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I've decided July Fourth is my most hated holiday, because it's celebrated every year on the weekend regardless of what day it actually falls on, and hence I always have to work it. Oh, and I have to spend it with dogs every year.
I'm not sure who I hate more: The people illegally setting off fireworks in the neighborhood surrounding the hospital (and we had some real heavy duty ones this year), or the lazy dog owners who leave their precious babies with me on the night(s) of the year when they require the most intensive comforting (I'm not the right person for THAT position). The answer is neither; I hate the people who buy too many rockets and spend the rest of the month setting them off at odd intervals.
Hence I decided if I ever become a millionaire, every year I'm buying up all the fireworks for sale in the city and burying them in an enormous hole behind my mansion. The Grinch Who Stole Independence Day. Bahoo Boris, motherfuckers.
~*~
I decided I couldn't put off my need for a haircut any longer and headed to my favorite Great Clips for the last time (you'll see).
My stylist this afternoon was a middlish-aged woman named Elaine. "Wow," I exclaimed, "Not often there are two of us in the room, huh?" It turned out the similarities weren't going to end there.
I told her I just wanted a basic cut, just clean up the edges a bit. I wasn't afraid of short and I loved lots of layers. I also didn't spend time styling in the morning, just wash and go -- my usual spiel.
"Don't you want to try something different?" she asked, running her fingers through it casually.
"N...ot really," I said.
"C'mon. I think you should try an A-line," she insisted.
"What's an A-line?"
"What I've got. It's really short in the back and longer on the sides. I think you'll love it."
"Ummmmm....okay." I give Tery such shit for never standing up for herself, and here I was agreeing to a hairstyle I was sure I was not going to love.
I hoped my obvious reluctance would mean she maybe wouldn't make it too drastic, in vain. She took it halfway up the back of my head. Gulp. She left the sides almost their current length. Then she started eyeing my bangs.
"Is this your part?" she said a little critically. What do you think, lady? I did it up differently to come see you?
"Yes, that's my part." Straight down the middle, that is.
"Have you ever thought of parting it on the side?" No I hadn't, mostly because I have a deadly cowlick on the right that pretty much rules that side with an iron fist, and doesn't like anyone messing with it. I told her so (maybe not so colorfully).
But she was determined. "I think you should part it on the side." The reason I come to Great Clips is because they promise to "listen to you" and give you exactly what you ask for, not bully you into a complete makeover.
So she trimmed a bit off the bangs and then proceeded to pile all the hair from the left over onto the cowlick. Yeah, THAT was comfortable. Call me old-fashioned, but I like a hairstyle that lets me move my head, you know, if someone chucks something at my face (it could totally happen). I knew it wouldn't make a bit of difference. In 30 minutes or less the cowlick would throw the pile off again, or make it all stick straight up. This woman had never dealt with a cowlick before, obviously. At least not one as ferocious as mine.
But I endured it, I don't know why, just counting the minutes until I could get out of there and do my best to return to the style I liked. She fluffed it relentlessly, pulling out the blow dryer (I HATE the blow dryer. Remember the part where I said I don't do anything to style it normally?) and whipping it into a fondue. When she was done, she stepped back triumphantly. That's when I noticed she had cut it into the exact same style she herself wore, windswept bangs and all. I wondered how many other clones of herself she sent out the front door every day. Like Tery, I forced a smile and pretended to LOVE IT. ("And the Oscar goes to...")
Then the humiliating walk to the cash register in front of the customers in the waiting room, all of whom I'm sure could tell this haircut was nothing at all like me. The casual march to the car, forcing myself to maintain until I could drive up out of sight of the store front.
Then the frantic running of fingers through it, re-establishing my center part, trying to mash down the puffiness just a bit (for some reason I always schedule a trip into a store after a haircut, so I can't rush home if it's a disaster). Now I regret being so hasty I didn't get photo documentation. I tried searching for some images on the net, but the problem is all the women with this cut seem to be happy with it and it suits them, i.e. none of them are a big gruff man-woman who would rather floss with tinfoil than use hairspray.
 Not actually me, but pretty close to what I got. This woman looks slightly more elated than I was. Now, let's take a quick look at what my hair usually looks like, and then ask ourselves why on earth Elaine 2 thought I'd like something so radically different.  Plus look at that goofy expression. Absolutely nothing about me says "glamour." The only good thing about the visit was when I found my free will in time to refuse to buy the 30-dollar bottle of shampoo she insisted would work wonders with my new 'do. You know, for when I blowdry it and everything. Was she even in the room when I told her my relationship with my hair? Was I? I got home and started in with the scissors. I absolutely couldn't stand it -- the longer sides made me feel like a basset hound, and I compulsively touched the back repeatedly wondering if it looked as short as it felt. I've been gradually hacking away at it, like a sculptor trying to find his work of art in a slab of rock, looking for the haircut I wanted. I finally think I'm there, but it's going to need a lot of growing back. And now I can never go back to that Great Clips for fear of meeting Elaine 2 again. ~*~ The bulk of this entry was written from the edge of Cherry Creek Reservoir, though you probably can't tell. One of the nicest things about our place is it's about 5 minutes from Cherry Creek State Park, a massive area full of bike trails and picnic spots with the reservoir at its center. I've found a route that works really well for me -- downhill almost the whole way in, where I find a quiet spot to relax for a bit. Then the ride out the same way, which is a gradual uphill that gets my heart pumping but doesn't make me want to spit it out of my throat and collapse on the side of the trail.  This is the nice little beach I found for myself today. It reminds me a lot of the lake I grew up on. The point is, on the way back this evening I saw three things in quick succession you don't expect to see in a park: First, a woman pushing a shopping cart full of her worldly belongings, I'm going to assume homeless. Sad, but I suppose if you don't have a home there are worse places to shack up than a park. Next, three Mexicans just walking, one of them on a cell phone. I don't want to sound racist, but it's not often you see Mexicans in recreational activities around here like hiking. Third, a cop car creeping along on the trail (the trail where motor vehicles are prohibited, I should add). This was when I thought to myself, "Did I take a wrong turn and end up in da hood??" ~*~ Finally, I leave you with a nice shot of Tery trying to enjoy breakfast in bed with me, but then the animals got wind of it and saw no reason she should keep the delicious cereal to herself:  #34, Camera Phone: Breakfast Menagerie
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As promised, I plan to review The Worst Movie I've Ever Seen. But first, some old business:
The Pet Safe Outdoor Bark Deterrent ended up being a spectacular failure. Either the dogs' stupidity, or boredom, or pigheadedness proved more than the device could handle.
I had given up on it earlier, even emailed Amazon for a return authorization. No sooner had I got it boxed up ready for shipping than the dog let loose with the longest jag I'd heard since installing it. Hmmm, perhaps it WAS doing something. So I put it back for a week until I eventually determined that there really was no relation between the presence of the unit and the dog's activity (or lack of). Certainly not for the amount I paid.
We have video evidence of Tracey peering at the device, which had a very obvious green blinking light on it. Tery thought it would be funny just to keep putting up things with flashing LEDs and then randomly taking them down, just to fuck with her. I concur.
*~*
Now, onto the movies:
( ::Momma's Man:: )
They say the opposite of love is not hate, but apathy. It is on these grounds that I elect this movie The Worst Movie I've Ever Seen. Because I've seen plenty of bad movies, but usually they at least give you the pleasure of mocking them to entertain yourself. This movie is so "meh" it doesn't even do that.
Lots of film snobs over at IMDb are raving about it. "Poignant." "Touching." "Love letter to his parents." I think I originally added it to Netflix based on a favorable review in "Entertainment Weekly." I must have skimmed over the part where they compare the director to Jim Jarmusch. Had I read that I would have run screaming. Because Jarmusch directed my previous Worst Movie Ever Seen, Dead Man, equally stultifying but at least starring Johnny Depp. Momma's Man is the new bar to which all other bad movies will be held up.
Next, the honest-to-goodness last Rickman movie I hadn't seen, Bob Roberts (I had previously thought it was Michael Collins). This will be short so I won't cut.
Tim Robbins is Bob Roberts, the fictional grassroots, anti-60's, vaguely evangelical folk singer turned senatorial candidate. Rickman is his shady Karl Rovian campaign manager and barely appears at all in the movie, which was my fear.
There's an impressive cadre of cameos, mostly playing reporters and news anchors: James Spader, Susan Sarandon, Peter Gallagher, as well as John Cusack as a subversive SNL type comedian and, most amusingly, a young, wee, skinny bit of a thing Jack Black as a wild-eyed zealous young Republican type.
The movie is eerie for the way it foreshadows the descent into religious conservatism the country took after it was made (not to mention the underhanded stunts used by the party to manipulate the public and achieve its ends). Robbins has the perfect glassy shark eyes and vacant Howdy Doody smile of a rightwing politician with strong spiritual leanings. Rickman is really hot (deep in his blond feathered hair phase), even as he's playing sinister. The movie is worth a gander even despite his shameful underuse.
Finally I saw ( ::Ghost Writer:: )
The movie was....bizarre. Written and directed by Alan Cumming, the entire point of the film seemed to be to create a flimsy pretense to sadistically and pseudosexually torture David Boreanaz.
Alan as John was especially trying. He was offensively flaming and unbalanced, and I just wondered through the whole thing if he'd always been this bad an actor and I was just too besotted to see it (and wondering that made me sad). Is Alan Rickman not that great (as Tery maintains) and I'm too blinded by lust?
The script also struck me as very film school, very college theater, very amateur. It was painful, only because I used to love him so much. As an indication of how far I'm over him, the special features consist of commentary by him, and I flat out couldn't stomach the idea of watching the movie a second time. Sorry Alan. Perhaps if your last name was Rickman we could talk.
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I have a new phone. Don't judge me. For someone who hates talking on the phone, I sure go through a lot of handsets.
It's stupid T-Mobile. The reason I buy unlocked phones from other carriers is because T-Mobile offers a line of singularly boring phones. Any exciting, sleek, sexy, state-of-the-art pocket-sized communication technology you see advertised, you can bet your bottom dollar it's for someone not T-Mobile. Sucky.
But when Tery and I recently had some trouble with our lines and I called for service, not only did they fix it in about 24 hours, they also helpfully pointed out that we had both been eligible for an upgrade for about 8 months now. Upgrade meaning sexy new phone at new customer rebate prices.
Tery was all about another phone, given the state of her 2-year-old RAZR (worked fine but the screen was exhibiting a peculiar corrosion at the edges). She wanted a Samsung Gravity after seeing Tabby's at work. I've wanted a slider since the first time I'd heard of such a thing, but all the slider phones offered by TMo seemed to be universally hated by everyone, and none of them were capable of playing movies (which had transformed from luxury to necessity with the Motorola).
In particular I had previously checked out the Sidekick, a sliding QWERTY phone that seemed born to play movies, having as it does an enormous (by phone standards) 16:9 ratio widescreen, but moronically no, it did not have video playback.
Hang on a minute though -- the new Sidekick LX DID support video it seemed. The LX 2009 was new enough that there would be no steals on eBay with the frenetic bidding going on, but it seemed there was a Tony Hawk Limited Edition LX. I have no love of Tony Hawk, and "his" design meant the phone was covered in obnoxious skateboard graphics, but TMo had it for only $99.99. Not bad.
Calling around to local stores however revealed that no one carried it in stock. Whether through them or over the internet, there would be shipping involved. I was nervous that TMo's shipping would be way too slow. I returned to eBay, where I thought I had found a nice compromise -- a navy blue LX with accessories for only $179 shipped (oh, the money I waste in service to my towering impatience).
I went for it, and only THEN found all the websites explaining that the blue incarnation of the LX STILL didn't support video. GODDAMMIT. T-MOBILE, WHY IS IT SO HARD TO THINK OF DIFFERENT NAMES FOR DIFFERENT MODELS??
I frantically emailed the seller verifying the video issue, and if so would it be possible to retract my winning bid. He was uncharacteristically cool about it and even sent me a full refund within 5 minutes of my request, so no saga there.
So it was off to a TMo store to see the Sidekick in person and try to order it through them.
As I said they didn't have Tony's, but they did have the 2009 on display. $249 smackaroos (with rebate). Ouch. The saleswoman (Lindsey. Trust me, I spent enough time there to be comfortable on a first-name basis) said they could order the Tony Hawk, but after playing with the floor model for awhile I had my doubts.
