Cheating

Herein you get to see my craftiness. Since I have designated Friday as Day of Boring Reviews, by cleverly not posting for two days, I get to opt out of having to think of real things to write about until at least Monday. Y'all just watch out, my mad skilz are all on display today.

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Oh, asides: I had real reasons for not writing, as there were real life things going on for once, which is why I don't feel remotely guilty about not writing, despite my personal pledge to actually start writing consistently again. So there.

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Oh asides #2: Okay class, now can everyone say "Thank you, Mr. Cuban"?

"Thhhaaaank youuu, Mr. Cuuuubannnn!"

Remember a couple of weeks ago when Mark Cuban gave away free round trip tickets out of Love Field to everyone at the Mavs game? Well it pays to know people, apparently, as my boss's husband was at the game and he gave me his tickets in a fit of ridiculous generosity.

So now I have 3 days left to decide where and when I want to go (you can schedule your trip up to November, but they have to be booked by this coming Sunday). Never before have I loved Mark Cuban as much as today. Okay, maybe that day that he worked in the Dairy Queen, but certainly not since then.

Travel suggestions are welcome. (My four landing/return destinations are: Austin, San Antonio, Kansas City, and St. Louis.) I'm thinking St. Louis just for the sheer exotic factor, but we will see. (Other weird thing: I'm old enough to rent a car now, which makes this whole thing much more doable and optionable. I am very excited.)

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And now that we get down to it, I don't have a lot of reviews.

Breakfast on Pluto: Man, was 2005 just like the year for excellent movies? I completely dug this thing. Wickedly Dickensian (and not in a bad way, like Twist. Did I write about Twist? I should have. That movie was 12 kinds of fucked up. But Mmmm, Nick Stahl. *drool* ...Wait, what were we talking about?) by which I mean just so cute and full of crazy transvestites with hearts of gold. Or, y'know, orphans befriended by all sorts of colorful characters as they grow up and into their destiny. Take your pick.

Also, Cillian Murphy. That is all.

Proof: I tried to go back because I couldn't remember if I wrote about this back when I first saw it and I couldn't find anything. Which means nothing, since my search engine is shoddy at best, but it is unconscionable that I let this go by without comment. I love this movie so much. Gwenyth Paltrow turns out to not only be able to act, but puts in what I say is the best actress performance of last year. A complete travesty that she didn't get nominated for anything. Jake Gyllenhaal scales new levels on my hotness scale by broaching the subject of Cute Math Geeks, for which I apparently have a fetish. Anthony Hopkins feasts on every available piece of scenery he can get his hands on, which is all I ever ask of him. The movie is a little stagey, but the dialogue is just spot-on delicious. And I was actually kept in suspense about the plot, something that almost never happens nowadays, what with me being so cynical with a heart so black.

Silent Hill: Okay, fine, yes it sucked. Overly dramatic, crammed a storyline that really didn't fit together. Excessively gory, when creepiness would have served it just as well. Dialogue so bad it could stun a small bird. Sean Bean "acting" so hard that it made my head hurt.

All that aside: Surprisingly and intensely true to the video game on which it was based. At times, ridiculously scary to a shocking degree. Beautifully shot, perfect art direction. Pyramid Head. Those goddamn ash children and the twitching nurses. I'm sorry, but just I can't get my hate on entirely for the movie. Yes, it was not worth the money paid to get in, but since they only charged me a student price, I feel slightly vindicated.

Peer Pressurin' Mofos

I had been doing so freaking well. Yes, I was on an all cheese diet. And yes, the only supplement to that diet was caffeinated beverages of the highest degree (chocolate coffee in the mornings and Coca-Cola at all other times, day or night). But had I been eating candy? With the exception of what was in my Easter basket (what? you don't get an easter basket? why? just because you're over the legal drinking age? screw that. I am all over that shit. hollow chocolate bunnies own me.) I have been remarkably restrained in the area of refined sugars.

Then Jim comes to town and before you know it, he has placed Pixi Sticks in the cart at the grocery store. Suddenly it is the middle of the day on the Tuesday following and I am literally vibrating in my chair because I just finished off my second pack of Pixi Sticks in the last 36 hours, chased intermittently with Jolly Ranchers in all colors of the rainbow. Do you understand what this is like? Akin to quitting cigarettes cold-turkey and then suddenly people keep handing you delicious carton after carton of your brand, acting all innocent while all the time pelting you with lighters.

