Monday, February 27, 2006

Supermac and Ass

I was doing some emergency grocery shopping and I came across a new product: Kraft Supermac and Cheese. In Fairly Odd Parents and Spiderman shapes.

Supermac and Cheese is being billed by Kraft as a healthier alternative to their regular Mac and Cheese. It's got more calcium, more whole grains, and more vitamins and minerals. The box was colorful and promised me that kids love it, and since I'm maybe not so good with the healthy eating thing, I decided to buy a box and check it out for myself.

I decided to make it the other night. I was a little afraid that the pasta would be that whole grain brown color and taste like healthy, which is a flavor that I hate. While the water was boiling I opened the box and shook out a Timmy and a wand (shut up, I love that cartoon). They looked pretty normal so I ate one and found that it tasted just like regular pasta! I was happy.

I finished making my meal (because now that my mac and cheese has more vitamins and minerals, it now counts as a complete meal) and sat down on the couch with Kristen to watch Gilmore Girls. I put the first bite of cheesy goodness in my mouth.

Then my face scrunched up just like in those old "bitter beer face" commercials.

"Ass," I said out loud. "This tastes like ass."

Kristen stared at me blankly, partly because she likes the taste of her ass just fine judging by how much she licks it, and partly because she's a cat and blank stares are what they do.

Let me ask you all a question: what the hell ever happened to truth in advertising? Because Kraft has named their new product "Supermac and Cheese" and this implies to me that the "mac" part of the equasion is what has been made super. This is a big fat ass-tasting lie. They made the cheese super, and by super I mean awful. "Supermac and Cheese" is straight up bullshit. If they were telling the truth they'd have called it "Mac and Supercheese" which would have given me some warning that they'd fucked with my cheese so I would have been more prepared for the sweaty feet mixed with unwashed balls flavor they've created. Even Kristen hated it. I let her lick my spoon since clearly I wouldn't be needing it. She took two licks and walked away from me, and as I said before, this is an animal who thinks her ass is effing gourmet. There is no way kids are going to like this stuff.

Supermac my cheesy ass.

Thursday, February 16, 2006

The Correct (IMO) Diagnosis Goes to Dr. MrSteve

I've done something horrible to my wrist. And before you make any snide comments, it's the other wrist. This has been going on for over two weeks. It hurts from my hand to halfway up my arm, and I have no idea what I did.

I have had three different diagnoses from three different people I know who are not doctors. The bartender immediately decided it was some type of pinched nerve in my hand, and recommended wrapping a rubberband around my fingers and then flexing them as some type of resistance exercise. "It's an old bass player trick," he said. Which I'm sure probably works great if you play bass, but I don't and after several hours of this, I decided that my pain resembled "more" rather than "less", so I think, maybe, he's full of crap.

MrSteve thought so too, and labeled this malady Carpal Tunnel Syndrome, based on his background of Typing on the Computer A Lot. He has told me to switch to using my mouse left handed for a week, and insists the pain will go away or at least lessen. So I've been mousing left handed all week which is annoying, and also difficult as the mouse I have is contoured to fit the right hand. Also, the pain is not going away.

Cap, who is an athlete and briefly toyed with the idea of majoring in physical therapy, feels that I have some type of tendonitis, which is what I originally believed the problem was. He recommended ice packs and Ibuprofin, which have helped slightly.

Cap's theory seemed to best fit my pain and also his therapy was the only one that seemed to have any effect at all, so I was prepared to deal with this as a tendon issue, until I went rooting around on the internet yesterday looking for details on Carpal Tunnel Syndrome, mostly to explain to Steve why I didn't have it (sorry, Steve). The problem is I am now pretty sure he was right. It seems one of the main symptoms of Carpal Tunnel is tingling or numbness in your hands and forearms when you are trying to sleep. Which is something I've been having problems with for months. I thought I was just sleeping on my arms weird. Wikipedia, who has never lied to me that I'm aware of, says many people with CTS think exactly the same thing. Also, Cap's therapy is working because it's one of the main treatments for temporary relief of CTS. And MrSteve's therapy is NOT working because despite not mousing, I am still typing constantly (such as right now), in a hand position that is ergonomically poor, and therefore, NOT resting my wrist.