Sure, the screen was gorgeously bright, practically HD. And that was about all I liked about it. Access to the keyboard was gained by nudging the screen's corner, whereby it would flip violently in a 90-degree arc. Even worse was all primary operations were carried out by four buttons on all the corners of the phone, with no indication at all of what did what, like a Nintendo joystick, so I found myself returning again and again to the home screen in frustration.
Although I hadn't been considering it originally, I found myself slowly drawn to the G1, the so-called "Google phone." This is TMo's answer to the iPhone. I remember when it first came out - about 12 hours after I made that disastrous decision to buy the iClone, because I wanted an iPhone so badly but it just wasn't going to happen. I remember thinking, "DAMMIT T-MOBILE" but getting over it quickly, because being brand new it was selling for $500 and I wasn't getting an upgrade then.
But here it was, sitting so pretty right at the front of the store, costing only $179 with upgrade. That's right, the exact same price I had almost blown on the eBay auction. Too coincidental to be an accident, I naturally thought.
It had quite a siren song. Smooth touchscreen with swiping action like the iPhone, that slid up in a sedate horizontal plane to reveal a full QWERTY if you preferred. Much more compact than the Sidekick, sleeker and more serious looking. And let's not forget the bonus of walking out of the store with it in hand, no shipping of any kind necessary. That idea was too compelling to walk away from.
What probably clinched the sale for me was when the younger saleswoman chatted with me about the two phones and mentioned that the G1 has an app store just like the iPhone. I felt my eyes literally light up. I took one last longing look at the Sidekick screen, turned away, bought the G1 and never looked back.
I haven't regretted it since. The phone isn't perfect, I don't think any phone can be, but I'll get into that later. The first app I downloaded is called "Shazam," and it lets you put your phone up to the radio and it displays the artist and album -- including links at the bottom to buy the mp3 from Amazon or search YouTube for a video (YouTube is Google-owned, which I didn't realize, so YT access is built in). This makes the phone worth the purchase price alone. You know whose phone can't use this app? Poor ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif) kavieshana's dinosaur of an iPhone (it was originally an iPhone app, but not supported on older models. Lame, Apple).
The second app I got was "Shop Savvy," that lets you scan barcodes in stores and pull up competitors' prices and internet reviews. So I won't just assume I can get it cheaper online, I'll know for sure. And believe me, contemplating buying the G1 without my bevy of review sites to help me was a very nerve-wracking proposition. I don't buy anything if it has less than 4 Amazon stars.
Of course the great sales prices at the store were only applicable if we added a data plan, which I easily talked Tery into. Yes, I only leave the house twice a week. Don't judge me. If nothing else, now that I have access to the internet round-the-clock I might catch up on the HUGE backlog of Snarry I've got bookmarked that's too much of a pain to download onto my PDA. More on that later.
So, without further ado, ( ::the phone:: )
Overall the phone can do more stuff than it can't, and I think people bitching everywhere on the forums (and pissily declaring they're going back to their old phone because it was just INTOLERABLE, as if losing them as a user would be a crippling blow to the other forum readers) have irrationally high standards (although the phone is regularly priced at $500. If you pay that much, then perhaps you might have a reason to bitch). I myself am suitably impressed, so perhaps I shouldn't change my dream job to phone reviewer (from film reviewer) since I'm still wowed by things like a swiping touchscreen.
Coming up, because this entry has already bloated out of control: I review the worst movie I've ever seen!
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Soup:
In traffic on my way to the hospital my eye was caught by a GMC Jimmy with all of its doors off. Imagining itself to be a war-time Jeep? I'm not sure, but it looked pretty damn silly. I thought I'd give the driver the benefit of the doubt -- perhaps he'd lost them all in an accident. The way some SUV owners drive it wouldn't be impossible. Then he moved ahead of me and I saw he had one of those scrolling marquee signs over his license plate, reading "Show me your boobs!!" Oh, just an ass then. An ass mistaking Denver for Ft. Lauderdale.
~*~
Appetizer:
I realize how pathetic it sounds, but getting mail is the highlight of my day. This is why I compulsively order stuff online, so I have an almost constant flow of mail to look forward to.
So maybe you can appreciate why my world came crashing down Thursday when I realized the lock on our box was broken. The tab inside that latches it closed was missing the nut holding it on the bolt.
"No problem," I thought. "I'll just replace the nut." After fishing around I found one that seemed to fit, except wouldn't hand-tighten properly. "No problem," I thought. "I'll just get a ratchet wrench." It seemed to be going swimmingly until suddenly the whole damn bolt snapped right off in my hand. Okay, THAT was a problem.
This was at 7 pm, so no hope of calling anyone. First thing Friday morning I called our post office and described my situation (leaving out my attempted DIY). His first (and second) question was did I know who did it? "No one did it, the bolt was really old and just snapped," I answered. Choice B was "I suppose if anyone 'did it' I did." Choice C was "Even if it was a criminal act, how the hell should I know? It's not like I monitor the mailbox (most of the time)."
Once I convinced him there were no suspects he could bring in for questioning, he said only, "Okay, I'll send Maintenance out today." Oh, cool. That was easy.
Except of course it wasn't, because I'm still me and they're still a government agency. After neither of us did anything more about it all day, I called again at the end of my shift to find out the deal. I spoke to someone else, who told me I had to come in, fill out a lock change form and pay a $25 fee. Huh. I wish I had known this 8 hours earlier. I also felt slightly less nervous about covering up my vandalism since I would be paying for it.
I rushed in before they closed to jump through their hoops. Fortunately the clerk was really friendly and funny, or it could have gotten ugly. As it was, I couldn't resist asking why guy #1 couldn't be bothered to give me correct information. "I hate to say it, but he was probably a supervisor. They don't know what's going on." I snorted. "So how did he get to be supervisor?" He shrugged. "If you can't do the job, you get promoted?" We both had a chuckle at The Man and I promised I wasn't taking his name or anything.
Nice guy told me 2-3 days, might even be done Monday. That wasn't bad, even if I had to suffer a weekend of essentially two Sundays.
Except it wasn't Monday. Or Tuesday. Wasn't in fact until Wednesday. But let's not be too hasty, I didn't actually get the call until this morning Thursday. I wish nice guy hadn't raised my hopes falsely. But hey, what's the point of complaining? It's not like I can threaten to go somewhere else to get my mail delivered.
~*~
Entree:
About two weeks ago Ryan invited me to a downtown thing, "La Piazza," some kind of pavement chalk art (I at first thought it was trompe l'oeil, but no); well, I should say he forwarded me the ad, and when I asked about inviting MyFriendDeb, he copied me on the email asking John permission (when if you ask me it should've been John begging us to be included. Thank god they broke up for good before we had to deal with THAT bit of awkwardness).
It took place this past weekend, and Ryan at the last minute sprang the idea of bringing Lucy along (you remember my pal Lucy?) It didn't thrill me, but I couldn't really say no.
I worked all night and got up to meet Deb about 10:30ish. Ryan texted me because he was having a hard time getting going, they'd be a little late, sorry. Whatever, Ryan, Deb and I were on the train halfway there already.
It turned out to be full of awesome:
 Just after seeing this we passed a guy wearing a Max t-shirt in the crowd. We asked if he planned that. He laughed nervously because he hadn't seen the piece yet (then 15 seconds later put it together) We sort of regretted lingering respectfully over every little piece in the beginning, especially when it became obvious that the threatening rainstorm was no longer a question of "if" but "when." As big fat drops started plunking down, two guys with a ladder and a camera were dashing madly through the crowd, desperately trying to capture the masterpieces before they were washed away. Heartbreaking, but Deb assured me that was the point of the medium: the transient nature of beauty. (Deb's favorite was under a makeshift canopy so hopefully most of her survived.) Did I say rainstorm? It began as a torrent and turned into hail. Kerrrazy. The kind of cool thing was the rain only washed away the loose chalk dust, leaving a subdued but perfect glassy image underneath:  Sad washed-away Bear. We joked that such an event would be impossible in a place like Seattle, unless the pieces were all postage-stamp sized. I said a 4" x 6" piece would be the height of ambition. She laughed as I mimed frantically finishing a Polaroid-sized square before the rain hit. Ryan never actually showed, instead bothering me with a stream of increasingly anxious texts asking about the weather and whether there was any point in them leaving the house. There wasn't, and I don't know if it was because I didn't have to see Lucy or because of my new self-protective, do-what-you-want attitude I've had to adopt towards Ryan, but I really wasn't that concerned. Same thing with working out yesterday; Ryan teased me with an email asking if I minded if he rejoined me. Of course I didn't. Then he texted me all apologetic that he'd had a bad day and couldn't make it. Oh, Ryan, Ryan...I don't know what's sadder, the fact that you still think I'm actually counting on you for anything or the fact that I have to refuse to do so to avoid having my heart broken time and time again. ~*~ Dessert: We've had just about all the foolishness from Tracey's dog(s) that we're going to take. Out there 24/7 barking their heads off at EV.RY.THING (which I grant you isn't as annoying as when they bark at NOTHING). Our only recourse is to keep fining her, and her only recourse is to keep paying the fines (presumably) and still not do anything about the underlying problem. So I turned to Amazon, in search of a bark-stopping device you can put on your own property and not rely on your neighbor doing the right thing. It emits a painful (?) whistle only the dog can hear whenever they bark. The hope is that they're smart enough to make the association and think twice before barking again. Which is not at all a given here -- if these dogs had any trace of intelligence, surely they could learn after five years of watching the same people march back and forth twice a day that we aren't intruders or a threat (unless they can read our minds and see the murderous BB gun fantasies therein). But better get Board approval first -- they'd rather have a vicious dog barking at all hours than a bleeding eyesore of a radio device (it looks like a tiny birdhouse). In addition to the numerous and occasionally humorous horror stories in the reviews that make us think maybe we don't have it that bad, there's a fair share of people expressing concern over punishing the animal when a bad owner is to blame. Fuck that. Until someone invents something that lets me inflict pain on Tracey without being prosecuted (voodoo doll? ski mask and a baseball bat? Doesn't need to be high-tech), I'll happily take it out on her dog(s). Yes, I "love animals," but some animals need to work a little harder to earn it. Dogs most of all. ~*~ Aperitif: I saw S. Darko. Being such a huge fan of Donnie, how could I not? Despite the massive online fan protest (which I wasn't aware of. Hell, I'd probably watch it even if I was). Immediately afterward I had a detailed, thoughtful review planned out, most of which I have now forgotten. I'll cut anyway in case of inadvertent spoilage, and because after-dinner cocktails should be optional. ( ::What do you think God's farts taste like?:: )In conclusion, it's obvious this was a labor of love (the screenplay was written by a guy who calls himself "Donnie's #1 fan"). But in his attempt to stay unswervingly true to the laws of Donnie's universe, he became too fearful to bring anything new to the table. I don't think it deserves the vitriol being heaped upon it by the faithful -- it should be seen by Donnie fans perhaps to satisfy their curiosity. Anyone else will probably leave hopelessly confused and wondering what all the fuss with the first movie was about.
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Another slow news week, but when has that stopped me?
First, some gym characters. As I've said earlier, I am refreshingly nonjudgmental at the gym, not least of all because I've hardly reached my goals either, despite going three times a week religiously. Like my good friend Dan Savage says, if I see a really overweight person there, my first thought really is "Aw, good for them." In fact my inspiration is a kind of heavy guy who plugs away on the ellipticals for 30+ minutes a day without ever pausing. After 10 minutes I'm seeing stars and wondering if it would really matter if I stopped early (however, this is up from 5 minutes back when I first joined, so that's something).
But these two people caught my attention on my last visit because they were so odd. First was a doughy woman I'd never seen before on the ellipticals. I normally wouldn't have given her any thought, except for the fact that she wore a Camelbak™ hydration system, which is a bit of overkill when you're using one machine that in fact provides the user with a cupholder for a water bottle. And Camelbaks™ ain't cheap either, so this was clearly someone who enjoyed shopping for their workout more than working out (not that I'm one to talk, having just bought my third iPod case, not to mention the $30 or $40 I blew at Goodwill on a whole new gym wardrobe).
