Post-Xmas Cheer (Brought to you in part by Trader Joe's Selection of Sparkling and Red Wines)

Christmas 2010- I think I did it wrong.

This is my first Christmas in the USA. Previously, my holiday times were spent in warm places, where long lines at the grocery store on Christmas Eve didn't exist, and we weren't stuck in an unspoken war with our neighbours about the degree to which we could illuminate our lawns with fake, glowing reindeer. (We lost.)

Let me summarise the evidence against us. We bought our tree, (our official one, apparently the tiny artificial one didn't count) on the 24th of December. We actually decorated it on the 25th. We wrapped our presents on the 25th. It's now the 26th, and we still haven't opened them. (I blame laziness? Although I could try to pass it off as our spirituality- foregoing the material, superficial side of Christmas, but who am I kidding.)

"I'm dreaming of a White Christmas" was transformed by my brother into the less-festive, "I'm dreaming of a drunk Christmas." Post-Christmas mass on Saturday, my brother and I lamented our lack of vodka and bloody Mary mix, a lingering pain which was soon assuaged by copious amounts of Trader Joe's "vintage" 2010 wine. (It's what happens when you drink all of the good stuff and you scour the back of the closet for available booze options. You get the oft-neglected, watered-down options that you tell yourself you will just be using for the kitchen.)

We're usually much better at this Christmas thing, so I blame an ill-conceived three day roadtrip to Montreal and back as the cause of the permanent ripple in our Christmas-time cheer.

Now that Christmas is over, here's what we all have to look forward to:
-A stop to the barrage of eardrum assaulting Christmas music that's played every single place you go. 

-Please, God, if you like me at all, stop television executives from playing any commercial that includes a snippet of Vampire Weekend's "Holiday." To the smug guy at the end of the Tommy Hilfiger commercial, "NO I DON'T JUST LOVE THE HOLIDAYS DOUCHEBAG!" (My hatred for this is worsened by the fact that it's played in every single cab in New York City). I refuse to ad a clip to this commercial, even thinking about it gets this song stuck in my head. Instead, douchebag's douchey facial expression:

-The end of Christmas movies. Really, who has ever watched a good Christmas movie? 

-A permanent diet and unfulfilled resolve to go to the gym that will last till next Thanksgiving when we stuff ourselves and the cycle recommences.

On that happy note, Merry Christmas 2010!

No Country for Flyer Distributors

I had a job for two days this week.
As wonderful as it was to feel productive for 48 hours, said job involved an activity that could be easily used as a form of torture: handing out flyers in New York City. 

"I hope you dressed warm today," the boss said as I arrived to temporary job.
"How nice of him to care..." I thought, not realizing the reason behind this question- an impending 45-minutes of finger-face-numbing cold handing out papers to unwilling passers-by.

If you've been to NY I'm sure you know that the only thing New Yorkers fear more than people handing out flyers is BED BUGS and high rent. I think you need to be a person of extremely strong character and possess sky-high levels of self-esteem NOT to be permanently perturbed by an experience such as begging New Yorkers to take your flyers.

As you can tell, my experience started out poorly.

An example of an exchange I had with random street-dawdler:

Me: "There's a really great sale going on upstairs if you're interested!"
Scared Person: "Ok"
Me: "Would you like to come? IT'S UPSTAIRS!..?"
SP: "No.... Thanks..." (insert impatient glare)
Me: "Will you at least take a flyer...?"
SP: "Sure...."
Me: "You can throw it away later..."

After that point, I helplessly flailed flyers in the face of an on-coming barrage of people who would a)ignore me b) glare at me or c) just say NO and walk on. (C was the most infuriating of all) People will go to great lengths to evade walking in the path of your flyers. But I relished in catching the ones who tried to run away. MUAHAHAHAH! And I think I fell in love with all the ones who actually did take a flyer.

I went from anger...(ITS JUST A FLYER I'M NOT GOING TO GIVE YOU HERPES OR MAKE YOU UNDERGO A SCIENTOLOGY STRESS TEST PEOPLE)

to soul-crushing defeat...(WHY DO YOU HATE ME I'M SO COLD WHYYY) 
  
back to anger... (I HATE YOU SOULLESS PEOPLE!) 

to a severe ego shattering...(WHATS WRONG WITH MEEE??) 

then right back to anger (GRRRR ROARRRR)

And I swore to myself, that I will always (or almost always) take a flyer from a cold  outstretched hand.

