious of which to be sub), Stupid People must know that they are lacking. They are not devoid of feeling. They, too, must occasionally feel a tug of envy - but perhaps mistake it for indigestion. At any rate, for whatever reason, consequently, they follow.

So what is our best countermeasure? Obviously, verbal abuse (however satisfying) is ineffective against the advanced anti-scorn defenses of the Inner Insect. We could also try to teach these lost souls: answer their questions and respond to their advances with kindness - but that often leads to insanity and/or homicide. Depending on how well known the subject is, there is a limit to our influence over their cognitive development...so...NO! it can't be!

Yes. Yes, I'm afraid so. The scientists working night and day on the Jealous Moth Postulation have only one successful defense (not including hermitage, surrender, and genetic engineering), and it is utterly sad. You must earn the scorn of the Dumb.

However you do this is up to you. Pretend to be a fan of the rival team that they so viciously and unreasonably hate. Claim to be a member of whatever creed/orientation/race they ignorantly despise. Or, if you have the time, commit yourself to being Too Smart. This is my favorite method. When they approach you, immediately jump to closing phrases like "Wow, that's a good point, this was such a good talk!" and try to convince them that they already had a conversation with you. Speak only in Latin riddles. Change your name to an equation with a lot of parentheses. These techniques are highly advanced, but highly effective. Even the dumbest moths will not fly all the way to the sun.

Either way, if you're sick of making really awesomely subtle puns and being met with blank stares, if you've run out of ways to explain the spelling of "their," and if you no longer want to hear every single detail of THEIR inane lives, you must find away to seem unattractive. I know, I know, it will be difficult. But I believe in you and your superior brain. Godspeed, good flame!


Le Manuel

Wednesday, October 26, 2011


Everyone is tired of hearing about weight loss. Watch any channel after 11 p.m., read literally ANY magazine. Apparently, the swiftly bloating American culture of limitless consumer appetites is also obsessed with getting rid of the consequences. But no one really talks about what actually happens when you lose weight. Perhaps since it's all an ocean of starry-eyed "someday" motivational bullcrap, you're never supposed to know what goes on beyond the magical threshold. As soon as you see what actually happens, good and bad, your brain no longer fantasizes. And a fat, fantasizing brain at 1 a.m. is a diet pill marketers primary

So I'm here to burst a few bubbles, and maybe blow some new ones. Mainly, I want to talk about what goes on in your brain when you lose weight, and why it is a constantly frustrating mindfuck.

First of all, weight loss is not something that just HAPPENS to you. It's not like getting pregnant or hit by a bus. Barring health problems or desert islands, weight loss is an active choice. This is the trap that all fat people dig themselves into, thinking one day they will just get thinner. We live our lives constantly repeating "I'll do that when I'm skinny," and "that will be awesome to try when I'm smaller." Not "I should get thinner so that I can start doing that," or even "there's really nothing stopping me from doing that except my own insecurity." Weight loss isn't puberty. It doesn't come upon you suddenly in the middle of gym class. It is a grueling, relentless, sweaty uphill battle that will immediately unravel if you neglect it for even one minute. And  there will be MANY false starts before it even begins.

Being thinner feels weird. Depending on how quickly you lose weight, your body will feel unfamiliar for a while, and your self image will fluctuate according to how you feel on a momentary basis. There are bits of your emotional structure that will always be fat. This is sometimes entertaining, because you may find yourself groping random body parts in public and thinking "was that always so firm?" But it can also be frustrating, because at your most vulnerable and insecure moments you will revert back to the same person you were when you were fat.

Paranoia and/or vanity may ensue. This is why so many former fatties turn into sluts. When you are fat, you are protected by a thick layer of invisibility that normal people are not allowed. After you lose weight, the shield disintegrates, you realize how much eye contact strangers make, and it either gets creepy or encouraging. This is why I wear more makeup now. Before, leaving the house was a simple task - no pressure. After, it suddenly became a full-fledged performance! It takes a long time to choose an outfit if you assume that 300 people will be analyzing it throughout your day.

Everyone has their own definition of FAT and NOT FAT, the invisible line they draw. For a lot of people, that line is way too unforgiving. Most importantly, it is different for everyone. The way I picture myself at my ideal weight is probably equivalent to a size 2's ultimate nightmare. When I was at my heaviest, I kept thinking "I would be THRILLED to be a size 14 again." Now I'm below 14, and I'm still not satisfied. Why does this happen? Well, the brunettes want to be blonde, that's all I can say. It's important to be able to recognize this flaw in our own perceptions. Think about how much your self image fluctuates on a day-to-day basis. In the space of a week, I whip back and forth from feeling like a freight train to feeling like Kiera Knightley. Sometimes this flips in the space of five minutes. But when I think about people I know - my friends and family - my image of them never changes. I have to constantly remind myself to astral project out of my body and judge it as if I was my best friend.