I've decided that my upcoming Vegas vacation is no longer a nice break from work, but a medical necessity.

I Think He's On To Me

Today my boss was handing out those awful, chalk tasting candy hearts he had left over from Valentine's Day. I friggin hate those things, they taste like ass plus baby powder. So, I don't eat them often.

I haven't had one in a really long time apparently, because the message written on it was one I'd never seen. It read "PAGE ME". Hello, what?

"Page me?" I asked my boss. "That's a new one. Where the hell did that come from?"

" I think it's a Gen-X thing," replied my 52 year old boss. "Or maybe it's Gen-Y. I'm not sure which. Are you in Gen-X or Gen-Y?"

I am 28. "Both, sort of. I'm the age that's right on the cusp. Which probably explains what's wrong with me."

"Yes, we were wondering about that."

Monday, February 13, 2006

The Dumbest Joke Ever

Thursday night was joke night at Tai’s. I stood around with my group and we took turns telling jokes that ranged from silly (“Knock, knock.” “Who’s there?” “I eat mop.” *) to the insane (“If you are driving down the street backwards in a canoe with four flat tires, how many shingles does it take to paper the roof?”**). I myself got to tell the lawnmower joke as well as my favorite knock knock joke. Over the years I’ve learned to tell a pretty mean joke. When I was kid, not so much.

Kids have a weird sense of humor. Back when I was a little ape I would laugh at just about anything. Cap and I spent a lot of time with Kelly and Simmy growing up. For four really smart kids, we could be pretty stupid. For instance, when our parents would get together, we’d hang out playing all day, and every time we’d decide we should have a sleepover. But instead of just going and asking our parents for permission like sane people, we created a little scheme. We’d wait until we were told to get ready to go home, and then go tell our parents we couldn’t find our shoes. The reason we “couldn’t find” them was that we’d hid them somewhere. While the “search” was on, one of us would be sent downstairs to ask the parents if there could be a sleepover. Almost invariably we were told that if we’d asked earlier it would have been ok, but now it was too late for that. We never ever caught on that instead of hiding our shoes we should just ask earlier. For our part, the parents never caught on to the fact that we’d actually hidden the shoes to buy time. In the end the joke was on us though, because rather than use the extension to keep playing, we actually spent our time pretending to look for our shoes.
But even dumber than that was our jokes. We told each other some of the dumbest jokes ever invented. The dumbest one also happened to be our favorite: The Green-Eyed Ghost. We told this joke over and over and it never seemed to get less funny:

There’s a green-eyes ghost sitting at the counter of the restaurant. A lady comes in and sits down. The green-eyed ghost looks at her and asks, “Are you afraid of ghosts?” The lady says no. Then the green-eyed ghost says, “Well, are you afraid of green-eyed ghosts?” The lady says no. The ghost says, “Well I’m a green-eyed ghost and I’m going to touch your thighs.”*** So the lady screams and runs away.

Another lady comes in and sits down on a chair next to the green-eyed ghost. The green-eyed ghost says, “Are you afraid of ghosts?” The lady says no. He says, “Are you afraid of green-eyed ghosts?” She says no. , “Well I’m a green-eyed ghost and I’m going to touch your thighs.” So THAT lady runs away.

Then this big, (pause for emphasis) FAT, (pause again) big fat lady comes in and sits down on TWO chairs next to the green-eyed ghost. The green-eyed ghost goes, “Are you afraid of ghosts?” The big fat lady says no. The green-eyed ghost says, “Are you afraid of green-eyed ghosts?” The big fat lady says no. The green-eyed ghost says, “Well I’m a green-eyed ghost and I’m going to touch your thighs.” And then the big fat lady says, “You ain’t gonna touch my thighs, or I’m gonna touch your FACE, man!”

At which point we would dissolve into hysterical laughter every single time. Kelly would usually end up being the teller because she did the best voices. But other than that, I have no idea why it was funny.

And yet I can’t stop laughing.

*Say it out loud: “I eat mop who?”
** None, because ice cream has no bones.
*** Yeah, I don’t know either.