But she was nothing next to the guy I watched during the rest of my workout (well, there aren't a lot of exciting things to look at to break up the monotony of an elliptical). He was built, obviously serious about weightlifting. Again, at first there was nothing unusual about him, until I noticed what he was doing. He was slowly collecting weights from other machines and putting them onto the machine I assumed he intended to use. He'd ponderously retrieve one weight, haul it to the machine, hoist it up onto the bar, then stand there looking around. He was also wearing earbuds so he'd occasionally mouth some words and wiggle his hips a bit (which looks really silly, I don't care how in shape you are). Then off for another weight, repeating the process tediously and laboriously.
After doing this for about 30% of my workout, to my surprise he suddenly marched across the gym to use one of the machines that I use all the time, the ones I think of as considerably more girly than the free weights. After three or four reps there, then it was back to his original machine, where he began removing all the weights, moving just as slowly and painfully (with frequent pauses to lip synch some more). He never actually used the machine he had loaded (and unloaded). It was crazy. Either he just liked creating the impression that he was going to lift all this weight, or his secret weapon to body building had less to do with actual weightlifting than weight stacking. I'm not sure. It was crazier than the guys who do like two reps (actually LIFTING the weight, mind you) and then spend fifteen minutes staring off into space.
He sort of reminded me of my coworker, Debbie at the warehouse, who was also fond of dancing and singing next to her desk when she was supposed to be working. Debbie thought she could do whatever the hell she wanted (i.e. only actually work about 10 minutes out of an 8-hour shift) and then cry discrimination if they did anything about it. She eventually discovered she was mistaken, after many long (long, long, frustrating) months of me secretly documenting her every move and reporting to HR. So I guess that's when my real career as a snitch began.
~*~
I've caught some comings and goings of Tracey on my spycam, most notably one video where she looks to be carrying an armful of something that resembles the suspicious aluminum tubes that started all this nonsense:
 Breaking Update: Apparently those things that look like tent poles are just that; Tery discovered her selling a tent to an older couple in the parking lot this morning. However, this doesn't eliminate the possibility that she's just using Craigslist to offset her drug sales. Tery wonders if she hasn't already spotted the camera -- where she used to tiptoe quietly up and down the stairs (which would make her the perfect neighbor if not for, you know, the meth lab), now she explodes out of her door and hurtles down the steps like Secretariat leaving the gate at the Preakness. I can't worry about it. Maybe if she's aware of it, it will be enough to keep her honest, or at least move her lab somewhere else, which is all I really want. I'd love to get her put away for good, but a close second would be making it difficult enough for her to conduct business three feet from our front door that she finds alternative accommodations. The beauty of it is, even if she does find the camera, she can't do anything about it. Recording public areas is perfectly legal; she should know, she's had a camera trained on the parking lot practically since moving in. Plus I believe the only people who are bothered by being videotaped are people who have something to hide. ~*~ In case anyone is wondering why I haven't ranted about the California Supreme Court upholding Prop 8, it's because after my initial outraged reaction to what seemed like a completely nonsensical legal ruling, I searched long and hard on the intraweb until I found an article that explained it in simple enough terms. For those of you who have no idea what I'm talking about, well that just proves what my good friend Dan Savage says -- that gay rights headlines are like a dog whistle, only noticeable to teh gays and the nutjob bigots. Basically, the court voted that Prop 8 outlawing gay marriage in CA and its method of passage was perfectly legal; however, lacking any retroactive wording, so are the 18,000 gay marriages that were conducted between the Court legalizing them and the voter-approved amendment. So currently gay marriage is legal for 18,000 couples in California and no one else. Just when you thought the state couldn't get any wackier. It's not the resounding victory I had hoped for, but I understand it was the best the Court could do after being put between a rock and a hard place. I expect Prop 8 to be shot down completely after another vote, after the fence-sitters have some time to get accustomed to the idea and realize that the sea isn't boiling and it isn't raining blood, which is what the zealots want us to think. No, what angers me is the attitude of MyFriendDeb, who is otherwise wholly on our side. She had a rough childhood; not rough enough to make headlines or require therapy, but enough to sour her on the whole idea of marriage, for anyone. For me, it's only partly about legalities. The bigger principle is the fact that people think they have the right to decide how other people live. That my relationship with Tery, 17 years in July and still doing better than a lot of straight marriages, is less worthy of legal recognition. And I guarantee that if it was Deb's rights on the line (or being subjected to popular vote), she'd agree. But she'd rather spend her energy getting worked up about the REAL injustices of life: getting a tax refund check (Uncle Sam held her money unjustly for a whole year), the fact that her 6-button mouse doesn't work with Windows Vista, and potential employers who do mandatory drug testing (violation of privacy, despite her being even more straight edge than me). Yep, 10% of the population treated like second-class citizens, and these are the things that have her panties in a bunch. ~*~ Enough of all that unpleasantness. I snapped this photo of my Mitten who appeared to be engrossed in the program on TV:  She'll ruin her eyes sitting that close My Otta May question was too easy (JeffyJeff answered me privately in an email. It was of course Whoopi Goldberg in Ghost). How about this? Name the scary movie Kitten is watching.
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I had cynically given Ryan and John a month before falling apart again. Thus I was a little surprised when Ryan texted me Sunday at midnight admitting moving back in with him was stupid and he was returning to his condo the next day. One week for him to remember all the things about John he hated that didn't get fixed with one counseling session and god knows how many "take me back, baby"s.
To come crying to me after all his talk about how he doesn't listen to his friends because they have so much "negativity" about John took some guts. I explained that we aren't in love with John, see him more objectively, and base our opinions largely on seeing how much John hurts Ryan. Maybe he'll start listening to us now. At any rate, I was a good friend and the words "I told you so" never passed my lips (errrr, fingers?) (although they gave me a bit of a headache from crashing around in my brain so violently). I just wish he'd let go of the apparent belief that his only two options are John or dying alone. He's only 30, for pity's sake.
Not that I have my workout partner back, but at least I've seen no sign of Lucy either. Although I suspect this change of situation might make him not so determined to kick her out for not paying rent.
~*~
Only minimal progress on the Crankwhore front. I emailed the property manager informing him about my conversation with Narcotics and my surveillance camera plan. His response was "Be careful with cameras and don't attach anything to the building without Board approval. We had a guy who did and he was forced to take it down again." A.) Yes, well, we certainly don't want to infringe on the rights of the convicted drug dealer, now do we? B.) Do you honestly think I'd be stupid enough to put up a huge honkin' camera pointed straight at her door that she would notice even in her tweaked-out state? C.) Sorry, Officer Jason, I'd love to help you in your investigation, but my HOA Board would rather have a meth lab in the building than the bleeding eyesore of a 1-inch tall camera.
As it is I responded with choice B (only slightly less snarky). It turns out he need not have worried; the new weatherproof night vision camera arrived, was indeed only about an inch tall, but unfortunately also glaringly obvious no matter where I positioned it (difficult to judge impartially since I knew where to look. However, we must also not forget how paranoid Tracey is). Anywhere above our chicken wire screen (to keep ferrets from falling three stories to their deaths) and it might as well have been one of the industrial foot-long models. Anywhere behind the screen and after dark the screen is pretty much all the camera sees. Annoyingly, an ideal spot would be on our satellite dish, since an extra piece of electronics would more likely go unnoticed -- however, anything stuck to it, even just the arm of it, disrupted the signal. Not a problem for me, who primarily only watches DVDs anyway, but Tery wouldn't budge in her veto of the idea. Joy-sucking (and now drug-abetting) robot.
So it was back to the peephole cam, which it turns out works beautifully at night when not confined to a peephole (our stairwell is very brightly lit at night). It has the plus of being a lot less conspicuous, but the minus of not being weatherproof. I hope to have this resolved before weather becomes an issue again, so we'll see.
And that's it! Slow news week. I'm using one of my AD icons since realizing they've gotten shamefully very little play recently.
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Monday Ryan did something that earned him the award for Most Clueless Act Ever Performed by Someone Not Named President George Bush: He texted me asking for permission to give my number to Lucy because "she needs a workout buddy." Not "Would you like to be Lucy's workout buddy?" (Answer: I would not).
I wondered why HE couldn't be her buddy. I knew he was planning to start counseling with John, so I joked to Tery that he was going to ride off into the sunset with him and leave Lucy with me. I guess the week-long silent treatment wasn't enough of a lesson in how I feel about Lucy.
It turns out, as I learned Tuesday, that was exactly his plan. John closed on a house Friday and Ryan wasted no time arranging to move in with him. After only one therapy session and a weekend free of arguing. Possibly one of the stupider decisions of his life (not being made with the big head), but you can't tell him that.
Part of his grand scheme is to ask Lucy to rent his condo from him (Lucy of no job or income). Yep. Definitely no big head thinking going on here.
Whatever. He can live his life and make his own mistakes, but he shouldn't try to foist his friends off on me when they become inconvenient.
~*~
In FCW news, the surveillance software is first class, but as it turns out my handy peephole spycam is pretty useless at night -- you can vaguely make out people-sized shapes, but she could be carrying crates of fully automatic rifles into her place and it would be impossible to tell. So I tracked down a second camera with night vision that I can position on the balcony facing the stairwell. This is how determined I am to catch her at SOMETHING.
Today I finally got a call back from Narcotics Division, an officer with a dry sense of humor who assured me he's had her on his radar this entire time, and would love nothing more than to kick her door in and find something to put her away, except that "pesky Constitution" has his hands tied without more substantial evidence.
I was happy I didn't get a "Meth lab what? Tracey who?" He also seemed very interested in my little camera scheme. Tery thought I was a huge dork, but I'm sure he wishes more private citizens stepped up and took a more active role more often. Part of it is my hatred of drug users. A bigger part is a strong desire not to have my home blown up.
He did say, somewhat ominously and mysteriously, "I have information that might suggest she's starting up again." He didn't elaborate, and obviously this comment didn't do much to put me at ease. I wanted desperately to ask about the odds of her getting off so easy after a second offense, but I'm always hyper-self- conscious when I talk to coppers.
So now I'm back on garbage watch, which the cameras should make much easier. If I know anything, so too will you.
~*~
Okay, F-list, your squeeing has not fallen on deaf ears. Monday I went to see ( ::Star Trek:: )
Final impression: More enjoyable than some of the films made with the original cast. I'm definitely looking forward to more films being made with these young 'uns. Particularly Mr. Quinto.
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No progress on the Filthy Crankwhore, unless you count the Department of Vandalism rejecting my report and sending me the phone number for Narcotics. I don't really understand why they couldn't just forward it on themselves. Maybe they aren't speaking this week?
I've proactively installed my peephole spycam. I just need some recording software that won't devour huge chunks of my computer's memory (found something cheap on eBay, we'll see). I have no intention of sitting back and waiting for the slow ponderous hand of justice to move on our behalf again. And here's hoping if you're caught with a meth lab twice, you don't move back in 6 months later.
~*~
Sunday morning I woke up determined to forgive Ryan, after not saying a single word to him all week after he hung me out to dry Tuesday. I had hoped my silence would prompt him to broach the subject, but he remained either blissfully unaware or thought he could make it all better with a constant stream of stupid forwarded email jokes.
I texted him about going to the gym (Monday) and he agreed with an emoti-smile. I felt better, but knew myself well enough that he wouldn't escape without at least being told that I was angry with him.
He boarded the elliptical machine next to mine and we made small talk. He said he had been really busy with "issues." I saw an opening and said "me too" but he didn't bite. I asked about his issues; he didn't want to share. So I confessed I had been mad at him but got over it. "Huh?" Yep. Truly clueless. "I felt like you blew me off for little miss Lucy," I told him. "What-EV-er," was his response in that little bratty singsong way that makes me want to smack a bitch.
"Yeah, what-EV-er" I mimicked, and that was pretty much all that was said. To me, "what-EV-er" (which was Tabby's default response to many things that made me want to smack her) is the defense of people who have no defense. I considered it a slap in the face and possibly the final nail in the coffin of our friendship, at least as I had once known it.
The weird thing about Ryan is, he normally apologizes so often it's annoying. He'll apologize for not finishing his sit-ups fast enough. He'll apologize for breathing too hard on the cardio. But when it comes to something where an apology is actually warranted and would be immensely appreciated, he's tighter lipped than Rick Santorum at a gay orgy.
My sister (who had defended Ryan earlier when I told her what had happened) agreed that it was not a proper reaction to hearing that you had inadvertently upset your friend. She said there comes a point in every friendship when one of you abruptly comes up against the boundary of the friendship, and I guess I've found ours. We'll still be friends, I just won't ever think of Ryan as someone I can count on for anything ever again.
But at least I'm in better shape than he is.