In a way, this explains one of the biggest fatty frustrations: skinny people complaining about how fat they are. Some do it to fish for compliments, some do it because they can't be happy unless they are miserable, but most do it because body image is NOT a reflection of their actual body. Body image is a (mental) visual representation of security, confidence, adherence to personal rules and standards, and what you imagine other people are thinking about you (and how much you care). Each one of these measurements is changing FAR more frequently than any actual part of your body. But the change in these mental levels manifests as a perceived physical difference.

I don't know anything about actual psychology of weight loss, so don't take any of this for scientific fact. This is merely my own personal analysis of my own personal experience. If you really want to know what it feels like to lose weight, then do it. And newsflash: there isn't one special way. Find your own solution, don't wait to read it in a blog. For me, it was vegetarianism, a job with extreme physical labor, and calorie counting. Why? Because I have control issues, and each one of these things involves following a higher authority/rule that outweighs (pun intended) my temptations. Maybe you are super competitive, so your weight loss solution is something like the Biggest Loser. Personally, I would get kicked off of that show for revenge-bludgeoning the trainers with dumbbells in their sleep.


Friday, October 7, 2011

A Bunch of Reasons Why Living With Animals is Weird

When we were kids, literally every children's story and TV show was about talking animals. Which seemed like the coolest thing ever, plus pets are fun to play with and represent maturity in the "responsibility" aspect. So we all begged our parents for animals, and they caved, most likely because they did the same thing to their parents and were therefore already brainwashed.

Yes, brainwashed. Don't get me wrong, I love my beasts. But WHY do I love my beasts? Is it because we have a genuine bond of friendship and mutual dependence, or is it because I have been programmed by generations of evolution to bring these creatures their food?

I've been mind-bossed by someone that eats their own feces. Great.

Living with animals my whole life has deadened me to how weird it is that I live with animals. I barely notice the bizarre shit that happens around here because of them. But now I'm going to attempt to shake off the hypnosis and remember some of the strangeness. These are things that I've been taught by my pets.

Because of the Dog:
- We both sleep much more comfortably if I'm curled up in a ball on the bed.
- There are tennis balls in the randomest, ankle-breakingest places, and if I'm going to pick them up I must be prepared for Fetch Time.
- I put my shoes on in secret.
- The crust, rind, shell, and dropped casualty of every food item is obviously his property. It's the Cuteness Tax.
- That might be vomit.
- I need candles. Many candles. For the antifart.
- Walking around in public with grocery bags full of excrement is expected.
- That is definitely vomit.

Because of the Cats:
- Hanging laundry is a party activity.
- It is dangerous to walk around corners.
- Any beverage must be immediately finished. Coke-fried electronics are entirely my fault.
- Curtains are evil?
- That might be poo.
- Sometimes it's just fun to meow.
- Windowsill time is do-not-disturb time.
- Tassels, necklaces, shoelaces, drawstrings, earrings, purse straps, and fingers are all actually malicious attack worms from the devil.
- That is definitely poo.

Because of the Rats:
- The word "vermin" is inappropriate.
- Plastic bags are terrifying objects.
- Treats must be divided equally and fairly, unless one of them doesn't get there fast enough.
- Everything must be crawled in, around, and up.
- Mascara is delicious.
- The two most comfortable beds in the world are hammocks and cleavage.

So yeah, pets are awesome. They make you feel like a slave/zookeeper/prison warden, and they sprinkle tiny hairs on EVERYTHING, but they are love that doesn't talk back. So it's really worth it in the long run. We live our lives waiting for them to do something cute so we can just barely miss capturing it on film, and we constantly fear finding something gross with our feet in the dark. They even help us get along with each other - they are the perfect smalltalk, the party-pleasers, the rapist-biters, and the cancer-sniffers.

I just really wish they would keep their fluids to themselves.

Thursday, September 29, 2011

A Bit More Seriouser, Now

It's four in the morning and I work in seven hours, but it's vitally important to toss something of myself into the abyss of the internet, lest my fragile ego starve to death.

So I decided to post my list of Remembers. Recently I was sitting in a restaurant, waiting for my waitressy sister to get off work, and all I had for entertainment was a notebook. So I wrote a long, sentimental list of reminders for myself, to keep me going and otherwise define my priorities.

I considered posting this to Effbook in note format, but that's just a bit too public and also kind of a dramatic thing to do. So I shall burden this blog with it, because that is a much smaller audience with much less "liking" potential.