Victory Is MINE!!!

I've DONE IT!!!!!

Evil Scanner has succumbed to my efforts, I don't know how or why, but it's working!!! I know you were all super curious as to the outcome of this THRILLING EMOTIONAL ROLLER-COASTER of a SAGA!

Its Me Against The Scanner

I'm sinking deeper and deeper into a spiral of depression all because of an evil inanimate object sent to earth by what I can only assume are dastardly extra-terrestrials trying to make my life miserable and prevent me from getting a job.

My Printer/Scanner All In One Contraption, AKA the very bane of my existence.

I'm now in a battle to the death with it. It refuses to work, and I refuse to rest until I have it under my full control.

Let's start at the beginning of this tale. I spent most of my weekend watching this on ABC Family:

And finishing these:

So I thought, today, I'd start tackling all the more adult tasks in my life.  Starting with the evil scanner. I spent an hour looking for the CD to install it, a search which involved me "organising" my documents. This is what ensued:

(The universe sent a marathon session of Keeping up with the Kardashians to my television to distract me from this task. Every second I watch it, my IQ sinks by a couple points- this was surely a ploy to reduce my capabilities in the face of my scanner.)

I found the CD, magically NOT hidden anywhere near my "documents" collection but on my bedside table in full-view. Point one to you, scanner, touche.

Then, the death struggle between us started. It taunted me with its little green flashing lights and its strange noises, which scared my cat into taking his afternoon nap in his carrier, next to his favourite stuffed animal. The scanner refused to do anything.  It's been about three hours that I've been struggling with this evil contraption, and we're at this point in our fight to the death:

And its making me feel like this:

I could give up on this and go to a Printing/Scanning store two blocks away. But it's too late now. I need to vanquish this scanner. It will perhaps take every ounce of energy and intelligence I have, but I will succeed. 

But first, this is very much needed:

Employment Fail

So, I had a job interview yesterday.

It was strange.

I arrived at the building (which, I'm sad to say, was in Washington D.C.). When I arrived at the lobby, the secretary immediately told me to sit down in a chair directly behind me.

When the chair started moving, I realised they'd sat me down in a wheelchair and some hefty man was now pushing me at full-speed through the corridors of an office building, navigating around desks and cubicles. Did I look physically impaired? Or was my laziness so apparent to the world that they figured a time-saving technique would be pushing me around at turbo-speed? I was thoroughly confused.

Heftyheftyhefty parked the chair near a cubicle and I was face to face with my interviewer. She introduced me to her underling, an earnest sliver of a man wearing thick-framed glasses and an immaculately groomed coif.

Then she asked for my resume.

Shit, my resume.

I knew I had it in my bag somewhere...Like a madwoman, I searched through the contents of a knapsack which I then realised was probably not appropriate for a job interview. But the only thing I could find was a stack of embarrassing lady magazines.

"Erm, maybe you could look on your email? I sent it to you." I asked imploringly.

"MMMmmmm...No." She said, emoting her dissatisfaction in one big "Whatthefuckiswrongwithyou" look.

Imagine this look in a human form.

Finally, I found it, folded in one of the many books I'd somehow fit in my bag. (I thought about making a crack about an extendable bag charm as I'd just seen Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows but I though better of it)

She sat me in front of a TV screen to watch one of their on-going projects.

"You've heard of our urban-renewal-wildlife-blah-blah-blah-not-listening-to-the-words-you're-saying project, haven't you?"

"Ohh, of course," I said, realising I had no clue about the images being projected on the screen. First there were lobsters. Then a pile of hay. Then two angry looking dogs chasing after an elephant.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw two small children watching eagerly. Somehow, I gathered skinnyeagerassistant was babysitting them for scaryboss. Their commentary was a little distracting:

"Oh my good I can't wait till the dogs catch the elephants....YEAAHHHH!!!!"

I was already struggling to keep my eyes open when a huge blonde blob materialised under my outstretched hand- it was an enormous golden retriever, begging for some affection. (WHAT kind of OFFICE IS THIS? I thought to myself, secretly happy that a canine presence would help keep me awake)

When my cooing and petting became distracting to the pair evaluating me, I focused back on the urbanrenewalwildlife mumbo jumbo.