Edit: I've been corresponding with K., a longtime friend of Ryan's. I shared the "What-EV-er" story with her. She expressed her sympathy, but explained that Ryan doesn't do confrontations well, and when he says that to her, that's how she knows that he knows she's right. Cold comfort, I suppose. On our bike ride today when I pointed out the spot where my trouble began to him, I got a better apology. It will have to do.
~*~
Quite an exciting Mother's Day weekend for me. Dr. N. called Tery just at the end of my day shift Saturday. A pregnant dog had come in, was going to deliver in a matter of hours, but Dr. N. desperately needed a break and wanted me to come in right away to relieve her.
"I don't know nothin' about birthin' no puppies!" was my first reply, and I don't (and I've never actually seen Gone With the Wind, demonstrating the forays it's made into the vernacular). I've never even seen puppies being born, never mind delivered them myself. Because the unfortunate phrasing the doc used was "I'll explain when you get here and you can tell me if you feel comfortable doing it." I could have told her right then, whatever I had to do, I'm far from comfortable with it.
But I'm a good little team worker so I saddled up and went. She had an online video of dog delivery queued up for me on the computer. She described the symptoms of imminent labor. Then she said she wanted me to call her the minute it started so she could hurry back.
"OH. I thought you were leaving me to do it alone," I told her. She said if she were me and thought that was the case, she wouldn't have come in. Apparently she was still expressing her amazement at my dedication all day Monday. Well, that's how I roll. I may not like my duties sometimes, but I still try my damndest to perform them.
She left and I watched the dog anxiously, a little Silky terrier. The problem was the dog was exhibiting all the behavior I was told to watch for (nesting, stretching out in an extended position on her side) to some degree almost constantly from the minute she left.
Thus the first puppy slipped out without me even noticing. Just peeked in and, oh hey! There it was. Fortunately dogs are convenient self-cleaning units -- the mother eats the afterbirth, which everyone should get to watch once before they die (when I described it to my sister, who is expecting in September, her reply was, "Ooooh, I hope I won't have to do that!" I said I was sure it was purely optional in human delivery).
Dr. N returned in time for the other four (I didn't realize there's up to a 30-minute break between babies. I thought they all came shooting out at once). She was absolutely knackered, but sat there patiently for the next three hours until they all came. Fortunately by the time the last one appeared, mom was too exhausted to cut the cord herself and the doctor had to do it. I say "fortunately" because it made me feel somewhat better making her stay there with me all that time (even though it cut seriously into my nap time, and by midnight I was dropping as badly as she was).
Once they were out we were free and clear and I was left alone. So, happy Mother's Day, Otta May! (the dog) (I spent the first hour there struggling to remember where I'd heard that name before. Bonus points to anyone who gets it (without cheating, but don't ask how I'll know).)
~*~
Finally, some movie reviews. The first one will be quick, so I won't cut. The Unborn, which is the one with the upside-down-headed dog in the ads. Surprising how freaky such a simple effect looks. The effects in general were very good. The plot, eh...kind of lost me in the middle.
Nazis performed unethical experiments on twins in WWII, resulting somehow in our young heroine being haunted by supernatural forces demanding to let "Jumby" be born.
She very circuitously learns that a dybbuk (Jewish demon) is searching for a gateway to our world. She seeks out Rabbi Gary Oldman (heh) for an exorcism, who initially refuses because he doesn't believe in mysticism. Then he encounters the abovementioned dog in the temple, and in the next scene offers his services. "Why the change of heart?" she asks. "I decided as long as YOU believe, that's all that matters," he answers. Really? The dog with the inverted head had nothing to do with it?
I won't say any more, except that the ending was one of those where you think it's over, then they start flashing back to snatches of conversation and glimpses of previous scenes, so you know a Big Twist is coming, unless you've been living in Siberia all your life. Ugh. I loved this technique in the first three movies that used it. Now it's just an overused and often disappointing attempt to build some excitement at the last minute.
A much, much, much better movie is ( ::Splinter:: )
Like I said if you clicked, for an indie I'd never heard of, this movie was a very pleasant surprise as horror movies go. Spend your (rental) money on this instead of The Unborn. 4 out of 5, I think.
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Just a quickie:
I was half joking in that last post about living next to a drug addict, until I just heard a bunch of banging and clanking at my door. I peeked out in time to see the FCW and an unknown male hurriedly transporting about 40 aluminum tubes, ranging from 1-3 feet long apiece, into her unit. Either she's building a swing set in her living room, a Habitrail™ for her dogs, or a new ventilation system. After seeking advice on Yahoo Answers, I filed a non-emergency report with the police. Unfortunately the website didn't have an appropriate category so it had to go under "Property Damage/Vandalism."
Also, unrelated, I caught a glimpse of her in a strong shaft of sunlight in the parking lot. Her hair looks like it's been dyed by a circus clown -- bright blood orange red. Not the color of choice for those looking to stay gainfully employed (unless, of course, you work at a circus. Or Hot Topic). The fact that it also looks like she hasn't washed it since her bust 4 years ago (4 years! Has it really been that long?) doesn't help much.
Christ, I fucking hate her.
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I'm experiencing a bit of a Rickman Renaissance, a Ricknaissance if you will. I realized that a lot of old titles that I watched casually back before my love was in full bloom are now available quite affordably on most sites. Specifically, Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves.
I know, I know, I couldn't stand that movie. However. That was before I realized that the two-disc extended edition contained an extra 15 minutes, most of which evidently focus on Rickman's Sheriff of Nottingham. "Interesting if you like that Richman guy, but doesn't add much to the movie" reviewers say on Amazon. Reviewers who no doubt resent any focus being dragged away from Kevin "no British accent for me" Costner. Add to that screencaps of Alan smiling and messing around from the bonus features on rickmanistareview.com (my new favorite site) and ownership of this is a no-brainer.
There's also a special edition of my second (or third) favorite Rickman flick (Rickflick? I'll stop), Galaxy Quest, on the horizon. It's all coming together nicely.
~*~
Of course I planned to see X-Men Origins: Wolverine, just not under such unpleasant circumstances.
Saturday night Ryan, after more than a week of blowing off our workout routine, swore to me up and down that Monday was the day. He was going to start up again, yesiree. A bike ride, the gym, he didn't care, he was there.
Then Monday came and it was a very different story. After giving Ryan ample opportunity to call me, I finally texted him, only to be told he had "overbooked" his day and was now too busy for me. When was he planning to let me know? Hard on the heels of this rather rude slight came his invitation to see the movie with "us." As Tery put it, the afterthought invite: my very favorite kind.
The problem is the "us." Ryan has a shiny new roommate, Lucy, a friend of John's. This was my first time meeting Lucy. My impression of her is she looks the way John would look if he were shorter, female and more butch -- if she isn't a lesbian, she'd certainly be on the short list to play one on TV. But Ryan insisted she wasn't much of a drinker, and she agreed that John was "disappointing," so I guess she was alright.
I was irked by Ryan putting me off, but was doing my best to keep a happy face on. Ryan sensed the turmoil beneath and repeatedly asked if everything was alright. Either he's super-intuitive or I wasn't hiding it as well as I thought I was.
I mentioned our neighbors going to Mexico in the middle of the flu scare (they've returned home with only a garden variety viral illness, fortunately). Lucy eagerly chimed in, "We had the swine flu last night!" Apparently some bar somewhere in Denver (I'm sure we aren't alone) is tasteless enough to have named an alcoholic beverage after a pandemic that has the country in an iron grip of terror. Whatever. I was reminded of Ryan's insistence that she wasn't a very big drinker.
We took our seats, the movie started, and Ryan and I had more or less returned to normal.
After the movie I tried one last time to get Ryan to join me at the gym, but he put me off until Tuesday. He did ask for some free passes for Lucy. Apparently our duo is about to become a trio. Meh.
Tuesday. Ryan texted me midday to beg off the gym, claiming severe depression. I'm being patient with him, but I did helpfully suggest that maybe exercise would help him snap out of it. No response.
So I opted for a bike ride. I've been having trouble with the bike ever since trying to attach a rear rack and mistakenly removing the back tire. I had no idea the back tire was a bit more complicated to reattach than the front. Consequently I've been having trouble with it refusing to stay attached. It's especially fond of coming off when I'm trying to pedal across a huge intersection one block from our house, when roughly 50 motorists are staring at me as I cross.
It had come off a couple of times on my ride, until the last time no matter how securely I thought I had it on, I couldn't pedal more than once before it popped off again. Admitting defeat, I resigned myself to walking home. It was about a mile and a half; it felt like ten. And I was afraid I wouldn't get a very good workout away from the gym.
I called Ryan hoping for some sympathy. I didn't expect his phone to be answered by a very drunk-sounding girl, presumably Lucy (you remember Lucy, the not very big drinker). Ryan came on and immediately said that he couldn't help me, he was downtown. Not too depressed to go out drinking, evidently.
I was too worried about my immediate plight to think much at the time, but I woke up the next morning pissed as hell. It was good to know that had I been in trouble, Ryan would have preferred to stay at the bar rather than help me. And he can get his own damn free passes for Lucy. I've since learned she's unemployed and living rent-free off Ryan's goodwill (he's got a real talent for attracting losers who for some reason mistake him for Mr. Moneybags Sugar Daddy), so I don't really see how 7 free days of gym usage is going to do her any good.
(Hopefully the bike problem is solved. I brought the bike back to the shop where they tightened the tire on really well. I don't know if I'll ever fully relax on it though.)
Wednesday. Ryan called in sick to work because he "wasn't feeling well." Which in Ryan-speak means hangover. Good thing Lucy isn't a very big drinker.
Anyway, ( ::the movie:: )
Overall a respectable addition to the franchise. Certainly better than Last Stand. Will most certainly be purchasing.
~*~
Last but not least, this is what my lazy postal carrier has come to in delivering my packages:
 Hai. I live next to a drug addict. Please to not be leaving valuable things on my doorstep Can anyone explain the point of draping the welcome mat halfway over it? The welcome mat that's full of big holes?
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Wow, it's been awhile. Nothing big has happened, but life isn't always big. So here are a bunch of small things instead.
First is breaking news. Our good neighbors Mike and Anna very foolishly went to Mexico on vacation -- just after swine flu started making headlines here. As I told aurora_z, there's not panicking needlessly and then there's playing fast and loose with your chances. Tery said we now have two new cats (theirs, which she is watching for them). She just added, "Alas, Mike and Anna Takagi won't be joining us for the rest of their lives." (Recognize it? It's a variation on probably my favorite line in Die Hard. There'll be a quiz later.)
~*~
Working out is still...working out, with or without Ryan (who has started making excuses). My only complaint is that no one ever makes eye contact with you, and forget about a smile. All those endorphins raging and people working to better their health, and you won't see a grumpier group of individuals. What I like about it, however, is it doesn't matter how obese or out of shape someone is -- they're at a gym and they're trying to do something about it, and that makes me refreshingly nonjudgmental (unlike the contempt I feel for F-booms that sit around stuffing their faces when they should be working (e.g. the majority of Tery's workforce)).
Except this one guy. Granted I'm not an expert on gym etiquette, but what's this all about? Ryan and I had done every machine in our routine but one. However, this guy had spent the last 15 minutes or so sitting on the machine next to it, occasionally doing a few reps but mostly just sitting there. Ryan thought he was waiting for our last machine. I agreed, but I also thought if you're waiting for a machine, you shouldn't be hanging out on another machine, creating the illusion of using that machine, while waiting for a different machine. So when ours became free, I darted in and finished my set quickly. Sure enough, as soon as I left the guy finally got off his ass and boarded it. I still didn't feel bad though, because his workout "method" (if you can call it that) involved the occasional 2 or 3 reps followed by a whole lot of sitting there staring off into space, veeeeeeeery similar to his "waiting" mode. In fact, he was still at it when Ryan and I had finished our quick cardio about 15 minutes later. Me, I have things to do. I'm not interested in spending more time at the gym than I have to.
I've figured out the trick though. Some exercises are unique to only one machine. Others have three or four machines that all do very similar movements. The trick is to get the unique ones done first, so if it starts getting busy you can finish up on the ones with more choices. Gym smarts...I haz dem.
~*~
I've recently resurrected my interest in biking just in time for summer. I went on one ride, but then our final freak snowstorm hit two weekends ago (80 degrees one day, six inches of snow the next. Only in Colorado) and that was that for awhile. I was going to go the following Monday when it cleared up, but when Ryan bailed on me again I decided a day on the couch relaxing sounded more appealing. Tery flipped out on me, as if it was my last chance rather than my first.