In reality, they are pushers of the highest order. "All the cool kids are eating sugar," indeed.

So, I'm wired out of my mind, twitching uncontrollably, and getting so much work done it's like I'm not getting paid by the hour anymore. This is obviously untenable. To borrow a line, we are in a run-out-the-clock situation here, 1.5% blood to sugar ratio or not. When you've finished every possible thing in the office and it's only 1:30 and you have to start dusting things to look busy, you know you've gone to a bad place.

I've reached that plane I used to need to get when I was on an all night programming binge, where everything has a sort of surreal glow and I can almost hear the command prompt whispering to me. Of course, in the real world, one does not need this plateau. When my most complicated task of the day involves the phrase "collating and stapling," priming my brain to "22 hours of graphical interface coding" is something like aiming a firehose at a teacup.

I blame all of you people, though. Bad influences, the whole lot. I was perfectly content with my cheese. As soon as I get out, they try to reel me back in. So sad.

Now if you will excuse me, I have got a box of Sweetarts to attend to, and wow, five envelopes to address and stamp.

Today I am a Power Dialer

There is no shame on the internet. This is what I tell myself. It may be one of those self-evident things, since you can read about pretty much every single embarrassing event in the past two years of my life just by going through the archives there on the right-hand side.

I bring this up for the simple fact that I almost didn't write this entry due to my sheer mortification of what I'm about to say. It's that horrible.

So.

I voted for The American Idol.

Which, okay, may cause a slight gasp, maybe would require a fainting couch carefully placed for a delicate 17th century Victorian, but is not necessarily a deal breaker in terms of my complete sell-out into the low end of popular culture and the Coca-Cola juggernaut.

But let's go for full disclosure here: I voted for The American Idol 102 times. In a single hour.

No wait. Back up. I got through to American Idol 102 times in a single hour. You can't even begin to fathom how many times I actually called in to the AI.

You see that? That abbreviation? I have slang terms integrated into my mind about this show. The wheels have fallen off my cred vehicle.

I don't know how it came to this. I blame Frank, I blame Coke, I blame the ease of the redial button. I blame Television Without Pity for getting me overly involved with its scathing recaps, I blame Will Makar for not making it into the finals and thus implicating me in his demise since I did not vote for him. But most of all I blame the beautiful and alluring siren song of Katherine McPhee and her really hideous wardrobe department.

The only thing keeping me from flinging myself off of the nearest cliff in shame (except for the fact that the nearest cliff to Dallas is a pretty good ways off and would probably require an extended car ride and my radio is broken) is that I still maintain a modicum of decency: Any time someone uses the word "McPheever" around me, I go into a white hot rage that cannot be quelled. Even I, the saddest power-dialer in all the land, have my limits to fanatical fan-isms.

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And incidentally, I already miss the Ace Young and his wounded puppy dog eyes. Someone needs to put me out of my misery right now.

Incidental Clown-Related Announcement

Just in case anyone was thinking of hiring me any time soon (a laughable concept based off of all my recent interviews, (another post in itself)), I just want to make it clear:

Much like P. Diddy, I have a strict "no clown" clause in all my contracts as well.

Don't say I learned nothing from my days as a carnie.

Behold the Power

I've undertaken a grand experiment, it seems. I will finally answer the age-old question that has long plagued mankind: Exactly what will happen if you go on an all cheese diet?

I didn't set out to answer this question, more the question found me. The stars all had to align just so for it to happen though. First, Albertsons ran my most favorite promotion, one that only happens about twice a year, their 10 string cheese sticks for $1 deal. Which is just ridonkulous, in terms of enjoyment per food price. I mean, not only is string cheese delicious, it's fun to eat and labor intensive in the good way. Nothing to cook or accidentally set on fire, just the careful dissection of your meal. And people can't even complain about me playing with my food - it's required. By God.

Plus. 10 for one dollar. Just think about that for a second.

Okay done? Doesn't it just give you goosebumps?