It is a personal list that applies to me specifically, but I feel that a lot of the items could be good for anyone to consider. Here we go:

1. Life is short and fast
2. You don't really find permanence appealing
3. Good writing takes daily exercise
4. The internet is usually a waste of time
5. Don't value the opinions of dumb people
6. Act and dress cooler than you are
7. The useless crap in your room was once the only thing you wanted
8. Cooking makes you happy, never stop
9. Tragedy shouldn't be romantic
10. Keep your 12-year-old self proud
11. It IS important to feel thin and beautiful
12. Your happiness does not depend on anyone's unhappiness
13. An even temper is a gift
14. Criticize privately, praise openly
15. Money should never be your sole motivation
16. Obsession causes aging
17. Find another reason besides "because he likes me"
18. Wilderness reboots the soul
19. Avoid ruts
20. Educate yourself before declaring an opinion
21. Never remain in something unhappy out of fear
22. No one has time to be coy
23. Everything is uncertain, unstable, and temporary
24. Don't dwell on the obvious or irrelevant
25. The first mark of sophistication is good hygiene
26. Worth is subjective
27. Do not confuse femininity and weakness

There ya have it. Inspirations from a Perkins booth. Take it or leave it. I have to pee.

Ciao, bella!~ Ugh Stephenie Meyer ruined that phrase.

Friday, September 9, 2011

Lucky Things Happen to Dumb People

It is a warm September night. Our heroine, a mysterious brunette, pulls her sister's Ford Taurus into the neighborhood Mobile station for some much-needed petroleum. Alone and vulnerable, she distracts herself from the surrounding darkness by squeegeeing the gnat corpses off of the windshield. The pump finally pops off, and she pulls away from the station, full of pride in her generous spirit.

But alas! What is this? She has driven away from the station with her wallet sitting on the roof of the car! How could she be so thoughtless!

But she does not notice. She drives a few miles due west, into the cold remains of a long-dead sunset, without a care in the world. She makes a few break-neck turns that will cause much grief later. She picks up her sister, drives home, then drives into the next county to visit the farm. It is now midnight.

Finally home, nearly thirty minutes later, she places her treasured belongings on the kitchen table. She pulls some money out of her pocket to transfer to her wallet.

Her wallet! Blast! Where is her wallet? It isn't here, not in the giant purse, not on the table! She remembers, with pain, the moment that she placed her wallet on the roof of the car. She knows that is the only way it was lost. She knows she must backtrack and search.

And search she does. For more than an hour she scours her course, driving slowly through town, eyes strained to the dirty curbs and cobblestones. There are several cops parked, some pulled over and flashing already. Normally she would not worry, but she is driving suspiciously, circling slowly and methodically, and she does not have a driver's license with her.

The track seems endless. Back and forth, turn and check, cursing and lamenting. She calls two different police departments, considers calling the credit card company, all the while her gaze glued to the side of the road. She knows that any turn or bump could have jostled the wallet in any direction. Luckily she knows it could only be between the gas station and her sister's friend's house, so there is not much ground to cover.

And cover it she does. Occasionally, a lump of tar or a mangled jock strap will cause a leap of hope in her heart, but upon second perusal she is always disappointed. The night seems endless. She is beginning to think about the process of freezing accounts, reapplying for a license, acquiring a new social security card. She is suddenly very, very tired.

But then...
a glimmer...
a shadow...
something from the darkness reaches out and speaks to her. It might be nothing.
It might be a sock.
But something on the side of the road causes her to wonder...She cannot stop now. There is a car behind her. But she can turn and circle back around the block. This is too important to overlook.

She makes it around again and parks her car on a side road, door blatantly ajar and engine running. She trots to the curb. It seems so far away. She tries to look sober, sane, and unhookerish. She must only get to the curb.

There it is! Oh frabjous day! Forlornly propped on the cold concrete, there lies her black-and-white $10 clutch. It seems too good to be true.

But it is. Unsquashed, unlooted, and only 1/4 mile from the gas station, her wallet has been patiently waiting. A needle in a haystack, a dark smudge in a dark smudge.

She returns home, relieved and exhausted, and confident. She is confident that with obsession, diligent naivete, and sheer luck, even the biggest moron in the world can recover from the stupidest of blunders.

Friday, August 26, 2011










Thursday, August 25, 2011


Sometimes, in the dead of night, you wonder if those "mosquito bites" on your legs are really mosquito bites. Because they seem to itch an inordinate amount, and they are red. And they don't go away after washing, which most polite mosquito bites do.

And then you wonder, maybe it's poison ivy, because you sure do a lot of crawling around in weedy undergrowth, more than a normal person would, say a paralegal for example. So you Google what poison ivy looks/feels like and then you decide no, that's definitely not it. Fuck no. Not having that.