But...Sosleeepyyyyy..why didn't I drink more caffeine? Would they notice if I took a micronap?
My forehead felt heavy. With horror, I reached up and realised I was still wearing one of those airplane-eye-sheilding things from the night before.

GAAAAAAAAAAAAH! She'd surely noticed. It's not like I could pass it off as a fashion accessory. Or could I? What if I put it back on for a little nap?

Then all of it, the dog-nudging, children blabbering, skinnyasssistant glaring at me, reached a symphonic zenith and suddenly I heard a bell ringing in the distance.

My next-door-neighbor's doorbell. I woke up.

I thought if I gave you a cute picture you'd forgive me for making you read this.

My Calling

 

"We need a wine knowledgeable person to enter wine tasting notes from various wine magazines into a wine database paraphrasing the wine reviews of the wine reviewer. This is a part time position which should take approximately ten to twenty hours a week. You will need to have a PC computer and Windows Access 2002 or Windows XP. You will work from your home. Compensation is $10/hr."

It appears that I've found the job that I was always meant to do. This would give me new excuses to drink, and would give me ammunition for detailed and flowery wine descriptions. I'll go from "Um, this wine is kind of sweet, right?" to "The bouquet of this fine red has a soupcon of oak and an earthy undertone that brings to mind summers walking on the Champs-Élysées." 

  

I've been training for this moment for most of my adult life (probably even before that).

(BTW, this new wine vocation led me on a google image search that brought me here somehow: http://www.mensup.fr/usbwine/?act=insc&mp=USBWINE&o=92&p=61)

This revolutionary device, according to the creepy people in the video, downloads wines DIRECTLY to your USB! For five minutes, I ALMOST fell for it, thinking "It can't be....But could it? No...But maybe? No...How would they get the wine in there? No...Maybe in a perfect world." This went on for a while before I discovered it was an April Fool's joke last year. Forget about flying cars, this is where the future lies...

This should all be going in my cover letter....

And The Winner Is...

You know how some sites have a prize for the 100th visitor?

Well, this is like that, but BETTER!

I'd like to offer this reward to my FIRST commentator, Anonymous aka Admittedly Harry Potter Obsessed Fanatic!

So I asked myself, what could I possibly do (in a virtual sense) to compensate this brave individual for her heroic actions? (And I resent your suggestion that I'm speaking hyperbolically)

It would have to be something that combined all the things she loves, for example, Harry Potter (duh), Jane Austen, Mr Darcy, Chocolate, and Colin Firth and Jeopardy. This will be quite a feat.

I know! A Jeopardy-style spin-off, hosted by Colin Firth in colonial garb, which covers subjects pertaining to Austen and Potter, and offers chocolate-themed rewards and trips to the Harry Potter Theme Park. There will of course be an inflatable pool on set for Colin Firth to recreate the pond-swimming scene from Pride and Prejudice. And of course, Anonymous (aka AHPOF) will be the only player and the constant winner of this game.

In the meantime, this will have to do:

"Oh hello AHPOF, I didn't see you there..."

What I Missed While I was in Suburbia

I've temporarily broken out of my suburban bubble -- until my upcoming Southern-bound TDay food coma-- and  have admittedly missed out on some revolutionary happenings in my beloved New York. 

People cutting down trees in the East Village: More specifically, beautiful Weeping Willows in Alphabet City.
The death of Four Loko: (Althought not really because apparently it's still available/legal in New Jersey. Caffeinated drunks live on!)
NYU was forced to give up part of their plan to take over the entire island of Manhattan, including its airspace
More Bedbugs, and the heroes in this whole bug-laden mess.
Coffee Porn in a Cup: It's not as interesting as it sounds. I was picturing a tea-leaf-like porn rendering in a coffee cup. But no, it's just a million espresso's in one recipient designed to make you feel like you're having heart irregularities.
A Hipster Fight Club on the lower east side? Oh no, imagine all those ironic mustaches, ironic bow ties, thick-framed glasses and seemingly unfinished haircuts being messed up. "The way you just hit me was soo post-modern," I can just imagine them saying...
The Quidditch World Cup: I have one friend in particular, an admittedly Harry Potter-obsessed fanatic, who would be all over this if she were in New York. Seeing people pretending to fly on broomsticks whilst trying to put a ball in a ring is right up there with seeing hipsters duke it out. (And now I'm expecting a lecture from my friend about the complex rules and regulations of Quidditch which I've probably grossly misrepresented.)


