Theory

Through careful study and evaluation, I have come up with a detailed decision-making model that should benefit all mankind.

The important issue it covers? How To Decide If You Should Date Someone.

How To Decide If You Should Date Someone

Step 1: First you must realize that all people can be ranked somewhere on a Scale of Attractiveness To You. This scale is set up 1 - 10, (you can use decimal places if you're that much of a nerd). It is primarily physically based, (scales of attraction are inherently shallow) but you should also consider other intangibles such as fame, and other tangibles, such as money and/or the car he drives, to come up with a complete attractiveness rating.

For example, while Bill Gates may look like a reject from the Statewide 5th Graders Science Fair, the sheer amount of money he has bumps him up to an 8 on my scale. (And if you're one of those people to whom money is not attractive...what are you doing reading this?)

The scale is something like this:

10 - Incredibly attractive, your ideal person
.
.
5 - Moderately attractive, whatever your "pretty cute" classification is.
.
.
1 - Just barely passes the test for attractiveness, in that you wouldn't kick them out of bed, necessarily, as long as you can keeps the lights off.

Obviously this leaves no room for people you find unattractive. Why would you consider dating someone you weren't attracted to? (Remember, we've already factored in the money to the attractiveness.)

Step 2: The Insanity Scale. Every person in the world has some measure of inherent craziness to them. Trust me, even if they seem like the most well-adjusted person in the world, there is something hiding, just waiting to come out. Thus, when considering a potential SO, you must also rate them on the 1 -10 craziness scale.

1 - Seemingly completely normal, the insanity is quite dormant.
.
.
5 - Pretty crazy, holds several irrational beliefs, or has a nervous tic, or likes Carrot Top, things like that.
.
.
10 - Batshit crazy, believes the gamma people have his house staked out, or bears an eerie resemblance to Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction.

You can consider general personality traits here (he's boring, or tells jokes that aren't funny) but this should be primarily an insanity meter, not a personality test. This isn't a formula for compatibility, it's one for date-ability.
----
Note: For this test to be completely accurate, you must understand that scoring a 10 on the Attractiveness scale is incredibly hard. All ideals must be met, otherwise the system will fail. Conversely, it does not take much to get high up on the Insanity Scale, because people are all kinds of wacked out. Plus insanity is a lot more objective, so there's less room for fudging on insanity.

Step 3: Take the attractiveness score and divide it by the insanity score. As long as the resulting number is 1 or greater, congratulations, you've picked a winner! Date in good health. Anything less than 1, you're just wasting your time. Too much cost, not enough benefit.

For example: Say you've got this guy. A solid 7.6 on the Attractiveness (very cute, plus drives a BMW), and a 5.3 on Insanity (it seems like he has too close a relationship with his mother, and he's a little too into birdwatching). 7.6 / 5.3 = 1.43. His attractiveness outweighs his quirks, go ahead, date away.

Example #2: Angelina Jolie. A 9.7 on the Hottness scale (girl is smokin', rich, and famous), but a full on 10.00 in Craziness (Adopted Cambodian baby, vial of Billy Bob Thorton blood around her neck, makes out with her brother at award ceremonies). 9.7/10.0 = .97. Sorry, Angelina, it's just not gonna work out. Don't care how hot you are, pure craziness trumps all.

-----------
And that is that.

Actually, there is one other factor.

Step 4: Give yourself the test. If your score is below the 1.0 mark, you have three options. 1) Go see a therapist and get that Insanity score down. 2) Go to a plastic surgeon (or a car dealership), and get that Attractiveness score up. 3) Lower your cutoff to match your own score. That way two 0.459's can find love together.

Huzzah! Now that is that.

----------

The only difficulties with this theory lie in making sure you can spot all the insanity clues early enough to get a correct reading. I advise asking early in the relationship "Are you crazy?" Any answer that is remotely affirmative immediately adds 5 points to whatever you already have as an Insanity score. Also, check their room for any shrines to celebrities or yourself, and make sure they don't talk to themselves too much. Watch out for odd collections and hobbies, as these are often outward indicators of interior madness.

Anyway, use the theory in good health and let me know if there are any tweaks I need to include in future revisions.

Happy Relationship Hunting!