And then you think about how you've been wearing those new Kohls jeans that you bought without washing because you were so excited to have well-fitting jeans, because the big ones require a lot of belt action, and sometimes a really tight belt over really loose jeans makes you look like you have a penis. Which is sometimes not what you want.

And then you wonder if you could be getting a skin reaction from something in the jeans. Because your skin overreacts to everything. Your skin is that super polite girl at work that makes gaspy noises when you're telling a story, even if you're just describing a sandwich or Simon Powell's hair. It's like, relax, lady, this story ain't gonna pop any vital organs.

And then you remember how you were like SUPER excited to see how long you could go without doing laundry, so the only genital-covering option to wear to work tomorrow is those exact rage-inducing jeans. Unless you shave your legs and wear a skirt, which to be honest would be difficult to do with all those bumps all over your skin. Because of extreme blood loss being bad for productivity and morale in the work environment.

So what you've decided to do at this point is wake up early, like around 10ish, to start a load of laundry before work. Which would be an awesome plan if you hadn't already wasted so much valuable sleep time by posting a useless blog projecting your own laundry/skin insecurities in a slap-dash 2nd person narrative, which happened to come to an end just as your sleeping pill kicked in so there wasn't really a decent conclusion?...............

Sunday, August 14, 2011

12 Steps to Cleaning Your Room in Your Own Damn Time - With Pics and Video!

That hamper is trying so hard...
Step 1: Declare that your room is "a disgrace" and that your mother "can't believe you live like this."

Yes I have finished unpacking my dorm stuff...shut up...
Step 2: Calculate exactly how many more days you can continue living like this. Add three more days.

Step 3: On the appointed day, set aside at least six hours of productive daylight within which you can complete your project. Instead, change into your cleaning clothes and dick around on YouTube until the sun goes down.

You want the room to have that "about to collapse in on you" feeling.
Step 4: Make a kickass cleaning playlist. Preferably one that includes songs you haven't downloaded yet.

Step 5: Take a Nutella break.

Step 6: Stare mournfully at your mess until you figure out the easiest thing to clean first. This is probably whatever takes up the most room, like laundry, and furniture that has tipped over or shifted during takeoff.

Step 7: Before accomplishing the quick and simple tasks that would lead to finishing faster, you should find one of your collections and organize it with a frightening and possibly OCD amount of precision. Hey, it is extremely important that your earrings are arranged by weight and that your nail polish bottles display a double rainbow.

Y'know, if the rainbow was mostly pink. 
Step 8: Take a smoothie break.

Step 9: Make piles. This may seem counter-productive, but it's super helpful to make a pile of clean clothes, a pile of dirty clothes, and a pile of I-could-probably-legally-wear-this-one-last-time clothes. You may have aspirations to fold or hang up the clean pile, but you won't.

Step 10: Crawl around your room with an empty Walmart bag and search for garbage. Wow that's a lot of receipts. Do you just dump your purse out on the floor? Where do all these clothing tags come from? I can't believe you didn't even finish that candy bar...what a waste.

Pwease don't throw me away! 
Step 11: Take a kitty break.

Seriously? You're taking another break? 
Step 12: Grab all the random, miscellaneous, and uncategorizable paraphernalia that has accumulated in your room and find hiding places for it. This is like a reverse treasure hunt, and can be especially fun six months from now when you clean your room again and discover it all. OMG there's a digital camera in this boot! Fun!

Step 13: Kick out the stowaways. There are WAY too many things in your room that don't belong. You probably didn't even take them in. They were abandoned by evil house gremlins that wish messiness upon you. Why else would you have twelve glasses of half-evaporated water on your nightstand?

Tuck me in please
Step 12: Do fancy things that you would normally never do, like vacuuming, dusting, or making your bed. Hell, spray some fruity air freshener if you want, throw a sprig of lavender on the pillow. Your room will only be this nice for about thirty more minutes, might as well milk it while you can.

The monster is no longer UNDER the bed
And you're done! Good job, you managed to half-ass it just enough to not break a sweat, yet it's clean enough to pass inspection for another month. Now go post unnecessary blogs and videos about this momentous occasion. Go!

Friday, August 5, 2011

What are you gonna be?

You know how you know you are not completely grown up yet? When you have little moments throughout the day, sneaking in out of nowhere, of daydreaming about some totally unrealistic future endeavor. As a ten year old, I thought I would be a famous author by now. As a teenager, I thought I would be married by now. As a college student, I thought I would be miserably adult and living in a confusing swamp of bills and unemployment. 