Then Wednesday was Earth Day. I wanted desperately to kill two birds with one stone (probably an inappropriate metaphor when discussing Earth Day): Bike to the grocery store. Exercise and shopping in one! However, sadly I didn't need anything that weighed less than 10 pounds: kitty litter, laundry detergent, gallons of milk, tub of butter (fortunately we were set for concrete blocks and lawn furniture) -- big, heavy bulky things that would be impossible to secure to the bike, never mind pedal back two or three miles with. So I very begrudgingly took my car instead. Sorry, Earth.
I consoled myself with the knowledge that for me, every other day of the year is Earth Day. I walk (and now bike) whenever possible, recycle as much as possible, shop with canvas bags, refuse to drive an ecosystem-devouring SUV. So why do I still feel guilty? Because those of us who care need to go that extra mile to make up for the many, many who don't.
~*~
Our galley-style kitchen is quite small, and necessitated us keeping our garbage can inside one of our lower cabinets. Unfortunately the combination of something forbidden being shut away out of reach was irresistible to the ferrets, necessitating installing childproof locks on the door. This proved quite perplexing to our occasional guests, and so annoying to Tery that she preferred the trash lying around the house. So we've decided to try a low-profile can in the corner.
Obviously a more visible can should be somewhat nicer-looking, which means stainless steel. I've never priced stainless steel trash cans before, so had no idea anything bigger than an office bucket gets up into the $100+ range. One hundred dollars!! For a trash can!! And not even a 13-gallon. The biggest I found was 10-gallon, and required special bags from the manufacturer. Any bigger and we were looking at closer to $170. For a garbage can. Tery wanted it for her birthday, and she spared no expense for me, so I was willing to consider it (the $100, that is).
I was therefore pleasantly surprised when I stopped into Target and found a 13-gallon option for only $40. That was more like it. It was Target brand rather than SimpleHuman (the most popular brand I was finding online), but hey. The price was a lot easier to stomach, and Tery said she didn't mind a more reasonable option.
Upon getting it home, the reason for the price difference was immediately apparent. The "retaining ring" meant to hold the bag in place was flimsy and could barely hold itself in place. And the lid didn't have the tiniest bit of cushioning (unlike SimpleHuman's patented "LID SHOX" silent hydraulic lowering system), making it clang loudly with every closing (Tery has taken to exclaiming, "Ancient Chinese secret, huh?" with every gong-like report).
It seems crazy to me that for these little extra touches you need to shell out an additional 60+ bucks. I would happily say as much on Target's product review site, except suspiciously this particular can doesn't show up in any searches. Clever, Target. Very clever indeed. But it is pretty nice to throw trash away without stockpiling it first on the counter to cut down on opening the cabinet repeatedly. And now Tery is giddy with the possibilities opened up by regaining that cabinet space.
~*~
Okay, I lied. Something exciting DID happen to me. JeffyJeff sent my birthday package, a magazine, a CD sampler, a card and a nondescript piece of paper. I read the accompanying letter first, where he described how a student of his attending a West End play spotted Alan in the audience and acquired his autograph that now sat in my hands (there was no mention of how Jeffy got it from the student. However, since she addressed Alan as "Professor Snape," I suspect she's not the president of the Rickmania Fan Club). I.....WHAT????
I shakily unfolded the scrap of paper, and yes indeedy, it was Rickman's autograph. The original too, not just a photocopy:
 Well, THIS is a photocopy My eyes literally filled with tears. I couldn't believe it. Normally my opinion on autographs is what's the point if you can't meet the person and get it face to face, but I will most definitely make an exception in this case. Tery even recommended I keep the extraneous layers of scrap because Alan had touched them. But now the quandary of displaying it. Problem #1: Despite my enormous cache of Alan photos on my hard drive, I didn't have a single nice glossy print to frame. Problem #2: I didn't have a frame designed for displaying a photo and autograph. There were several nice ones on eBay that contained cheap reprints of photos and autographs of famous people. But much as I loved the idea of buying an Elvis Presley autograph (reprint) and discarding it for Alan, with shipping it came to $20. I thought I could do better at a local hobby store. I thought wrong. First stop: Michael's, where I found no less than two aisles devoted to shadow boxes for every imaginable collectible you'd ever wish to display -- except, naturally, autographs. Flags (the most popular). T-shirts. Baseballs. Record albums and CDs. Watches. ANTIQUE KEYS. Autographs? Nothing. Hobby Lobby had even less, so long story short I settled on a frame with a diploma display (8 x 10") with a smaller cut-out for a 5 x 7" photo that was only $10 on sale. Even more frustrating was trying to find some kind of preserving agent. My first internet stop after receiving the precious document was to search for advice on how to protect it. The site I found recommended a spray that would neutralize the acid in the paper to prevent yellowing and breakdown. I thought I'd have no trouble finding such a thing at a craft store. At Michael's, I asked the guy in Custom Framing, who said it was called an archival spray and they no longer carried it. Have you ever set foot in a Michael's? They carry hundreds of thousands of products. They couldn't possibly fit in one more? Still better than Hobby Lobby, where the girl had never even heard of such a thing. Disgusted, I took the initiative and ended up in Scrapbooking, where I found a can of something called, helpfully enough, "Make it Acid-Free!" I brought it back to the girl, who I doubted appreciated my attempt at education. Anyway, now I'm good to go. I found some delicious publicity glossies on eBay (no film stills or shots of the side of his head as he scurries away from paparazzi), and got three after not being able to choose. I'm displaying actually a photocopy and squirreling the original away in an acid-free pouch into my fire safe. It may very well be my most prized possession, even more than my Dan Radcliffe Equus poster.  Eat your heart out, Robert Pattinson. I like to think he was wearing something similar to this when he signed my paper ~*~ Now for some movies: ( ::Untraceable:: )I don't know if I'm just getting old. I sat through all five Saw films with barely a flinch, but this movie made me positively queasy. Not just the torture murders, but the message perhaps hits a little too close to home. I often participate in the online culture that occasionally victimizes others (to my knowledge not killing anyone though). It turns a cold, unforgiving light on the phenomenon. The problem is the movie isn't really good enough to be as effective as it should be. A far better movie is the classic suspense thriller ( ::The Bad Seed:: )Well, I've gone and flouted the hilariously dated plea that appears before the closing credits imploring people "not to divulge this film's truly shocking ending!!!" Bad Seed, meet my friends The Crying Game and The Sixth Sense. But seriously, for a 50's movie based on a play, it was very well written and well acted. I normally can't stand such an obvious stage script, but this movie deserves the title "classic." I even watched it a second time with commentary, that's how much I enjoyed it. It was apparently the first time anyone had suggested a possible hereditary factor in sociopathy, and I found the psychobabble pretty fascinating. Not surprisingly, this movie is also pretty popular among teh gays, probably because it isn't hard to see the metaphor in a parent turning on a child after discovering their true nature. 5 out of 5, I think. At the very least worth a rental. Finally, the last widely available Rickman movie I hadn't seen (oops. Besides Bob Roberts), ( ::Michael Collins:: )Alan plays Eamon "Dev" De Valera, the president of the Republic -- which sounds very important, except in a movie about Michael Collins. However, there's a scene where he's dressed as an altar boy (my heart just about stopped beating) and yet another where he breaks out of jail by dressing as Michael's auntie, and yet another where he delivers a rousing revolutionary speech to a town square full of Irish extras (in which he sounds more like Rasputin than De Valera). Damn you and your movie-stealing abilities, Alan!!! So, I guess I'll be sitting through all that other boring historical crap repeatedly for these scattered gems. ~*~ I'd like to dedicate this post to my dear JeffyJeff, not only for his amazingly thoughtful and wonderful gift, but for giving me the kick in the ass I needed to finally finish this post.
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Alright, fine, I FINALLY saw Twilight. I'm sorry, kavieshana, I don't think I'll have any trouble resisting the urge to buy it. In fact, probably best if you don't look inside, because I'm not going to be gentle.
( ::You'd better hold on tight, spider monkey:: )
This has to be one of my harsher reviews. I went into it with an open mind, even looked forward to it. It was just too laughable. kavieshana assures me she laughed just as hard, until for some godforsaken reason she watched it a second time, and something in her brain "clicked off." So I guess you're safe from being Twi-washed as long as you only watch it once.
The soundtrack was likable, but come on, it's Carter Burwell -- he could score Waterworld and partially redeem it.
~*~
Last week Ryan and I were finishing up our workout. It was our leg day, and our first day trying the stairclimbers, so we really needed to stretch out on the way back to the locker rooms. We stopped at the stairway leading up to the classroom area. We even chose the back part of the staircase that's hardly ever used. We had barely begun when a woman came over accompanied by her personal trainer. He said to us, "Just so you guys know, we're going to be using this area right now." "Oh," we said, taken aback. The woman was obviously mortified and tried to intervene. "We're not kicking you out or anything," the trainer ignored her, "but we're going to be working here."
Really? In this whole big facility, you need THIS particular four square feet RIGHT NOW? There aren't any other exercises you could POSSIBLY do elsewhere for the next two minutes?
We walked away amicably, but I couldn't resist murmuring to Ryan, "Jeez, guess you're nobody if you don't have a personal trainer, huh?" Ryan agreed that it was pretty damn rude.
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Updatey datey:
Working out is going well, now that Ryan and I uncrossed our signals. He had a membership with John that had lapsed. He wanted to renew but said he couldn't afford to. Assuming he went to a different location (even though he lives 5 minutes away from me), I sadly signed on for a one-club membership ($50 cheaper than all-club). We exchanged emails where he repeatedly expressed interest in renewing. I would say the same thing: "I can only use the one near me." He would say the same thing: "I would only ever use mine anyway." We seemed to be at an impasse, until the day he used slightly different wording to clarify that he was talking about my club the whole time. OH. I don't know why communication is so difficult with him.
So we've been working out every other day if not more. We've tackled the girlier weight machines (Nautilus, etc.) and the cardio (ellipticals). In the middle of the floor are the free weights, and beyond that are the massive circuit training frames where the ripped, tattooed bad-asses hang out. All the while Ryan will point out men who have his goal body type. Then he confessed he'd like to try the circuit training someday. "Ryan, no!" I whispered frantically, "Not the Prison Yard!" Those hulking monsters would eat scrawny little Ryan for breakfast.
So far my plan is working -- the days I don't work out I feel restless, like I can't wait to get back. I also don't want to push myself too hard, since I did last week and spent the entire weekend barely able to move my arms. That was a mistake. It definitely makes a difference having a friend there, and I think the benefit is mutual, as Ryan is having a rough time moving on from John.
~*~
Funny tale from the kennels: Last weekend I was washing dishes when I heard what sounded like a phone ringing, though not the hospital line, followed by what sounded like someone talking. My first reaction whenever I hear a strange noise is to freeze in place with my heart pounding in my ears. I eventually had to move though, and traced it to Rica, an African Grey boarding with us. This bird had a whole routine, impersonating first a ringing phone, then an answering machine beep, and finally a creepily uncanny human voice saying, "Hello?" I wanted to record it for possible posting, but she clammed up the minute she saw me. However, when I covered her cage for the night she said, again in that near-human voice, "Goodnight cuckoo." I would trade her for our stupid screaming Amazon any day.
~*~
"Battlestar Galactica" is over. I think it suffered from this new trend in TV shows, to ramp up to the end by suddenly beginning all these exciting, complex new storylines with only three episodes to go. It makes you wonder, "How on earth are they going to resolve all this in such a short period of time?" Answer: They aren't. The "finale" will have so many plot lines left hanging it will be the narrative equivalent of a threadbare shawl, all for the remote possibility of a mini-series or even a movie in the future which will be the REAL finale. I say this after being severely disappointed by both BSG and "The L Word." I'm starting to fear that no finale will ever top "6 Feet Under." 6FU has RUINED me for all other finales. Though I suspect even people who haven't seen 6FU will agree that these finales sucked balls.
~*~
I had another run-in the other day on the transcriptionist board I hate so much. I hate it so much but it's incredibly helpful at times, if you can avoid the flame wars that is.