Dorkage: The Dorkening

Watch out, this is one of those internet staple entries that I'm almost too ashamed to put up, but am too lazy to waste, now that it's come down to it.

As it is dictated by my DNA, I went out and purchased the Star Wars Trilogy on DVD the day after it came out.

(I truly believe that the second I was handed that Computer Science degree my DNA was forever and irrevocably altered so that I will always be pale, bedecked in glasses, will sneeze at natural light, be unable to catch a ball, and will immediately buy all things Star Wars immediately on their release. People who know me may contend that had all these traits before I actually received the degree. These people are lying. I was a natural athlete, strong and bronzed, and only engaged in all things cool, until that day I picked up that degree. Anyways.)

It has come to my attention that there are several issues I have with the first movie that I've never really delved into. I think right now would be an excellent time to get into it.

• Luke has got to be the whiniest character in the history of the world that people were actually supposed to eventually like. "Buuuut, I was going into Toche Station to pick uuuppp some power con-vert-teerrrrs!" Shut it, Luke! Dear Lord, I would have bitch slapped that boy 20 minutes in.
• Princess Leia is incredibly resourceful. Somehow she manages to maintain that incredibly difficult Headphone/Bear Claw hairdo throughout the entire movie, enduring hostile takeover of her ship, stunning in the back, torture at the hands of Darth Vader, and escape through a garbage disposal. That is some dedication to your style.
  
• Darth Vader is incredibly effective in all things. Whether crushing some guy's windpipe or smiting Obi Wan, you have to admire the guy's lack of wasted movement, as well as his general bad-ass-itude. Too bad he cocks it up in the end. Who ever told you that you were a great starfighter, huh?
• Tarkin never really did anything for me , as a character. Too much British bureaucracy, not enough ass kicking menace. I find it hard to believe Vader didn't wing him with a lightsaber during Death Star construction. He did manage to wipe out an entire planet, though. Pretty bold, that I'll give him.

I still totally love the movie, though. "I can't see 'im!" said with a heavy Texas accent may be my most often quoted throwaway movie line over my entire life (closely matched by "Do it! Do it now!" from The Matrix.) (Damn, I really am a dork.)

All this and I still have two more movies to go! And the bonus features. Rock on. Just can't wait for Yoda to show up again.

Bandanas and Bartending

So this Sunday I took a bartending job at one of those upscale Dallas Plantation Homes just outside Highland Park. Bartending jobs are usually excellent because A) they pay really well, B) if they're hiring from a temp agency they usually don't need to you to make anything more complicated than a glass of wine or maybe to run a margarita machine, C) tips of the rich are uniformly awesome, and D) serving alcohol to rich people is a source of unending hilarity. You have no idea.

Weirdly, this party was scheduled for mid-afternoon on a Sunday, outdoors. First off, no one in Dallas ever schedules events at the same time as a home Cowboys game unless said event is a Cowboys watching party. I mean it's just not done. Who do these people think they are? Secondly, why on earth would you hold an event at the peak heat time of the day,, at the end of summer? It was wicked hot, with absolutely no wind or clouds. This ended up making the event much more awesome for me, as you will soon see, but still mucho weird-o.

Since I am the low man on the bartending totem pole at this event, I get stuck on outside bartending detail. Which means that instead of being at the front entrance hooking people up with margaritas as they come in, or over at the patio rocking the mimosas, I'm out at the far end of the lawn in the middle of the blazing sun, next to the croquet field, handing out soft drinks and beer to the genteel masses.

(A side note: Rich people are insanely attractive. Maybe it was just that this event screened out all the ugly rich people, but damn, yo.)

So this is not my beautiful bartending gig, seeing as it is ridiculously hot and all I get to do is hand people ice cold beers, which they proceed to drain in front of me in a not-taunting-but-might-as-well-been display of thirst quenching. But at the same time, I've done much worse while temping, for way less money, in much hotter temperatures. This is pretty much par for the course, except as a bonus all these catty old women keep coming up to me and making incredibly bitchy comments about everyone else at the party, which tends to keep everything nice and lively. ("She's had so much work done in the past 3 months I'm surprised her lips still move when she talks.")