Friday, February 10, 2006

The Best Thing About Heather Is She Writes All My Blog Posts For Me

VelociHeather: i have to share this
PGS DenMILF: you may begin
VelociHeather: Amy said they just hired a gal in her office whose name is "Latrina"
VelociHeather: seriously
VelociHeather: i could not stop laughing
PGSDenMILF: do people not think?
VelociHeather: i guess not
VelociHeather: her parents must be retarded
VelociHeather: I would go by my middle name and never, ever reveal my real first name
PGS DenMILF: what if your middle name was swampass?
VelociHeather: i would make up a symbol, like Prince
PGS DenMILF: Latrina SwampAss Moyer
VelociHeather: Latrina Swampass McButterfart
PGS DenMILF: maybe your symbol could be a little rectangle with two little concentric ovals right beneath it. like an overhead view of a toilet
VelociHeather: haha
VelociHeather: i like that
VelociHeather: of course, hopefully no one would call me "The Woman Formerly Known as Latrina Swampass"
PGS DenMILF: yeah, that could be a problem

I Expect A Lot From My Guests

Heather: I had a dream last night where I was visiting you. You were living in a college dorm, and when you introduced me to your friends I said, "Now don't expect me to defile a towel like your other visiting friends have!" And then everyone busted up laughing.

I have no idea what that means.

Me: It means when you visit me you should wash your ass before you wipe it on my towel.

Heather: What the hell? Why don't you just handcuff me and take away my rights as an American!

Monday, February 06, 2006


Honestly people, all I wanted to do was officially become an Illlinoisian. Illinoiser? Illinoisan? Whatever. I wanted to officially be from Illinois. That is, get Illinois plates for Alistair and an Illinois driver’s license for me. Well, let me tell you something kids: you better fucking be from here in the first place because they don't take kindly to foreigners in these parts.

Since I have a social phobia regarding any situation I haven't previously encountered involving other people, I checked first with my good friends out at the Liz to get the low down on what to expect. Their utter amusement did nothing to allay my fears.

"Do you have your old registration and proof of insurance? Your old driver's license and some proof of residency, like a utility bill? You should have everything you need then. And don't worry, if you don't, they're very kind and understanding," said Klug.

"Oh, and by the way, don't tell them you've lived here an entire year," JoE advised. "You're supposed to get an Illinois license within 10 days of moving here. Although, you can tell them how long you've really been here if you want. I’m sure they'll be very kind and understanding."

"Don't worry about where you need to go or anything," Fish assured me. "There's a guard at the door now. You tell him what you need to do, and he'll tell you what line to get in. He's very kind and understanding."

I suspected they were mocking me.

The guy at the door was a little Mexican guy in a very official looking outfit that implied if I said anything stupid, he had the authority to shoot me. He looked neither kind nor understanding, and I would come to find out that my first impression was correct. But he did know where to send me. Driver's license first. Line 2.

Line 2 was very short, although the area just beyond Line 2 looked like Ellis Island circa 1907. To get an Illinois license you need the following items: your old out of state license, proof of birth, proof of Social Security number, and proof of residency. I had on me the following items: my Ohio driver's license (with my Social Security number included), my birth certificate, and a bill from People's Energy.

"Where's your Social Security card?" asked the Line 2 attendant.

"I don't have it."

"Well, you need proof of your Social Security number to get an Illinois license, so you won't be able to get that today."

"Um, but it's printed right there on my Ohio license," I said. Because it seemed to me that if my Social Security number was ON MY OLD LICENSE that it should qualify as "proof" that this was MY Social Security number. Putting your SS# on your license is optional in Ohio, but as far as I know, you don't have the option of putting just anyone's number on there. It has to actually be yours.

"That's not on the document list," he said, handing me a sheet of paper and circling Section C, "Proof of Social Security". Sure enough the items on the list included a U.S. Military ID, a State of Illinois ID card, a letter from the Social Security people officially stating your SS#, or your Social Security card. Out of state driver's license, whether you number was printed right on it or not, was not included. "Come back with your Social Security card. Also you'll have to take a written exam and a vision test." He shoved all the paperwork back at me, indicating that I was dismissed.