I had a stupid, simple formatting question, I won't bore you with specifics. I had found the answer in my AAMT Book of Style, the problem was the wording of the rule for some reason sounded like it only applied to one number rather than all. So I asked what I knew might be a stupid question, but I also figured it would be simply and quickly answered -- which is the only kind of question I ever ask anymore because people are so freakin' touchy there.
The first two people gave me straightforward, sensible answers. The third was a very sarcastic, "Did it ever occur to you that the #4 was only an example?" There was just no call for that. If you can't keep a civil tongue in your head, you're better off just keeping your mouth shut, and on this board most of all so. I answered politely but coldly, "I wasn't sure, which is why I asked. Sarcasm isn't really appreciated." Never heard back from that one (to my knowledge. The board makes it far too easy to post anonymously).
Then someone else chimed in saying they'd always wondered the same thing. This was very soon after Ms. Snarky, so I responded to them, "I'm glad to hear I'm not the only one who doesn't know it all : )." Please take note of the big smiley face because it's important.
Someone responded, "Wow. Unbelievable!" Someone else said something about "the rudeness" and "I'm glad I'm not you." Others trickled in to join the crowd. The way the page is set up it's really not clear who is responding to who exactly, which is why it took me about 15 minutes to slowly realize they were all castigating ME for my incredibly rude comment. What??
This is WHY I included a big smiley face, the only way to express friendliness or positive intentions. If I could dot my i's with hearts I would. Because this damn board is FULL of these people just WAITING for an excuse to take offense, whereupon everyone circles in like vultures to carrion, and like vultures will pick you dry until not a scrap of flesh remains. Even without the smiley face I didn't see how my comment could be so grossly misinterpreted, but there we are. An entire industry of internet users who haven't graduated AOL IM Etiquette 101.
I ignored all the Nosy Nellies and instead engaged the one person struggling to maintain civility, and eventually the original person I had supposedly slammed so harshly. I was able to clarify that I was grateful someone else shared my question and there was no insult or irony intended, hence my BIG SMILEY FACE. They were both glad to hear it and everything was peaceful again. Do you think any of those people who were so quick to swoop in to attack me bothered coming back to apologize? Nope, all suddenly too busy to waste time on a message board.
~*~
Tery Tivo'ed a documentary for me, "The Most Hated Family in America." You'd think it would be the Mansons, but no, it's Pastor Fred Phelps and his incestuous little clan. I've heard of them, but this was the first special I'd seen devoted exclusively to them.
They run the Westboro Baptist Church in Topeka, KS, and their favorite word in the entire world is "fag." As in GodHatesFags.com. As in "Fag Priest" and "Fag Soldier" and "Fag Jews" and "Fag Enablers." It's just about the worst insult they can imagine, thus they apply it to everything and everybody.
See if you can follow this logic: America supports and embraces homosexuality (bear with me). Hence America is going to hell. Hence US troops fighting in Iraq are all fags for defending fag-loving America, and deserve to die. In fact, any misfortune that happens to anyone, anywhere, is evidence of God striking them down because they love fags, and makes the Phelps satanically gleeful. Your grandmother is dying of leukemia? Good, she's a fag-lover. Your church was struck by lightning and burned to the ground? God obviously hates it. 9/11? The best thing that ever happened to America. If you think I'm exaggerating just check out their website.
Don't try to point out to them that, while America might be slowly becoming more permissive of homosexuality, we're still a long way away from feeling America's unconditional love. Don't try to tell them that Jesus, in addition to being a Jew himself, preached mostly about love and probably would take a dim view of the message they're sending out. In fact, don't try to argue with them at all; they're unshakeable in their belief that pretty much everyone who doesn't belong to their church is a fag (either in actuality or sympathetically) and is going to hell.
I'm telling you, even teh gays aren't as obsessed with homosexuality as these people.
They routinely picket military funerals because, well, the soldiers are all fags. They stand on a distant corner (court-ordered) with bright neon signs screaming how you are going to hell. People drive by and curse them, make rude gestures and even throw things (their small son was hit in the head with a soda cup -- no rejoicing when bad things happen to one of THEM, I noticed); the response rate is 100% in the negative, which they consider a success. It perplexes them why people are so mean, though -- doesn't everyone LIKE being told their souls are damned and God hates them?
What is most terrifying is their cult includes children, tiny children, and don't ask me where they come from because the ratio is about one man to ten women in their God-fearing, devout and completely insular society. Tiny children wearing GodHatesFags.com T-shirts. When asked if they know what the sign they're holding means, they smile shyly and hide their faces. No, they don't. The brainwashing (and alleged abuse) will begin in earnest at the earliest opportunity though.
It's totally infected Bekah, the 19ish-year-old who tells the documentarian that yes, even he is going to hell, following it with a completely inappropriate schoolgirl giggle. She also has no plans to marry, since "we're in the end of the end times" and she'll be far too busy serving the Lord to worry about things like the future and having a life of her own.
Meanwhile her mother's mature retort to the documentarian's attempt to get reason to penetrate her thick dogma was, I kid you not, "Not a chance, poopy pants."
The documentarian tried several times to get an interview with Grand-daddy Fred Phelps, each time being treated with open derision and hostility. He called Reverend Phelps "a wellspring of anger," and isn't anger one of the Big Seven?
Tery predicted the show would make my blood boil, but it really didn't, I think because these people are so insane and so extreme that no one takes them seriously. Much less dangerous than the moderate radicals whose equally homophobic (and less nonsensical) message is heard and believed by thousands. Mostly I just feel sorry for them, because I know from experience that hating someone, actively and with the passion these people feel, is exhausting. Imagine hating the entire world and how much energy THAT takes?
~*~
Time to wrap up the Kitten Mitten series, I think. ( ::In here, because I'm thoughtful:: )
Finally, perhaps my favorite thing about any cat:
 The ability, at any given time, to look equally silly and regal ~*~ I won't cut this because it MUST be seen. OldFriendBear took my Strawberry Series to the next logical level:  If I had nightmares about fruit
Hate Crime is a movie that poses the question: What would happen if the son of a hate-preaching fundamentalist moved in next door to a gay couple?
( ::Answer: Hilarious hijinks, of course!:: )
On the subject of movies, I rented a trifecta of horror flicks (without the "fecta) that I can sum up quickly: Behind the Mask: The Rise of Leslie Vernon and Murder Party are both quirky, occasionally funny (and occasionally VERY funny), clever send-ups of horror movies with a satisfying amount of actual horror. Fear of the Dark, on the other hand, is trite, dull, derivative and painfully predictable.
I'm also pleased to report that the "unrated director's cut" DVD of Midnight Meat Train actually DOES contain scenes that aren't in the theatrical release. Blood-soaked, horrifying, gruesome scenes that will haunt you until the day you die. Buy your copy immediately.
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My tax refund arrived, just in time for the realization that Depeche Mode was coming to Red Rocks Arena. Have you seen their new video for "Wrong"? Me likey. Me hopey stupid record company doesn't take it down before you get to click.
I agonized for a couple of hours over whether should I or shouldn't I. The problem is a.) concerts are no fun alone, and not something you can invite just anyone to (which has been covered previously in this blog) and b.) cheap seats evidently START at $100. Eek. Hey, DM? Did you hear we're in a recession? c.) I've been to a show at Red Rocks once. If you aren't seated just right, all the sound is literally blown away on the Rocky Mountain breeze. Like in the $100 seats.
I don't know what made me think of it, but I cruised by the 24-Hour Fitness site. Wait, I do know what made me think of it. A bunch of people from my hometown have appeared out of the woodwork to find me on Facebook, and some of them have gotten, well, kind of LARGE. Not that I can really point fingers, hence the 24-Hour Fitness drive-by. We've always had one across the street, a five-minute walk away. It's one of the few useful things we have in that plaza (half of it is a Furniture Row, not helpful in the day-to-day), but I've always had the Bowflex. I started thinking that the Bowflex, whether I use it consistently or not, doesn't really provide terribly dramatic results for me, and certainly nothing cardio, which I definitely need with my clerical job/DVD-watching hobby.
It turned out 24-Hour was featuring a promotion, ending naturally in just three days, $200 for a year -- $16 a month. How could I ignore THAT? Hell, for $16 a month I could just walk around with a water bottle and a towel, pretend to be working out and still feel better about myself.
My sister, who I can always count on to talk me into spending money, was in full support of it. The idea had way more pros than cons. For me the biggest pro was the money. Money is a BIG motivator for me (despite my lack of ambition career-wise), and spending it on a gym membership, even as little as $16 a month, might get my ass moving across the street the way I couldn't get it to the foot of the bed every morning.
My sister recommended I pop in and visit before making a decision, which I did Friday afternoon. I was paired with Aaron, a gung-ho salesman who took me on a whirlwind, 3-1/2 minute tour of the facility. He wanted to sit down and talk numbers immediately, specifically $600 for 3 years, and thereafter only $100 a year for life. A great deal, but I wasn't exactly ready for that level of commitment before having set foot on a single machine. They offer 7-day free passes, which didn't do me much good considering the promo ended on Sunday. I could check it out that night and Saturday, if I weren't about to embark on my 2-job work weekend. My timing is in all things outrageously off.
So instead I spent the whole weekend fantasizing about the way my life would change with this decision. The way I might finally have the energy, strength and body shape I've always wanted. No, I'll never be petite, but that doesn't mean I can't make some improvement. The way I might get some routine back in my life besides working, lounging around and sleeping. Big changes were coming. I could feel it.
Sunday I jumped out of bed, ready to change my life. I walked in and asked three times for Aaron (he had mentioned they worked on commission). No, that's okay, the young punk currently behind the desk would be more than happy to make the commission without doing any of the leg work help me. Young Golan, who could hardly bear to make eye contact with me and seemed more eager to get me back out the door than anything. He took my money, announced, "You're all set!" and that was that. No suggestion of how to get started, etc. The only way my life had changed was that I was now $200 poorer. Not as exhilarating as I had imagined. I must have missed the commercial where the vivacious young woman (you know, the one who's already slim and sexy and really doesn't need a gym) pays for her membership and leaps off like a joyous gazelle with all her newfound energy.
Fortunately our neighbor Anna has been going there for almost a month, and offered to bring me in Monday. Thanks to her I felt comfortable, and once I started using the machines I felt instantly like I'd been assimilated into an exclusive club, which I guess in a way I had. Maybe someday I'll work up the courage to try the Nautilus equipment.
~*~
Speaking of 2-job weekends, in Alexandra Pelosi's documentary about the 2008 presidential campaign trail ("Right America: Feeling Wronged"), she asks a typical redneck rightwinger if America is engaged in a civil war. "Sure," he twanged. "There's the homosexuals and then there's the hard-working Americans!" Evidently "Middle America" thinks teh gays just spend all day and night having teh gay sex. No wonder they're so jealous. But what about us bisexuals? Are we all only employed part-time?
The movie is worth a watch, if only so you can see grown men weep because they're so convinced that Barack is a terrorist and will singlehandedly destroy America.
~*~
As part of my big life change, I also got my hair cut on Sunday. Since I usually avoid most places of business on the weekend, I'd never met the young girl who drew my name off the computer, Tracy. She was nice enough. The first half of the session was spent discussing my exciting new lifestyle. The conversation took a turn for the worse when I admitted I worked at a vet hospital. Tracy politely asked if I had any pets, so I told her. Then we had this exchange:
Me: Yeah, the vet job isn't bad, except I don't especially like dogs.
Her: Oh, I HATE dogs. I've been bit like three times by dogs.
Me: Wow. Well, that would make me hate them too.
Her: I hate cats too. I'm more scared of them than dogs. They're SNEAKY.
Me: O....kay. I can understand that. How do you feel about ferrets?
Her: Ooh, they're UGLY. I wouldn't get close enough to one to know if I liked it or not.
Me: Fair enough. I hate kids, so we're even.
Her: What??! You don't hate kids. How can you say you hate kids?
This is what I can't stand. People are free to spout all sorts of vile prejudices against animals, fair or not. But if you say anything bad about kids, you're a monster. You'd think I said "I hate kids and want to make them all into sandwich meat."
Anyway, it was really funny when she noticed me playing the "pronoun game" about Tery, "my partner." As soon as I dropped the first "she," she blurted out "Do you watch The L-Word?" She gets an A for effort, F+ for subtlety.