I guess, though, that rich people must not spend a lot of time in the heat, because they seemed absolutely sure that I was going to whither and die standing out there in the sun. Every two minutes someone would come up to me "Oh you must be dying!" "Do you need some water?" "Are you sure you're okay?" I think I must have had some big time frail-waif-boy vibes going on, 'cause it was kind of embarrassing. Especially since the rich people usually don't care about the help, so long as the drinks are flowing in the proper direction.

It could have had something to do with the fact that it was something of a charity dinner; it's chic to help the poor, especially when they're serving you stuff.

At first they insisted that I take a very pink cloth napkin, fill it with ice, and drape it around my neck like some sort of bandana gone horribly wrong. It gave me the appearance of an incredibly gay old-time bank robber, who suddenly decided to go straight and start serving alcohol.

Wonderful.

I tried to circumvent the whole hideousness by tucking it into my shirt collar (because these people were damned if they let me take it off, God knows why) but that just made things even worse. 'Cause now it looked like I had no neck, something of a hunchback, and you could still see the pink through the fabric of my shirt. From gay-bank-robber to gay-hunchback. You've come a long way, baby.

The other bartenders ribbed me about it to no end, but I was a strong, proud, independent, obviously-gay-failed-bankrobber/hunchback, dammit.

In the end though, the catty old women decided as a group that it would not do for me to stand out in the sun all day and insisted that I move my bar under the shade of a tree at the far side of the lawn. Which was great since no one wanted to walk that far to get a drink, so I was just me and my pretty, pretty pink bandana, alone together for the rest of the party.

All that, and I got paid too. Jealous, much?

Pop Secret

Before we start, let me begin by saying that for all four years of high school, I planned on becoming a chef once I grew up. It was a lofty goal, so those plans were eventually abandoned, for reasons which will become painfully obvious, momentarily.

It's Saturday night. I'm waiting for a friend of mine to pick me up so's we can go to Plano, for various reasons that we don't need to get into right now. While I'm waiting, I'm watching the Florida / Tennesse football game on TV and refreshing ESPN.com to read just how quickly SMU is getting hammered into the ground by OSU.

At that point I decide that the only thing that properly goes along with the destruction of my alma mater by Oklahomans is some popcorn. So at a commercial, I run into the kitchen, extract some microwave popcorn from way up on the top shelf, toss it into the microwave, slam the door, hit the POPCORN button and run back into the living room just as play begins again. I am the essence of conserved movement.

I hear my phone ring, so I run into the bedroom and have a 2 minute phone conversation. When I come out, I hear the microwave make the noise that indicates it is quite done, thank you, please remove this darn food from me. I run over to the kitchen and pull the popcorn bag from angry microwave.

Here, I notice there seems to be a lot of steam coming from the popcorn bag. Like a lot, a lot. But whatever, right? Popcorn = yum. I dig around, find a big bowl to put said popcorn in, when I realize that, hmm, you know what? that ain't steam. It's smoke. The popcorn inside the bag is on fire. And every time I shake the bag to cool it off, a little more oxygen gets in there to fuel the flames.

What anyone else would think: Oh no! Fire! Put it out!

What my brain thinks: Nooo! The popcorn is ruined! Maybe I can save part of it!

Luckily, my common sense kicked in at some point, so instead of trying to rescue the few remaining delicious kernels, I did what all rational people would do in this situation. Namely, I threw the bag into the sink and started smacking it with a spatula until it stopped smoking.

Huzzah, go me!

At this point, thinking all is fine, I turn on the little fan above the stove to suck the smoke away, spray a bunch of air freshener to mask the stench, and go back in my bedroom to check the score of the SMU game. Maybe 3 minutes later, I decide that one near-apartment-burning shouldn't really stop me from enjoying some high cholesterol goodness, so I go back into the kitchen to attempt the process one more time, this time vowing to watch the microwave the entire time for signs of improper popcorn management.

When I get to the kitchen, though, before I turn on the light, I realize that there is something glowing in there. Y'see, life lesson #1 that I should have taken from this experience: when something is on fire, it isn't enough to beat it into submission with a kitchen utensil, you should also douse it in water for several hours, lest it reignite and come after you again, only this time it's personal.