Turns out, none of my selves were correct, and I'm actually doing quite fine. I have an alright job but it's not a career, I'm living at home, I'm single but too busy to care, and I'm not lost in a sea of anything. But every now and then, either while packing my peanut butter and jelly, or saying goodnight to my stuffies, I have a small glimmer of childish anticipation for something grand. 

"Maybe one day, if I practice hard enough, I can be a famous dancer! It's not too late to take classes. I should probably start with ballet..."

Right. Get on that, would you?

"This will be such a funny video, me reading Maroon 5 lyrics dramatically. I hope it doesn't break Youtube."

Sure, Lindsay, sure. 

On the one hand, it's rather adorable of me to think I'm going to muster up the ambition to do anything beyond laundry this week. If it doesn't pertain to work, survival, or severe vegetation, I'm probably not going to do it. My laziness is so bad that last week I only painted one fingernail. And left it that way. For FOUR DAYS. 

On the other hand, it's quite sad. Because I know I will never be a famous dancer or Youtuber, not that those are things that I would ever seriously consider. The intrinsic value of fame is that it is rare. It may not be always deserved, but it will always be rare. Just based on its definition, not everyone can be famous. It just feels that way now because more "normal" people are getting famous due to the internet and reality TV. I'm sure those people have filled in the gaps of the 300 people that are no longer famous for discovering minerals or inventing cars or doing historical things with their stern faces. 

What is the emotional appeal of fame? Attention equals love? Well, I get plenty of that from my dog, I'm Oprah to him. Living on after death, preserving myself through my name? Well I don't think I ever will die, so that can't be it. Popularity? Maybe. 

It's all a big pissing contest, really. If you've got the most or the best of something, you have value. No one wants to be in the 97% of people that are just cogs, no matter how noble or gratifying it is to just live your own life. Glamour pulls them in, seduces them to the other side of the fence, promises Corn Flakes with caviar, and then leaves them shivering in the gutter - no doubt clutching their brows dramatically and cursing the name of whatever 7th grade teacher said "that kid has moxie."

So I guess one of my goals now will be to ignore the siren song of unrealistic ambition and just aim for that 3rd percentile of normalcy. It's not a low bar by any means, just a well populated one. And it's not even an easy goal compared to fame and fortune, merely a more likely outcome. If my choices are 1) bum on the street, 2) work, live, die, or 3) briefly alert all of humanity that I exist, then fizzle into space like everyone else - the second choice is actually most appealing. 

Why am I writing this? Oh yeah, because I don't actually want to be a ballerina. Sorry, 8-year-old self, but that's just not the path I'm on. It's nice to sit and think about it for a few minutes while I wait for the toaster oven, but only in the same way that I think about how nice it would be to have gills. 

That's a common fantasy for everyone, right? The gill thing? Right along your neck just flapping uselessly, until you hit water and then it's like BAM, you're totally breathing? 

Sigh ya nara 

Monday, July 25, 2011


Soo, it's about 4:30 in the morning and in three hours I have to drive to Job #1 to pick beans in the sweltering heat for three hours before driving to Job #2 to answer phones for seven hours, so I decided that instead of sleeping I'll make a blog about my vacation.

Well, "vacation" is a bit of a soft term. My obligatory leave of absence per the changing marital status of my sister. My older sister Hannah got married! First one out of four, which makes sense but also AAACK. No pressure. She decided that instead of having a super-stressful huge wedding at home, she'd have a mildly stressful tiny wedding in Oregon. So we went to Oregon! Four women in two planes, a rental car, and two hotel rooms. And here's some stuff that happened.

Wednesday: Left late, to my frustration. I'm the annoying one that stands there tapping her foot making angry grunting sounds and bitching about silly things like "traffic" and "security" and "I'm fucking starving and I wanna get a burrito." So to be less annoying I chugged a glass of wine, which only made me hot. So I was hot and irritable and late and hungry. Lovely combo.

The first plane ride was super rad, I was amped and bored and being obnoxious with Angie and Laura the whole time. We got to sit in the very back by the toilets, which was cool, except there was a really bitchy stewardess - pardon me, "bitchy flight attendant" - who wouldn't let us have water, so Laura died of thirst and then we had to deal with her dusty body and everything, which was a huge pain.

After the plane landed in FUCKIN SEATTLE, we drove around looking for someplace to eat, because my giant let's-get-Lindsay-to-shut-up burrito had worn off. We tried this one place and made reservations, but then did that thing where you sit and wait for your table and then realize that the prices are really high and Oh my gosh the servers are wearing bowties and maybe we should go somewhere else. So we told the hostess we were too poor, and then hightailed it to Dennys. Which was disgusting. I had a veggie burger that tasted like fish. Barf.