~*~
If cats are guilty of sneakiness, it's sneaking their way into your heart. At least in the case of my Mitten. I give you more in the photo series. The two visually interesting ones as appeteasers:
 The ever-precious head tilt  Head tilt and a "here, move that camera closer so I can rub against it" I promise the next installment will be the last. Here are some attempts at being artistic.  My sexy new water bottle for my sexy new lifestyle I picked this mongo huge strawberry out of the pack. I knew some people would never believe the size without some scale for comparison. Then I gave up getting a good shot with my face and instead ended up with this series of shots. The Strawberry Series  1) Hello, Strawberry 2) I like the way you look, Strawberry 3) I REALLY like the way you look, Strawberry 4) I eat you, Strawberry. No hard feelings.
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I'm happy to report a happy (sort of) ending to the Ryan quandary. Friday he was talking "therapy, working it out." Saturday he was suddenly all "fuck this" and had kicked that loser John to the curb. This earned a big "GoooooooOOOOOO, Ryan!" from me. Because John, knowing full well that their relationship was on its last legs if something didn't change, didn't let that put a crimp in his weekend plans for getting trashed (again). Ryan is a great guy and I'm certain can find a man who will try a little harder to respect his feelings.
My biggest concern in the break-up was Ryan not being able to afford his condo, until he revealed that he's been paying his bills all along AND helping John with his credit cards. John is about 40 years old. This makes John a DOUBLE LOSER. As Ryan said (though with considerably less glee than I would have), "He's in for a rude awakening when he starts paying for his own stuff."
We did hang out most of the day Monday, first going out to lunch and then back here for an epic Rock Band session (no video documentation, sorry). I'm sad Ryan is alone again, but can't pretend that I'm not happy to have my friend back.
~*~
That was the happy part of my weekend. This is the unhappy part. ( ::The sad tale of Kane the dog: cut for animal death and bodily functions :: )
~*~
At last "The L Word" is over. God. If "Six Feet Under" was the best series finale we've ever seen, "L Word" had to be the worst. We were thrilled beyond words when the season premiere featured Jenny, easily the most hated character, being found dead in the pool. Until we realized the whole season would be one massive flashback, where every episode gave another person reason enough to want to see her dead, even more than us. Making the finale a big whodunit (with a comically repeated reference to that dangerous railing over the pool they need to get fixed) without ever revealing the answer. COME ON. Our DVR cut off the last 90 seconds, and thank god I just happened to find it at that moment playing elsewhere so we could finish it properly, because those last 90 seconds weren't any more illuminating, and it would have SUCKED to sit through the whole episode a second time hoping they were. Bleah, L Word. You SUCK.
~*~
The next in my popular art photography series:
Series I: Favorite Parts of a Cat; Feet Part Two  One of her namesakes -- her Tufty Toes  She got legs//she knows how to use them Okay, I promise to move on from the feet next time.
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This is the luxuriousness of my new schedule -- updating my LJ on a Saturday morning! Can you believe it? But my shift doesn't start for literally an hour and a half, and it was this or watch Flight of the Conchords Season One Tery bought for me.
So, some tidbits, like:
Question: How many strangers in the parking lot do Tracey's stupid dog have to bark at before realizing that none of them are a threat and none of them are particularly intimidated by him?
Answer: All of them.
~*~
I blame ms_hecubus, who a few weekends ago posted about her overactive imagination thinking a timber wolf was waiting in her garage to attack her. I smirked that she wouldn't last ten minutes in Tery's hospital at night, to which she agreed. Then that weekend in the early morning hours I fell into such a deep sleep that I had a nightmare. I dreamed I heard a racket and walked down to A-ward in time to see a man coming through the window feet first (the window is ground level outside but there are bars on it). We faced off across the short corridor between the kennels. He looked a little like Peter Horton from Thirtysomething, except with wide, crazed eyes and a sadistic grin. Then he reached for me with impossibly long, clawlike fingers and I woke up with a start, sweating, panting, and totally paralyzed. I felt like my spine was nailed to the dog mattress I sleep on now. It was one of the most terrifying feelings of my life. Thanks, Michelle ;)
~*~
Speaking of wolves, last night I had Lakota, who had been spayed that day:
 Her cage slip listed her as a "husky mix." Yeah, husky mixed with timber wolf and maybe arctic fox. She was beautiful, but not leash trained and I spent a good fifteen minutes chasing her around trying to get her leashed. Thank god we weren't outside or I'd probably still be at it. She was a nimble one. Beautiful, but that constant (CONSTANT) whining/groaning was all husky. Tery said the day shift were all afraid of her (honestly, why do these people work at a vet hospital when they're so easily intimidated by animals?) but while trying to get this photo my biggest challenge was getting her head out of my lap. ~*~ Speaking of the hospital (oh, I'm full of segues today), one night someone had left a big note in the breakroom, "Overnight Sun-Thurs not cleaning." Which is kind of like saying, "I'm not naming any names, but our current Holy Father the Pope isn't putting the toilet seat down." The description can only apply to one person, so why tiptoe around trying to spare feelings? Of course, overnight Sun-Thurs is J., who hurt her knee again and was taking it easy for a few weeks. Which Tery could have told the complainer if they'd come to her instead of leaving accusatory messages. Tery tried to ferret out the note-writer, after having to "talk J. off the ledge." Everyone pointed fingers at one person, who when confronted acted innocently appalled, "I'd NEVER write something like that! But if J. was upset, please tell her I'm sorry." Yeah, uh-uh. No one in that hospital is selfless enough to apologize for something they didn't do. No one. Mystery solved. It turns out the mess that prompted the complaint was one empty box left in Surgery. To which Tery's response was, "A) I guarantee you J. isn't stocking supplies off the delivery truck, and B) It's one damn box. Break it down, throw it out back, and quit whining." ~*~ Finally, a quandary with Ryan. Back at the Oscar™ party, I said I lurved my boys (Ryan and John). This is only half true. I love Ryan, love him to death. My feelings for John depend on Ryan's happiness, which at the moment is pretty low. John has a whole entourage of single friends who sound like they're stuck in a permanent frat-boy mentality. Every weekend they lure John out drinking, binges that last literally from Friday night to Sunday afternoon, when he finally staggers home and passes out on the couch. Ryan is less than pleased by this behavior, and I can hardly blame him. If Tery did this, I guarantee we wouldn't have made it past our first year. Ryan has begged him to knock it off and grow up. John refuses to see the problem. They've been going back and forth this entire time, and Ryan is finally at the point of couples therapy or adios, John. John is resistant to therapy, and Ryan still thinks he can't live without him, so they're sort of at an impasse. Naturally I'm on Ryan's side. I do my best to offer advice, but unfortunately most of the work has to be done by Ryan. At the risk of appearing selfish, this will be causing a problem for me very shortly. Ryan had suggested coming over Monday (he gets alternate Mondays off from work) to hang out. I assumed part of his incentive was avoiding John, who of course will be blitzed the whole weekend AGAIN. Imagine my surprise when yesterday he asked if John could come too? In fact John had taken the day off of work just to hang out with us. WTF???? Ryan's acting like this is totally against his will, that he has no control over it (and neither do I), and yes we'd have more fun alone and yes he'll ruin everything, but what can we do? It's like he's split exactly in two. Half of him has broken up with John and just wishes he'd disappear. The other half is hanging onto a faint hope they can still work it out. And I can't tell which half I'm talking to at any given moment. Most of the time a pathetic amalgamation of the two. I followed Tery's advice and texted him to cancel. I feel like a shitty friend, but I just don't see hanging out with John as being anything but unbearably awkward until they figure out where they stand with each other. I apologized, but suggested if maybe John was too hungover to come Ryan was still welcome on his own. Ryan texted me back: "LOL" I don't know what I'm supposed to do with that. And it makes Ryan come off like he's in really deep denial (which is entirely possible). Almost battered wife syndrome denial. So I guess I'll refuse to answer my phone, close the curtains and pretend I'm not home if they come around. Yeah, I know. Great friend, right? What would you do? ~*~ On a cheerier note, the photo stylings of she_was_stereo have inspired me to do a photo tribute to my favorite subject, Francesca Sofia. I don't have nearly her eye, and of course it's somewhat more challenging photographing an animate object. So we'll start slow and in no particular order. Series I: Favorite Parts of a Cat  This is her left paw, which I love because of the little black "M" that forms a heart shape with the white.  Surprisingly more difficult to capture is her right paw, which is a cappucino-colored twin. I can't promise they'll get any better. ~*~ Is that the time? I've got to get to work!!
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| 2009-03-05 23:14 |
| The true, actual, honest-to-god iClone conclusion; PS Tony Psychostalker; quickie movies |
| Public |
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| Just stuck, hollow and alone//and the fault is my own, and the fault is my own |
| iclone, igor, lars and the real girl, nick and norah's infinite playlist, religulous, rickman, tony psychostalker, wind that shakes the barley |
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I don't have a lot to say, but a week without updating is like a week without showering (which has been known to happen rarely, and doesn't do much to endear me to the ladies, if you know what I mean). And since my readership appears to have dwindled again, the beauty of talking to yourself is you don't get tired of listening.
I think I can finally put a period on the iClone. The auction ended at $113, a satisfactory increase from the starting price of $70 (which one joker stopped by and offered me on the spot, hinting that it would be the best I could expect since the phone was used. As the saying goes, I was born on a Monday, but not LAST Monday).
For the longest time my winning bidder was a guy in Germany, which kind of sucked considering I offered free worldwide shipping to entice buyers. Fortunately he was outbid by a guy in New York, whose Asian name, right or wrong, set my mind at rest about his ability to deal with the bizarre Korean programming the device features.
I had intended to ship it First Class, but didn't take into account that the package size fell outside the parameters. The clerk, accustomed to my normally rushed attitude (I typically pop in there before starting work in the mornings), didn't really make my options clear, and before I knew it I had paid $9 to send the thing Parcel Post, the most agonizingly slow shipping method.
I left, but couldn't stop thinking about it. I thought about how much I hate waiting for my stuff. I thought about how sometimes I'm willing to overlook small flaws in my purchases if the seller is friendly and it comes quickly, and as far as I'm concerned this phone, practically new or not, is one of the most flawed pieces of engineering I've ever seen. Sure, I can't be blamed for how it's made, but unlike ccslickscompany, I wasn't willing to leave anything to chance.
So I went back to the post office and I upgraded to Priority, a difference of only $1.65. Which I would've done in a heartbeat the first time if I'd known. He received it yesterday and left me positive feedback, so I think I can finally move on. I'm sure that's a relief to all of us. See, ccslickscompany? Was that so hard??
~*~
A bit of a PS to Mr. Tony from the party, the fanboy psychostalker.
Deb and I had retreated upstairs to look something up on the computer. Tony followed us up and, as is his way, totally took over the conversation. I showed Deb my spiffy Rickman mousepad and he exclaimed excitedly, "Oh, I love that guy!" Surprised, I of course concurred. "Have you ever seen him in that movie when he plays Jack the Ripper?" I had not, and Deb and I both looked at each other quizzically. "It's AWESOME!" he enthused.
At this point I've seen just about every second of Rickman that's been committed to celluloid, with the exception of Michael Collins (don't know what I'm waiting for) and of course his more obscure BBC stuff. I think, in all my covetous drooling over his filmography, I would have heard of him playing Jack the Ripper.
The answer of course is that he never did. Tony was thinking of David Warner, who played Saucy Jack in a sci-fi flick called Time After Time (I like David Warner fine, though thank god it isn't an obsession. The man's resumé is longer than my whole body). Based on Tony's exuberant description -- something about Jack discovering a time machine and being chased by HG Wells across time -- it sounds unbearably cheesy and silly, and lord knows my cheese tolerance is pretty high. Plus, how do you confuse Alan Rickman with David Warner?
Then as Tony was exiting the loft area, he stopped long enough to feign shock and outrage over my Snarry display (see icon), which from there was a natural progression to the rampant homophobia we saw downstairs. Just get back into your closet, you self-hating homo.
~*~
Now, for some ( ::quickie movie reviews!!:: )
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Third (and hopefully final) part of the iClone Saga:
Feb 20: Surprise! Replacement iClone shows up. Not new, and just superficially testing functions reminds me how freaking annoying this phone is (now that I'm deeply in love with the Motorola). At least it doesn't have the buzzing noise which was the blessing in disguise that forced me into these events in the first place. I leave negative feedback for the seller, which is highly satisfying despite having nowhere near the space to describe all the problems he's given me. I limit my complaint to the protracted waiting period for the replacement. I get phone boxed up for reselling.