So, I whip out the spatula again and turn the water on in the sink this time and together we triumph over The Flaming Bag of Popcorn and Death. Once it is a large, soggy mess, I gather it all up, put it in a plastic bag and throw it out in the dumpster, figuring if it spontaneously combusts again, at least there all it will burn is trash and it will never get its revenge.

I then returned home and popped a second bag without incident, which I then devoured. Because nothing makes you work up an appetite like repeatedly hitting a flaming bag of popcorn with a spatula for 15 minutes.

And to think I totally could have been a chef.

You wish you were this cool

As we have covered previously, I have to work on the Truck of Malfunction at least once a week to repair the air conditioning, unless I feel like sweating off 18 pounds every time I get into the car. It's a pretty simple operation, but it does involve me opening the hood and attaching hoses and puncturing cans that could potentially explode in my face and kill me. This makes for a rather manly feeling that I don't get most of time, since I'm usually like a 12 year old girl who sings a lot of showtunes for the majority of my life.

But anyway.

So I'm working on the TOM this week. I hook up all the proper components, no one gets exploded, and then I have to do the waiting part, which is hanging around my car for 20 minutes while the coolant gets circulated. (Because it's a bad idea to leave a car idling by itself for half an hour, even if it is the TOM.) To pass the time this week, I've brought my latest book with me, a huge 700 page hardbound copy of Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell (which is completely awesome, by the way) to read in the increasingly cool TOM cab.

[Scene: The cab of the TOM. Jason is highly engrossed in his book.]

Jason: Ooh...

[He moves around to get more comfortable in the tiny car. He ends up with his leaning against the window, looking down at the book in his lap.]

Jason: Hmm

Guy Who Is Standing Right Outside Unbeknownst To Jason (GWISROUTJ): RAP-RAP-RAP [on the window] Hi!

Jason:AAHHH!

[At this point Jason freaks out, because he is easily startled, and throws the book into the air. He then realizes that if the book falls, it will probably bend and rip all the pages and they will get all dirty from the years of accumulated crap inside the TOM. Since he just bought this book 2 days ago and paid full market price, Jason decides he must catch this book. Thus, he starts flailing his arms around wildly, trying to grab the book in a non-vulnerable area, looking for all the world like he is fending off a swarm of bees, or perhaps engaging in a slap fight with a suddenly-animated book. Eventually he manages to get the book without any harm done. He carefully lays it on the seat next to him and then turns to the window. (By the by, it has totally been at least a full minute since GWISROUTJ did the knocking.]

Jason [rolls down window]: Uh...hey [Upstairs Neighbor Guy Jason Knows].

GWISROUTJ [looking somehow bemused and uncomfortable at the same time]: Hey. I was just going to do laundry, thought I'd say Hi. Sorry I scared you.

Jason [scoffs]: Oh no, that's okay you didn't scare me.

(What Jason intends for this to mean: Oh I totally meant to do that crazy dance with the book, that's how I always finish reading a passage and that is completely normal and obviously I'm not so easily scared by someone knocking at a window.)

(What Jason actually conveys: Hi, I've lost my damn mind, please walk away slowly, no sudden movements, and perhaps I'll let you live to see tomorrow.)

GWISROUTJ: Ah. Alright then. See you around. [runs away]

It is a beautiful day in my neighborhood, no?

Just Swell

Last Wednesday I woke up in my normal blind fog, rolled out of bed and onto the floor, reaching desperately to silence the alarm clock from hell that is not so much next to my bed as it is in the other room so I will actually have to get up. Damn my clever tricks on my morning self.

But anyway, it seems like a normal day, when I notice that my mouth feels weird. Like, umm, thick. Which is odd, y'know?

My tongue seems to have swelled during the night. Nothing too serious, just about 1.5 its normal size. I'm somewhat concerned, seeing as one's tongue does not change size on of its own accord without some reason, but I figure it will go away eventually. I continue on with my day.

By dinner, it has grown even more and it feels like my entire mouth is burned, like I just gulped down three cups of steaming hot coffee and rolled it around to retain the flavor. It freakin' hurts. But there's not really much I can do, besides wonder what on earth I could have possibly done to warrant such a reaction.