It's nice to be in a place where leaf-blowing and lawn-mowing (those aren't euphemisms) are not the main activities of the day. As I walked down the street yesterday, listening to the melodious sounds of a homeless man trying to beat box, I thought to myself, "Damn, it's good to be back."

Can I Put "Delusion" Under "Special Skills"?

 As I previously mentioned, I'm unemployed. Very much so. And yes, there are varying levels of unemployment. There's the chronically unemployed-- thankfully, I'm not a part of this group, although at the rate I'm going, busking in the subway may be a possibility. For the good of people travelling on any form of subterranean transportation, it's best (for their sanities and ear drums) I'm restrained from doing this. The only instrument at which I'm proficient is the recorder, (see number three) and I doubt anyone wants flashbacks of their elementary school recorder experiences.


Since I am unemployed, and have copious amounts of time on my hand which should ideally be used for job searching but is rather employed anthropomorphising my cat and writing blog posts, I've devised a handy-dandy collection of ideas of things I should do whilst unemployed. I don't want you to think that I'm obsessed with lists, (and hence, anal) but I love lists.


1) Become a crossword puzzle genius: I briefly considered becoming a chess genius, but last time I played chess it was with a nine year old, and he beat me-- twice. In the past week, I was on a plane for a total of six hours. What did I do? I worked strenuously on the SAME NY magazine crossword puzzle. The. Same. One. As the little boxes filled in, I became convinced- I'm REALLY good at this shit! (There was a hint of delusion in the stale airplane air) So, I will become a mad crossword genius, and groups of people will gather round to watch me as I solve them in a matter of mere minutes. I'll be the Bobby Fischer of crossword puzzles. They'll make a film about me. I think I've said enough on the matter.

I don't want to tell you how much time this took. Also, I underestimated the number of letters in "puzzle"                

2) Learn to drive so I can prove that yes, I can reach the pedals : In the past month, I've been reengaged with suburban America. (Aka "The Real America) And I've discovered two things--- Firstly, this supposedly "real" land (in which the closest semblance of a cultural centre is a strip of chain stores) is kind of horrible. Secondly, if you don't have a car, or don't know how to drive, you're fucked. (I've always lived in cities, it was neither necessary nor safe since the cities were notorious for reckless driving) I've been told my legs are too short to reach the pedals, but screw you haters, I will soon be very comfortably sitting on a large cushion in the driver's seat.

You can get this fancy thing here- it swivels too....!

3) Teach myself to play the guitar that I have had for over six years: The guitar symbolizes how impressive my powers of delusion are. When I got it, I was (and still am) convinced I would be an autodidact, like those artists grueled for hours upon hours, alone, teaching themselves how to play guitar or piano, so they would someday write their masterpieces. (Or lip-sync to them) But I really didn't have the determination or drive for that. I learned a couple chords, but hit a wall when it came to the strumming bit. Maybe it's time for this pipe dream to be finally REALISED!


4) Coach my cat into being a You Tube sensation: This is probably the most realistic of my options. He's very charming and his antics would be rivaled only by "Charlie Bit Me." His act would be part Maru, (see below) part Charlie Chaplin. But I'm scared I will be an overbearing stage mother and that the fame will go to his head. I just want him to lead a normal life.

5)  Fruit Ninja high score: Ever since one of dear friend's has had an ipad in her life, it has been my dream and goal to beat her high score on Fruit Ninja. My quest remains unfufilled, and she is only getting stronger as I languish to surpass her. Must practice slicing fruits with panache and dexterity.

These are most of my more pragmatic suggestions. Any others would be very much appreciated-- for example, building a ten foot structure out of al dente macaroni, or placing tracking devices on squirrels for super important research about acorn. (ha! ACORN)

It's Hard Out Here (For a Manager of Prostitutes)

Sometimes, do you have trouble interpreting the poetry that is the oeuvre of the Yin Yang twins? Or the socio-psychological symbolism hidden in the words of a 50 Cent song? Are you confused when Bob Dylan makes references to rolling stones, or when Beyonce talks about putting a ring on it?