Then we drove in the dark in our pretend-fancy rented Chevy Malibu. The car was aight, but the seat felt like an upholstered toilet, and the steering wheel felt like a giant dildo that had warped in the sun, and the snarky computer went DING every time Laura unbuckled her seatbelt, which was A LOT.

We stayed in one room the first night, which was like a fun sleepover, if your Mom went to your sleepovers, which is kinda weird. Mostly we just passed out until we woke up from how annoying we were to each other in the morning. Lemme tell you, growing up with a bunch of girls is one thing, but traveling with them is a friggen test of your moral fortitude. I never understood how low-maintenance I really am until this trip. I don't need a hairdryer or fancy "clean" clothes, and all I really have to do in the morning is put on a bra and brush my teeth. Not these girls, nuh uh. They need five different lotions and a machine to dry their hair and makeup and outfits and shit. Shit. Maybe I'm doing something wrong, ya know?

So Thursday we hung out in Seaside at our second hotel. The drive there was fun because Washington and Oregon are PRETTY and covered in bumpy land and green stuff. The towns are weird, tiny tourist traps that perch on the edge of the ocean like they're gonna jump in any minute. In case you were wondering, the state bird of Washington is the Mexican restaurant, and the state flower is the Espresso bar. In the Midwest we joke about how there are two McDonald'szes in every town, but that's nuthin. In Or-a-gun and Wash-in-ton there will be one shady-ass looking Mexican restaurant here, called "Uncle Bean's Super Sketch Cantina" or something, and ANOTHER one right across the street called "Casa Del Copycat." And presumably they are all doing fine in business or whatever because they are EVERYWHERE. There is the obligatory seafood place for the tourists, I assume, but the Oregonian and the Washingtonese dine primarily on beans and cheese. Which is cool, more power to ya. I'm just worried about the state of your coffee-and-pinto stuffed colons, honestly. I was only in the area for four days and I barely came out alive.

In Seaside we swam in the hotel pool, which was fun even though I searched the whole town of SEAside for a fucking swim suit and the best I could find was a tank top and gym shorts at the back of a drug store. Shopping in that town is not easy, because even though it has thirty hotels and fifty Mexican diners, the roads are only equipped to hold five cars at a time, and if you want to turn left during the day you have to use flares and snow plows to get in.

Anyway, swimming was fun, and I used the jacuzzi jets to blast away the stiffness in my farming legs, which Angie and Laura thought was disturbing for some reason probably having nothing to do with the noises I made. Some bitch and her bitch husband brought their bitch children into the pool though, so we had to stay in the deep end and have sinking contests for like AN HOUR. I discovered that I can't sink, which is comforting?

We went on an adventure looking for a place to eat around 9:30, which is apparently past the time we were allowed to be hungry. Wandering around a daylight-only tourist town at night is pretty freaky, especially when there is literally circus music playing from nowhere, and creepy fluorescents lighting up the window displays, and an invisible river making threatening sloshing noises under your feet.

That night we slept in two different rooms, so naturally we watched cable until really late and then fell asleep farting on each other at like 2 a.m. Seriously, the farting was pretty bad. I'm not gonna say who it was, but she was really smelly and she wasn't me or Angie.

The next day was FRIDAY, also known as Wedding Day! Yay! We woke up and spent three hours getting ready, in solidarity with the bride. I put on my hoochie-mama dress that I paid a lot for, and we got dolled up.  Hannah's friend Jon drove us to the park in his MERCEDES FUCKING BENZ, which was pretty pimp. The park was on top of a cliff over the ocean, which was photogenic as hell. So naturally we took shit tons of photos. We were there for four hours, and probably posing for three hours and forty-five minutes.

We ate grilled peppers and mushrooms and asparagus and zucchini, which was just what the doctor ordered, and then Hannah got MARRIED!!! She looked like a fairy, but in a classy way. And I didn't make gagging noises at the sugary parts of the ceremony, which I think shows a lot of growth.

After the wedding, we went back to the hotel and wallowed in our sunburnt exhaustion, then we went back to Cannon Beach to shove more money into our pie holes. Angie and I had to go on an adventure to find somewhere to pee. I feel like that happens too much. We ate and talked with Jason's family, had champagne, regretted eating so much, then drove back to the hotel. For some unknown reason we went to Dairy Queen a few hours later, which was disgusting and greasy and totally not worth standing in line with a barking dog and Oregon's only five fat people.

The fart wars continued that night, only this time Laura had backup, in the form of someone else that wasn't Angie. So we fell asleep, fat and happy, with the window open. In the morning we had to check out of the hotel, LATE AS USUAL GRUMBLE GRUMBLE SNORT SNORT, and drive to Rockaway Beach!