Thursday rolls around and now The Tongue (as I imagine it being called) is affecting my speech. For serious, it sounds like I'm talking around a mouthful of marbles. As the day progresses, in addition to talking like I recently received a sharp blow to the head, I keep biting The Tongue, as it is now too large to avoid my teeth, in their normal setting.

When I get home from work (which was hideous: "Goo-mooorr-niegh, hooo caa I hep yoou?" "Excuse me?" "Sigh.") to alleviate the pain from the burning sensation as well as all the bites I bust out some of that throat numbing medication on The Tongue, thinking any medicine is good medicine, right? Foolish Jason, if The Tongue goes numb, you won't know when you're biting it all the time. And your speech will be so slurred you'll sound drunk without even trying. By this point I am practically drooling and I feel as though my head has become incredibly large.

This is not my beautiful life.

By that night, though, the numbing had worn off and I made it through the night out without severe incident, unless you count Devon laughing at me every time I tried to speak. Which, you know, she does normally anyway, so yeah. And I managed to get some alcohol into my system, which numbed everything in a very nice way that didn't seem to increase the number of tongue bitings per minute. So rock. (And I got to see Sean do a perfect karaoke rendition of No Scrubs that will forever live on in my mind and in the hearts of the drunken cowgirls at the table next to us. Even the worst days have their high points.)

By Saturday the whole thing was over and the tongue was back to mere lowercase status. Why did such a weird thing happen to me? Allergic reaction? Dental issues? Voodoo curse from my arch-nemesis? I guess it'll just be a mystery for the ages.

Insane Insecurities Part 2

It's time again for Things in Popular Culture That Disturb Jason.

I've already gone over that Levi's commercial that freaks the bejesus out of me, (which, by the way, is on all the damn time nowadays) and how incredibly wrong and creepy it is. But it turns out that it's not just this commercial that disturbs me, but pretty much any commercial where inanimate things come to life to terrorize innocent consumers.

My cases on point are both Juicy Fruit commercials, probably both conceived by the same twisted, sadistic mind. The first is the one where the donkey pinata comes to life during some kid's birthday party and starts attacking some poor child because it wants the gum that she just beat out of it's body returned to it.

Seriously, that's all kinds of messed up. I mean, I'm a generally well-adjusted 22 year-old (okay, that's a lie, but follow along) and it truly disturbs me. I imagine any child who saw this would nurse a fear of pinatas well into adulthood. Not that I imagine it would be very debilitating (how many times does the subject of pinatas come up in everyday conversation?) but still - bad form, juicy Fruit, bad form.

Second, this other Gum Commercial From Hell, wherein these high school kids are learning CPR and the freakin' CPR dummy comes to life to get at this kid's gum, directly out of the guy's mouth! First of all, EWW! Second, What. The. Fuck? From his mouth? What kind of pervy CPR dummy is this?

(It completely cracks me up, though, that they put up a warning on the bottom of the screen: Never Do CPR While Chewing Gum. Well obviously, or the person/thing you're doing it on will try to mug you for it. Wasn't that the message you were trying to get across?)

Okay, granted I obviously have more issues with this than anyone else in the world, but how is this supposed to make you want to buy their gum? Our gum is so good, inanimate objects leap to sentience and will invade your mouth for a chance to make it their own! Hoo Boy! Sign me up!

What's next? A ventrioquist's dummy pulls a knife on his puppeteer to take the gum? Just go all the way and imply that objects are willing to kill you for the gum. That will definitely bring in the customers! (Aside: I am totally kidding, Juicy Fruit people. I will lose my mind if I see a commercial where a psychotic dummy comes to life. I'm already scarred forever by that episode of Buffy.)

At least at the end of this commercial, the CPR dummy crashes into a car and dies - we are sure that the menace has ended, so long as the children never eat gum again.

Jesus.

--------------------------------

The last thing I want to discuss that disturbs me is less emotional-scarring-for-life disturbing and more shocking-witness-to-a-train-wreck-can't-look-away disturbing. Namely, the Christina Aguilera cover of the 70's song Car Wash, which of late is on the radio all the damnable time. At first I was slightly pleased by the campy-throwback nature of the song. "La-la-la, Working at a Car Wash, Woo! We're having Fun!"