Feb 21: I can't resist peeking in at my comment. Seller has the nerve to claim he didn't receive my return until Feb 10 and what could he do? I was a "hard buyer." If you all turn to page one of your Saga history, you'll see I sent it back Priority Jan 26, and that I still have the email of Jan 29 claiming my replacement was on its way. Selling 101 for ccslickscompany? Honesty is the best policy. If there are problems, explain them to me. I won't be happy, but you know what won't fix the situation? Lying to me. And if you're caught in that lie? Things won't get better if you turn around and call ME a liar. I know all this and I haven't taken one course in business school. I can't leave it alone. I clarify correct shipping date, and accuse the seller of lying repeatedly to cover mistakes. Since eBay doesn't like flame wars, I think I'll get the last word.
Feb 24: I put the iClone up on eBay, hoping ccslickscompany doesn't find a way to sabotage me, and REALLY hoping any prospective buyers don't bother accessing my feedback and notice the Motorola and accessories among my transactions.
Feb 25: At this writing I already have three watchers and one bid, after answering several questions about "how used is used?" and "why should I give you X amount for a used phone when a new one is X amount?" Yep, short of disappearing and refusing a refund, this seller couldn't have screwed me any harder.
~*~
Tery's First Annual Academy Awards™ party was a smashing success. She went all out -- decorations, Oscar™-themed appetizers, door prizes, Pictionary, even "programs" with trivia and games for every category. She was determined to make this the event of the decade.
I helped with cleaning the house. The bird watched us toiling away with excitement, thinking she would be front row and center for the festivities. She didn't realize part of the plan would be wheeling her oversized cage (and her) into the bedroom out of the way to make space for the food table. I compared it to arriving early for a concert and thinking you're in the front row, only to have the ushers appear and make you move back for the VIP ticketholders.
Anyway, my contribution, paltry though it was, wasn't nearly as disappointing as Tery's frienemy, Kristy from the bar, who had promised to bring 2-3 appetizers and a bag of ice. She showed up an hour late, emptyhanded and already drunk/stoned.
Fortunately Tery has a lot of experience not relying on other people and had prepared quite a spread already. When Kristy saw the layout, she exclaimed, "We should totally go into the party planning business together!" Naturally Tery's thought was "We?! You couldn't even remember ice, and you came from A BAR." She and her boyfriend also insisted that we had to attend their wedding in Vegas in April. We were concerned they were serious for a minute, before remembering these people couldn't even get their shit together enough to come get our old couch when we offered it for free.
Boyfriend Gary then told me he had taken an application test for a medical transcription job. The test was really easy, just a matter of correct spelling. He could do my job at night for a few hours while watching cartoons. Part of me was of course insulted by the trivializing of my career, but a larger part was horrified at the idea of him preparing medical records so casually (and I'm sure there would be alcohol involved as well). Likening it to building birdhouses or whatever people do as unskilled work-at-home laborers. Again, I'm sure nothing will come of it; they don't even have a computer, and good luck finding a company that will let you work only whenever the whim takes you.
The other guest of note was Tery's bar friend Tony. Tony and I have a lot in common, movie-wise. Tery has been telling each of us about the other for awhile, this was our first meeting. He presented me with a "swag bag" of goodies, which upon closer inspection proved to be stickers, patches and buttons of comic books, independent bands and movies I couldn't care less about. He explained he was trying to "de-clutter" his house, which simultaneously made me glad none of it was supposed to hold any special meaning for me, while thinking it was kind of tacky to announce "here's a bunch of garbage and I want you to have it."
This was Tony's style -- opinionated, outspoken, brutally honest and somewhat egocentric fanboy. A bit like me, except with Tery's patient guidance I've gained a teeny bit more tact over the years. I didn't mind so much on a one-to-one basis, but then we rejoined the party and he began to rail very loudly and obnoxiously every time Slumdog Millionaire was mentioned (which, if you watched the show, was pretty often). "Fuckity fuck fuck!!!" he'd shout over everyone else, "Are you fucking KIDDING me??" Mind you, he's never seen Slumdog. Being a comic boy, he seemed to think Dark Knight deserved every award. I suggested he wait until he saw the movie before attempting to criticize it.
At its height we had twelve guests here and it went very well thanks to Tery's extensive agenda of games and activities. Eventually everyone trickled out until it was only us, Tony and MyFriendDeb left, determined to see the end "on the off-chance Slumdog DOESN'T win," Deb said. Then Sean Penn won for Milk and Tony started making gagging sounds. He brayed, "He only won because he kissed a guy and managed to make it look like he enjoyed it!"
Some facts: He knows about Tery and me. His first question when Tery invited him to the party was whether there would be any cute gay guys there. Later in the evening (while making amends for this comment), he confessed to a brief gay relationship in college. What we have here is a classic self-loathing closet case.
I made my anger known. The good thing about blunt people is they respect the same quality in others, sometimes. He was appropriately ashamed, apologizing no less than three times before he left. He said he was nervous about making a good impression and trying too hard to be funny. Well, it's difficult to imagine anyone reading a room more disastrously. I'm going to a party hosted by a lesbian couple -- perfect time to break out my homophobic repertoire!
We weren't the only victims of his social awkwardness. He apparently took quite a shine to our neighbor Genevieve, who is cute enough but also married. He told her he hadn't "gotten any" for two years (his wife is terminally ill) and made it clear he was interested in her. She went home shortly after that. I've been subjected to a similar "compliment" once. There's cutting through the bullshit and refusing to play games, and then there's acting like a creepy psychostalker.
( ::Anyway, onto the photos!:: )
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The iClone saga continues:
Feb 13: Tery sends me a video of Criss Angel performing at a grocery store: he cuts open a normal-appearing lemon to reveal an egg, inside of which is a live baby chick. "Terrific," I grumped. "He can get livestock inside fruit. I can't even get one fucking phone shipped from eBay."
Feb 14: According to the USPS website my Motorola phone was processed at their Denver facility. It didn't arrive here though, which means it spends the weekend (Monday's Presidents' Day holiday included. Damn you, Presidents) tooling around in the back of a delivery truck, I assume. Or sitting on an outbound loading dock. Either way, Tery had yet another occasion to roll her eyes at me. "A control freak like you shouldn't spend so much time dealing with the Post Office," she said. Don't I know it.
Feb 15: iClone seller magically appears out of the woodwork to decline my request for a refund. Oh, THERE you are, Mr. Man. "Please cancel dispute. Replacement phone shipped." Yes, well, please forgive me if I don't hold my breath waiting for it, since this would be the third time you've claimed such a thing. I'm amassing quite a collection of emails from this guy saying "replacement phone shipped." I said "If/when I ever get the phone, I'll think about cancelling the dispute, but you haven't given me much reason to trust you." Fool me once, shame on you...
Feb 16: Presidents' Day. I don't want to talk about it.
Feb 17: I spend the morning positioning my security camera (bought for spying on the crankwhore, equally useful for watching for mail delivery truck) on the balcony, so WHEN my phone arrives I can retrieve it and charge it up for playing later. Tery says from the couch without opening her eyes, "I don't know why you're bothering. It's not coming today." (The nickname "joy-sucking robot" isn't casually bestowed) She later changes to "It won't work properly even if it does get here," which I have to begrudgingly grant is a possibility. Camera turns out to be unnecessary, since oversized package is delivered straight to doorstep along with everything else, including phone. Phone already charged so I start playing immediately (not a good thing, have to work). After fifteen minutes can tell it's better than iClone. Texting quick and fun, video files play without a hitch, better camera, call quality is excellent. Only bad is apparently not able to text photos, but again nothing compared to horrible iClone.
~*~
As if I don't have enough to annoy me, this past weekend at the kennels when I arrived Friday night Dr. E. was still there. She's my least favorite of the doctors because she's kind of stiff and aloof, and has the bedside manner of a store mannequin. As evidenced by this particular incident, where I was on the complete opposite side of the room from where she was checking a wee puppy on fluids. I barely caught the phrase "down to 5." Slowly I deduced she wanted the fluid rate lowered from 10 down to 5, and furthermore she expected me to do it, despite her being several feet closer to the machine than me. I crossed the room and did it, wondering why she didn't just do it herself. Dr. N., for instance, had a much more hands-on approach, I knew.
Later I bitched to Tery about it. I thought she was testing me or something. She sighed heavily, "You're just the latest to complain about her. That's her way. She's the medical director. She doesn't do anything herself, she just barks orders from across the room." Yeah, if you call muttering under your breath "barking." I understand superiority and all that, I just don't think there's much place for it in a small practice like Tery's where everyone is needed to lend a hand. Mostly I wondered why, in one of very few professions where clear and concise communication can sometimes mean life or death, a lot of doctors seem so uniquely and absurdly incapable of expressing themselves.
Then as I was letting her out she asked if I wanted her to lock the door (note: I was standing right there at the door). Did she honestly think I didn't know how to lock the door? That would certainly be something to get away with for two years without anyone noticing.
Tery also later told me how she had asked if I should call her if I had any problems with one of the hospitalized dogs (actually my Beowulf, wasn't doing so well. He's better now). He's officially a patient of Dr. L, who had the day off and therefore wasn't up-to-date on the status. Dr. E. looked at Tery like she'd just asked her to land on the moon.
I call other doctors regarding Dr. E's patients all the time, because I HATE calling her, so Tery really needn't have bothered asking. I said to Tery, "Tell her I'd rather watch an animal die than call her in the middle of the night," which isn't far from the truth. Because I HAVE called her in the middle of the night and the animal died anyway, while I was waiting for her to slur out instructions in the middle of a drunken stupor. I'd much rather call Dr. N., who sounds wide awake even at 3 a.m. THAT'S a professional.
~*~
Enough of that. Monday I went to see Coraline in 3D with Ryan and HIS BOYFRIEND JOHN (okay, John's not that big a deal anymore). Again almost a near-miss, I don't know why it's so hard to organize anything with that boy.
Original plan was a 7 pm show after they got out of work. I of course have the entire day off on Mondays. I text Ryan to ask if we're riding together or meeting. He returns text at 11:30, but I don't check phone until 1:05. "We called out from work. Is there an earlier show?" Well yeah, there's an earlier show. At 1:00, which we obviously just missed. Grrr. I call him and gently chastise him for not calling me instead.
Then he texted me again at 3:00, saying there was a 4:00 show we could make. Again I barely caught this text in time, and silently growled again that he didn't just call me. Long story short, we caught this show, but almost didn't.
My review is pretty short and sweet, unlike the movie. It's fairly faithful to the book, with the exception of an extraneous and annoying added character, the boy Wybie (who is fairly instrumental in the end with helping Coraline defeat the evil, which I took exception to. As if Coraline wasn't capable of doing it alone, as she is in the book).
Simple story: Coraline is bored out of her mind in the new house her parents have moved into. Mom and dad are too busy to entertain her. The eccentric neighbors are marginally better at it. Then Coraline discovers a mysterious passageway leading to what appears to be a replica of her world, except more fun and more Coraline-centric. Except Other Mom and Other Dad have black, dead button eyes. Eventually Coraline realizes there's a dark side to this world, namely her Other Mother is hell-bent on keeping her and traps her. Coraline needs to outwit her and escape.
The book is pretty damn creepy, and moves a lot faster than the movie. The first half hour or so moved at a snail's crawl for me, once the wondrous stop-motion 3D novelty wore off. It seemed like a lot of nothing happening, then WHAM! it turns a corner and is suddenly very fast and very scary. There must have been some way to even it out a little.
The one thing I loved was the cat, who in classic Gaiman style is a free, semi-supernatural agent able to move between worlds with hidden powers. A little like real cats.
I begrudgingly agree with some of the reviews I read, it might have been TOO scary for small kids. One mother commented on "What a sad moment it is when a movie like this is marketed to children so misleadingly." What a sad moment it is when parents take commercials at face value and don't bother doing any further research. That Neil Gaiman seems like such a nice young man, doesn't he? Eh, we had The Wizard of Oz (Tery is still afraid of flying monkeys to this day), I think the kiddies will survive.
It is pretty amazing to think how some scenes of the movie took months to shoot (stop-motion takes days to film just a few seconds sometimes), not to mention the "microknitter" woman who hand knits all the clothing on leeetle teeny tiny knitting needles. But apart from the art direction, I think it moved too slowly to keep either children or adults entertained. Which isn't to say I won't be buying the DVD.
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touched ?
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hungry
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frustrated
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good
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