"Can I still get plates though?" I asked him. This was the more pressing issue, as my driver's license won't expire until next year, but my Ohio tags expired last week. He said I could, and also permitted me to just unhook the rope and get in Line 1.

Now I was in line 1, and for this exercise I had ready: my Ohio registration, my loan agreement, and my insurance card. I would not need any of these immediately. The woman behind the counter began rapid firing her automated list of questions at me and pulling out forms as I answered them. Because I bought the car outside of Illinois, new, from a dealer, still owed money on it, and used it outside of Illinois for a specified period of time, I was handed a stack of approximately 87 forms to fill out before I could receive my two metal rectangles indicating that my car lives here. I headed off to the long table in order to accomplish this.

As I was working, a surly employee made his way down the table peering over everyone's shoulder, deeming each of us stupid in turn, and sending us off to the auditors for "help" filling out our small forest's worth of forms. I was doing pretty well, I thought, but not well enough for the Form Enforcer. "Ma'am," he said in an exasperated tone as if I was just too dumb to understand (though I hadn't said anything to him at this point), "you need to go over to the Auditors and have them help you fill this out right now. We'd like to get out of here some time today." I'd been standing there for maybe three minutes when he said this and was already halfway done, due to my diligence with Having Things Ready. But this wasn't good enough, so I headed over to the Dummy line.

Turns out I belonged in the Dummy line. I handed all my documents and papers to the older gentleman assisting me, and of course the first thing he asks me for is the exact mileage on my car. That particular nugget being the one piece of information I did not have. I told him this and he looked around tiredly. "Doesn't look like the doors are locked yet," he said. "Better go out and get the mileage off your car." So chastened, I ran out to my car and diligently wrote down "14,242" on my forms before heading back inside.

I walked in and immediately headed back to the Auditor lime. But before I could take three steps the little Mexican man (hereafter, "the Mexi-nazi") stopped me with an authoritative bark. "Ma'am," he said sharply, "what's your business here?"

"Um, I was just here, remember? I need to get plates? I just had to get something out of my car."

"Line 1," said the Mexi-nazi coldly.

I thanked him stupidly, then ignored him and went straight back to the Auditors. At least he didn't shoot me.

I got a different auditor this time. She took my registration and loan agreement away and made copies of them (no one ever asked me for proof of insurance. WTF?), stapled them to my paperwork, signed and stamped a dozen things, and sent me off to stand in another line so I could give them my money. I stood in the line and glanced around, as you do. And in so glancing, I noticed a sign on the wall. "We accept, cash, personal check, money order, and Discover Card."

So rarely have I been in a place that accepts Discover but not Mastercard or Visa that I had to read it twice. And instantly I wished I had read it before going to take down my mileage, because in my purse I had no cash, no money order, and no Discover card (since I carry Mastercard like a normal person). I did have a my car. The Form Enforcer was nearby, so I went to him and timidly said, "Um, can I please run out to my car? I left my checkbook there by accident." He approved my trip and I went out to the car a second time.

I was gone, oh, 45 seconds, tops. When I got back, I discovered the front door was locked. So I did what any other rational adult who had been granted permission to get her checkbook from her car would do: I went in through the exit door.

A small but strong hand gripped my shoulder as I stepped inside, and I turned around and came face to face with the Mexi-nazi. "You can't come in Ma'am," he announced.

I heard a whiney little kid speaking and realized it was me. "But I was just here. The man told me I could go out and get my checkbook." I looked around for the Form Enforcer only to discover that he'd vanished into the ether. Instead I sheepishly held out my finished paperwork.

Mexi-nazi tightened his grip on my arm and shook his head at me. "You can't come in. We're closed." He steered me back toward the doors. It was clear that I would not be granted the privilege of giving the state of Illinois $143 that day.

Defeated, I let myself be escorted off the premises without obtaining an Illinois driver’s license or Illinois plates. When I got to my car, I immediately called Fish to complain. When he answered I announced I was moving back to Ohio because everyone here was mean and then promptly burst into tears.

Fish was very kind and understanding.