The more I hear it, the more I'm disturbed/fascinated by the sheer sincerity of Christina's devotion to this song. She believes in this car wash, and shows it by rocking out without a hint of sarcasm or irony. Missy Elliot could almost be forgiven, since everything she's ever done has this level of over-the-top-ness. But Christina, my dear, Lady Marmalade at least had the stripping, whorish aspect going for it. This whole Car Wash thing is just embarrassing. And cheesy in a not-at-all-good way.

Unless the music video is nothing more than a chance for Christina to stage a one-woman wet t-shirt contest. In that case, I say "Bravo Miss Aguilera, you never fail to find a way to appeal to your target demographic."

(PS - Dear Christina, I'm just giving you the business, you know that I love you. People say I dress trashy too. We have so much in common. We are beautiful, no matter what they say. We should totally do a duet sometime.

Love, Jason)

Sickly

Last night I got home from watching a movie around 12:00.

(Aside:
Dear Angelina Jolie,
You and your huge lips complete me. Your dedication to completely incongruous nudity in a serial killer movie is awesome. Call me.
Love,
Jason)

By 12:45 it became apparent that I was in the early stages of some sort of sickness. You know, when you can totally feel the onset of a virus settling down on your chest like a thick blanket of untimely death? You don't? Whatever. Focus people! So I felt sick and was not getting any sleep and I had to be up in under 6 hours. Thus I took some medicine, guaranteed to knock you into a coma.

As a result of scary serial killer movie and drugs, I had a dream that I was at the International Rooster convention (where people come to discuss their love of roosters, I suppose). I remember carrying a large ceramic rooster with me everywhere I went and this guy in a chicken suit was trying to kill me for it, because it had won a prize for Best Rooster. Somehow I escaped in my Truck of Malfunction, but it was raining and a bird crashed into my windshield (a rooster, naturally) and I ran off the road and the TOM flipped. At that point I woke up, as I fell off the bed.

Now it's 10:00 in the morning, I'm barely functioning at a semi-conscious level, and I can't get the image of that creepy chicken-suit-wearing killer from my dream out of my head.

This is going to be one of those days.

The Tricks of Shopping

It came to my attention late Monday night that I was completely without the essentials of food. Thus it was at 9:30 at night that I braved the wilderness of the West Village to forage for something to keep me alive for a few more days. Specifically, I needed: One (1) Gallon of Milk, One (1) Loaf of Bread, One (1) Jar of Pickles.

This would be the story of how I went out on a three item quest and ended up spending 30 dollars and returning with 9 lbs of ribs and no milk, but it is an intricate and complex story that I don't have the patience for.

Okay, nevermind, I've distilled the essence of it exactly: Jason has poor impulse control and buys everything in the store that looks tasty, but has no memory and forgets what he came for. The end.

As someone once said, it's very difficult to become a novelist when you're as good at getting to the point as I am.

I will, however, present a list of important things I learned on this adventure.
In no particular order:

• Don't mess with the Produce Lady, because she will totally cut you.
• If you get a cart with uneven wheels, exchange it immediately, or you may lose control of it at an inopportune time and crash into a huge display of tuna and make a whole bunch of noise and cause people to stare.
• When a girl gives you a look that one generally reserves for shockingly dressed whores, before you give her a piece of your mind check your clothing to see if she may have a point about the inappropriate nature of your clothes.
• And coming from above...Always check what you are wearing before you leave the house to make sure, a) there are no large holes in your shorts that reveal too much information about yourself and b) that the shirt you are wearing is not so small that when you reach for something on the top shelf you expose your entire torso.

(Jason's Painful Realization of the Night: "Dear God, I'm dressed like a
man-whore in Albertsons at 10:00 at night.")

(Jason's Second Thought: "Do they kick whores out of the store?" [girl walks by] "Oh, I guess not.")

• When you are in the checkout line (apparently dressed like a whore) and see someone from your badminton class last semester, hide behind the impulse items to avoid a very painful conversation that ends with the line "Well, it looks like you ended up doing okay for yourself."

(Jason's Internal Conversation: "Exactly how should I take that? As a
compliment, obviously. But I think he just assumed I was a prostitute. But a good one. Shut up.")

All these lessons brought to you as a Public Service Announcement. May you always have healthy, happy, and solicitation-free grocery runs.