Rockaway Beach is an awesome little seaside town founded during WWII. It was about an hour out of our way, but we drove there because our Gramma lived there in the forties and we wanted pictures and evidence to show her. We frolicked on the beach and picked up some extremely sanitary rocks and things that looked like rocks, and then we ate at another fucking diner. I think I consumed about two bottles worth of ketchup on this trip, which is apparently "unattractive." Whatever.

And then there was driving. A lot of driving. We had to get from Rockaway to Seattle in time for our flight, which included one stop for Starbucks, one stop for gas, two stops to pee, one stop for a roadside cherry stand (friggen D-LISHHH), and one stop for Olive Garden where I had more alcohol and food to mellow me out. Which only sorta worked.

We made our way to the airport with Angie driving, which was only temporarily terrifying, and then ran around Seatac for an hour peeing in places and dropping shit. Laura stopped at every outlet to charge her iPhone, Angie fell asleep on people if you didn't keep an eye on her, Mama asked a lot of questions about airports, and I slowly inflated like a pained balloon full of coffee and carbs (NOT HEROIN, I SWEAR) until I was in the perfect state of discomfort for a four hour flight.

This flight was awful. The plane was hot as balls, and not just the normal part of the balls, the sticky, smelly crevasse where dreams go to die. The big guy in front of me had his seat back the whole time, so my Amazonian legs were either crossed or tucked under or warped like a pretzel. It really helped that I hadn't put my belt back on after security, so my jeans were falling down as well. And my ipod died an hour in. And I was bloated as Veruca Salt.

The only thing that slightly numbed the experience was popping a melatonin and falling asleep for virtually the whole flight. But it wasn't really sleep, it was "sleep." I was in a semi-conscious state of discomfort: my brain was asleep, but my neck had to stay awake in order to let me know that it wanted a pillow, and my legs were awake from being periodically shoved back into their sockets by Mr. Needs-three-extra-inches in front of me, and my stomach was awake from having invisible bubbles of air rolling around in it and threatening to escape every time the pilot curb-checked a cumulonimbus. To top it all off, when my drugged-up eyes opened, all I could see next to me was Princess Angie, sleeping like an angel with her puffy neck pillow and her comfy yoga pants. I wanted to be awake and angry and reading Cosmo, but noooo.

I did finally pee in an airplane bathroom for the first time ever, which isn't as awful as I expected. I was a little disappointed at how easy it was. And I am calling bullshit on that Mile High Club thing, there is NO WAY that is possible. Those "rooms" are designed to have just enough room to evacuate yourself and nothing else. If it had been half an inch smaller I would have been standing up and praying for the best.

Anyway, we landed and drove home and I slept all day, and now here I am! Here are some things seen on the side of the road in Wash and Oregon:

- Lots of hobos. But not REAL hobos, hitchhiking trust fund hippies with $200 Nordstrom backpacks and salon-styled dreadlocks. We were tempted to pick one up, but the signs said not to.

-A truck with a huge spray painted plywood sign that said "ELK JERKY." Either it's a weird-ass gay club, or someone was taking advantage of the tourist's sense of whimsy.

-A truck advertising a thrift store sale, with a big pink plastic Jesus sticking out of the bed, and the legs of a female mannequin hanging out the driver-side window with some nice brown heel sandals on.

-Some bitch pedestrian that I almost killed turning right onto the road. She yelled something at me, but it wasn't "SORRY I'M A MORON, I'LL GO HOME NOW," so I didn't pay any attention.

-Another hobo with some blinky lights on his rolling backpack. Seriously, the West coast version of poor is very different from ours. I'm assuming there are still poor people, because a lot of the neighborhoods were really tiny and shabby, but that was it. The roads were immaculately maintained. Maybe the roads and hobos are paid for with tourist money, because MAN were they milking us for all they could get.

Anyhoo, I should go to bed. More like a two hour nap. Maybe I'll skip Job #1 and get some sleep. We'll see.

Tuesday, July 19, 2011

Netflix grab-bag review: Confined

Starring Emma Caulfied and some other people, Confined is about a woman who moves to the suburbs to de-stress from getting laid off, only to discover that her neighbor is a dangerous old kidnapper with a secret in his basement. Apparently this was based off a true story, which is weird because it is wildly unrealistic.

This review contains spoilers, but that's okay because so does the movie. Even though the bad guy isn't on the cover - wait, hangon, can I just take a minute to bitch about this cover? Okay, here it is.

That's a movie cover from 2010. The age when everyone's nine-year old can operate Photoshop. Or read a one-sentence synopsis in order to decide what to put on a cover. Why are there THREE images of her husband looking boring? Why is the primary image of the main character cut off at the chin and highly unflattering? Why isn't the bad guy on here? It's not like he's a mystery, he's the second character shown and he's shown literally committing a crime within the first three minutes. My best summary for this movie if I had only seen the cover would have been "slightly awkward triplets force a woman and her daughter to stay at home a lot."