Thank God, there is a service out there for those colloquialismally-challenged people that need a line-by-line interpretation of songs.  It's called SlangCity and guess what it does...YES! It translates slang-laden songs! It does other stuff too, but this is no advertisment y'all. (ww.slangcity.com)

Let me give you a sample from their translation of Wanksta by 50 Cent

"Shorty she so fine/ Gotta make her mine/Ass like that gotta be one of a kind" 

-----------> "That attractive woman is so beautiful/I have to make her mine/Buttocks like that are unique"

But the best, by far and wide, the most horrible and beautiful assembling of words ever, is their rendition of Baby Got Back (By Sir Mixalot. It must have been such a wondrous moment when he was knighted) (BTW, the song's title would be translated to, 'The Woman Has a Large Butt"

"Ooh, Rump-o-smooth-skin/You say you wanna get in my Benz/Well use me, use me 'cuz you ain't that average groupie."

------------->"Ooh, butt with smooth skin,/ You say you want to get in my Mercedes Benz luxury car/

Well use me, use me because you aren't like the usual girls who follow musicians and offer them sex."

OR 

"Baby, I got it goin' on/A lot of simps won't like this song/'Cuz them punks like to hit it and quit it/But I'd rather stay and play/'Cuz I'm long and I'm strong/And I'm down to get the friction on."

-------------->"Baby, I am great /A lot of stupid men won't like this song/Because those weak losers like to have sex and quickly leave,/But I'd rather stay and play/Because I have a long penis and I'm strong,/And I'm eager to have sex with you."

Other personal favorites; It's Hard Out Here For a Pimp by Three 6 Mafia (rougly translates into It's Hard Out Here for a Manager of Prostitutes) or Single Ladies (Put a Ring On It) aka Single Ladies (If you liked our relationship, then you should have given me a wedding ring.)

They've also kindly hilighted in red the words that are obscenities, you know, in case you had some trouble pointing them out. Strangely enough, the standardising of all the lyrics makes the dirty ones seem EVEN MORE obscene in "proper English."

A couple days ago, I found this hilariously funny. Yesterday I showed it to my 21 year old brother and he barely chuckled, giving me a concerned side-eyed glance as I tried to repress my juvenile fit of laughter. I'm now re-examining the age of my sense of humor. (I've evaluated it to be 14 year old boy's) I'm admittedly a little ashamed.

I Can Has Blog?

 Citizens of the universe, I own my very own BLOG! I would be excited, but I'm told pretty much anyone is allowed to have one of these. I don't feel that special. Below find the reasons I didn't want to risk entering this risky territory. 

1) Other people: You know the ones I mean. They feel they're doing internet users everywhere an immense service by sharing the minutae of their daily lives. Twitter is bad enough, with it's "I just read an entire novel on the toilet and now I have an imprint of the toilet seat on my ass" style postings, but at least you're limited to 16-words of pain. This, coupled with the fact that their lack of self-awareness makes them think their every sentence is literary plutonium (that's right, more valuable than gold), makes me cringe when I read their quip vomit. (Quip vomit: An ailment experienced by people such as Kanye West, who experience the sudden and irrepressible urge to spew out their invaluable opinions, OFTEN IN CAPS-LOCK LIKE THIS.) The blog, when in the hands of quip vomiters, becomes a shrine to ME ME ME. I'm thinking of you, person who went overseas for the first time in his or her life and somehow absorbed all the cultures of every place everywhere by visiting one European city and needs to shout it from the rooftops.
2) I'm scared that I will become one of those people.
3) I'm scared that I already am one of those people.
4) I had another blog, but I hated it.
5) This list.

But WAIT! Reasons that I embarked on this blog thing.
1) Other people: Other people's blogs can be amazingly wonderful. A couple examples; http://www.iamjudgmental.blogspot.com, http://therealmofexcess.tumblr.com/, http://hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com/, http://www.moteldemoka.com, http://ny.eater.com/, to name a few. (I know the first two personally, if that has any effect on how much you like me)
2) Unemployment: I need something to prevent the sweet cloak of insanity from covering me forever.
3) Must offload the many observations about my cat without risking my friends knowing for certain that I am indeed a crazy cat lady.
4) Blog is an amusing word.