Anyways, so I did some quick mental math and tried to figure out how many cheese sticks I could buy at one time without looking completely insane. In the end I settled on 40, which seemed like a nice, small, round number. But upon completion of my shopping trip, the pile of 40 cheese sticks was incredibly huge on the checkout line. What can you do?

The checker was a little amused, but I had my cheese sticks so I came out ahead in the deal. I also went back later in the week to get an additional 30 just in case. (In my mind, what looks crazy: buying 70 cheese sticks at once. What does not look crazy: buying 40 one day and then coming back the very next day for 30 more.)

So I've already loaded up on cheese in the refrigerator and how; if you count the American cheese slices I stocked up on last week and the cream cheese left over from last week's bagel extravaganza, I would say better than 70 percent of the fridge was cheese based. (The other 30% being devoted to 25% Dr Pepper and 5% Condiments). The next step happened very accidentally, as Roommate Frnak really needed to go to Kroger for his specialty brand of Ramen noodles, a concept which stuns me to the core. Since I'm there (as I am chauffeur to the stars) I do some mild browsing and come upon my favorite thing in the entire world: Smoked Cheese Logs, half price!

As anyone who knows me knows, I have a sordid history. My family is strange and off-putting and we have very weird traditions. One of the primary traditions being The Cheese Log of All Secular and Religious Holidays. Doesn't matter what the occasion - Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter, Halloween, Arbor Day, we would have a cheese log available in the kitchen to celebrate. I don't claim to understand it, but I've come to love the cheesy goodness like it was my own offspring. Except tasty and eatable. (The metaphor has failed me. Moving on.)

So not only do I have well over a quarter of my weight in string cheese waiting for me in the fridge, I've got a delicious pound of cheese log which I am systematically decimating as the week goes by.

With these two items, really, I have no need for any other food. I haven't touched the stove for anything (except last night to make some cinnamon rolls, a process that I am practically compelled to do at this point - I would not put it past the baking lobby to have put some sort of addictive agent in that frosting, I mean for serious) and haven't done the dishes in well over a week. The kitchen has reached the end of its usefulness now that I am no longer compelled to clean by the need to eat. Preprocessed cheese has led to its downfall.

So the question has not yet been fully answered, but from my findings so far I've got an initial working hypothesis - going on an all cheese diet will bring about the downfall of my civilization.

We'll see how it holds up in the coming weeks.

Plant-icide

In terms of things that make me a freak, this is probably generally low on the list but for some reason I am reluctant to spell it right out.

Anyways, am I the only person in the world that thinks that the concept of potted plants is sort of cruel?

Wait. I should back up.

Okay, in my office, I'm in charge of keeping the plants alive. This is a horrible idea, assigning plant livelihood to me. I'm probably the only person in the world who can kill a plant within a single hour of our meeting. I am an anathema to plants, the mythical Brown Thumb of Doom.

But when I was interviewing for the job, I may have...slightly exaggerated my skills with plants in order to up my chances at employment. Okay, if we're being technical, I may have used the words 'green thumb' and 'awesome with plants,' but I really needed the job. I was working as a carnie, people. I was desperate.

I got the job. But I still suck at plants.

I don't think this is my fault, though. Potting plants is just cruel and unusual. Plants need pretty much only 3 damn things to survive: natural light, air, and water. Someone with a potted plant has just ripped away two of those things and expects everything to just be fine. Uh, no.

Every time I go to water the plants, I can feel their tiny leaves judging me, as I finally give them a portion of their essential ingredient for the day, since they can't get it for themselves. "Well, thanks for that," they say, all sarcastically. I am jailer to the plants, metaphorically delivering them sub-par meals of gruel through tiny slots in their metaphorical cell doors. The Oliver Twist comparison is just too apt to consider. Imagining my tiny little Croton, all cute and tiny and "please sir, I'd like some more" is enough to send a tiny plant-stake through my heart.

I'm only lucky that there's a big window available for them to sit next to - I'm not sure if I could stand the idea of having to come in to provide their light source also. It would be too much. The recriminations. Is there a PETP? (People for the Ethical Treatment of Plants) Throwing buckets of green paint on people wearing corsages? "Decoupage is murder," all of that?

This is also probably why I shouldn't be allowed to have a pet - they have actual faces, not just imaginary ones in my head. I would probably explode from all the empathy.