Anyway, the movie wasn't much better than its outfit. Sooooo many thriller cliches that I can't list them all. But I'll try: questionable psychological stability of main character (whyyy won't they believe her? IS she imagining it? Who can tell?), caring yet cowardly husband, creepily nimble old man bad guy, cops who don't care because it's such a tight-knit community that nurtures and harbors its psychos rather than arrests them, generic ringtones and generally unhelpful technology, annoyingly supportive aiding-and-abetting spouse of killer, etc...

If you do watch this movie, you'll find yourself saying "Hey, that happened in..." or "Ooh this reminds me of..." quite frequently. Not because it's a tribute or a remake or anything, it's just that overdone. Disturbia was better. Remember Disturbia? Shia Leboof's shitty remake of Rear Window? At least that was slightly suspenseful and had some interesting characters. Of course, that was big budget and high profile, so it had no excuse to be shitty. People should just stop trying to channel Hitchcock if they're gonna cock it up.

You know what it's like? When you go to some gift shop in a tourist town somewhere and you're really really thirsty, but all they have is a cooler full of "Popsi," so you crack a familiar blue can open and take a big swig to discover the taste of desperation. It's not satisfying, it's not fooling anyone, and it only half-heartedly copies the big guys in order to capitalize on their success by slipping under the radar.

This movie was never meant to make money. They gave it a generic title, cast no one attention-getting (sorry Emma, I love you!), and stuck it on Lifetime to rot forever like the little girl in the basement.

Oops. Sorry, spoiled it.




Last words: Here's my message to all future B-movie makers. You have no excuse anymore! People are making better films on Youtube with their camera phones for 0% of your budget. Spend 500 bucks and hire a desperate film student with some time on his or her hands, and fire your overpaid committee writers. This country is literally dripping with uselessly talented young people who want to get famous. Exploit them!

Sunday, July 10, 2011

Shit I think about when I'm alone at 2:30 in the morning

- Is it weird that humans wash themselves with soap? Well, no, because cats wash themselves, so that's natural. But cats have clean spit and rough tongues. We probably can't wash ourselves because our saliva is unclean from eating processed food.

- What if I lose all my weight and I'm 100 pounds but I still have the arms of a fat girl? Will I walk around with sweaters all the time? I wonder why my forearms are so normal looking.

- My feet look sexier when I'm standing in the dark, because there's a little vein that pops out on the side and throws a shadow.

- Maybe I should write my name on my $18 night cream so that Mama doesn't start using it as revenge for me using her $18 night cream. Or maybe I can keep track of how many times I use it and then count the finger marks in the morning.

- My kitten likes to sleep on my pulse points, I hope that doesn't mean she's gonna grow up to be a serial killer.

- It's weird that the little Kardashian sister is so much taller and thinner than the others. I wonder if she's the smart one and just has random DNA.

- I think I'm going to tell my kids that Santa isn't real, but I'm not sure about the tooth fairy yet. It seems a shame to deprive them of money, at least with the Santa thing I'm still giving them presents.

- I ate a cheese curd that I found in the fridge and before I had even swallowed my arteries started to clog. Then I had a mini panic attack because I thought there might be meat in it. Not enjoyable.

- Shit I forgot to feed the rats.

Tuesday, April 19, 2011

Before and After: Narcissism in progress...

Finally found a use for all the old photos I hate! This is to keep a record and track progress. Apparently this is the only place I can organize photos this way without using Paint. So there it is. The befores are on the left, duh, and range from 2007-2010. The afters are all as recently as I could get them, but none older than August 2010. I tried to pick ones with similar poses and expressions. Oh, and sorry to all the people I cropped out. This is all about MEEEEEE.

This one is my personal favorite, so I put it first. 

I really love my pained expression in the left one 

You can't really see in the before of this one cuz I'm wearing a TENT. That was moving out day last year! 


Haha this one just looks like I'm sucking in. Well I probably was, but in BOTH, that's what matters. 

That stupid black cami is in almost every before picture. I used it to cover my ass, literally. It's a raggedy mess now. 


Haha, some things never change. 


I whip my hair back and forth. Sorry, had to. 

Sooo attractive, lefty. 


The only two photos of my ass that exist, EVAR. 

And now for the face shots


Remember not to judge my hair. 

It's so cold in my room right now, you have no idea. 

Freddy watches silently.

Homecoming! The one on the right, of course. 

Yay, anyway. Enough of that. I'll have a real post soon. 


Le Manuel