Say YES to scaring baby videos!

I dare you not to laugh as hard as this kid. Dare. You.

Ms. Pacman is on the run inside my brother

My brother called tonight to discuss a very serious problem he's been having.

And before I go further, I want a disclaimer stating that I *know* this is a serious problem. I get it.

But I'm the girl who laughs at funerals and cries when something's really funny.

My brother recently learned he has a heart problem. In that, he's lost a part of his heart.  A little hole got punctured in it and the piece of the heart that's gone is now traveling through his body, causing seizures and other problems. And to make it worse, he might have to have open heart surgery someday and because of other medical conditions he has, the doctors don't think he could survive such a surgery.

Yes, I know it's serious.

Tonight, he calls me to say that the Docs have figured out what ails him and in the past two days, he's had some sort of radiation treatment to help the doctors find these pieces (because the original piece then split in two) of his heart floating around his body.

But instead of the radiation finding and "tagging" these pieces, like it was supposed to, my brother said it just "ate them up."

This is when I began to laugh inappropriately.

Of course my brother, being the big sissy he is, with a hole in his heart and all, is outraged.

"Why are you laughing about this?! This isn't funny!" he cries.

Oh, but it is. The doctors didn't know the stuff they put in him was actually going to eat up his floating heart pieces. Come. On.

And through my laughter, I managed to spit out that it sounds like Ms. Pacman was let loose in his insides and she just ate a piece of his heart, cause it was in her path

Then, I laughed more.  But this time, my brother joined in.

After we hung up, he downloaded the Ms. Pacman music to make it his ringtone.

Laughter really is the best medicine. :)

Remember, on Friends, when Joey got a job on an informercial demonstrating the inate difficulties involved in pouring milk?

His friend's reaction to the commercial at the time is quite similar to my reaction to this As Seen On TV product. Just... why?  Can someone tell me why this product exists?  Because hammers are just too tough?

Know what's sadder? 

I'd probably buy it. Might find it handy. *sigh* My sincerest apologies for embracing ridiculousness to the rest of the world .

The Oven-Lovin'-Nonstick-Crispy-Sheet

She can't just call this a "baking sheet"?  Or a baking pan? I can work with either, really...


http://www.foodnetworkstore.com/oven-lovin-nonstick-crispy-sheet-11x17-in-by-rachael-ray/shop/233406/

Discussing the Internet with People Who Don't Understand What the Internet Is.

This is a conversation from a meeting I had at my office today. Background: We were discussing a redesign of our organization's website. The other person in this meeting is not a 'dumb' person. But this was not her shining moment.

And because of that, I've chosen to call this other person "Candi" --- with an 'i'.

Candi: Can everyone see that website?

Me: Of course, I found it by doing a Google search.

Candi: But… I thought just you and I could see this site. Is this site live?

Me: Yes, it has been live for months.

Candi: But the site is not correct.

Me: No, it’s not.  This is why we’ve been trying to have this meeting for the last three months.

Candi: But I only thought that we could see the site.

Me: How did you see the site when you were in your office?

Candi: I googled it.

Me: *purses lips*

Candi: Where’s the old site?

Me: It doesn’t exist anymore. It was replaced with the new site.

Candi: It must exist.  Where do you keep it? Perhaps in your filing cabinet?

Me: It does not exist in my filing cabinet or within the files on my computer. It’s gone.

Candi: Where do websites go when you take them down?

Me: Nowhere. Either the website gets pulled down because you stop paying for it, or in this case, you replace it with a new site.

Candi: But the old website must still exist.

Me: It doesn’t.

Candi: But it did exist.

Me: It did. And now it does not.

Candi: But it used to be an actual website.

Me: It was a website, not a dead person. The old site doesn’t exist. There is no cemetery of dead sites.

Candi: *continues to look confused*

Me: *still silent*

Candi: Are you sure the website’s not out there somewhere, like a ghost website.

Me: I hate to inform you, but there is no internet heaven. There are no website ghosts.

Candi: But…

Me: No.

Candi: ehh…

Me: No.

…

Me: Just. No.

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

It's days like this I wish I didn't have to interact with people at all. 

Unless you were in my head...

Unless you were in my head regularly, you probably wouldn't know that ice cream is my favorite food.

I rarely eat it.

I think the last time I had ice cream, I was out with friends. Who wanted to stop at an ice cream shop. And so I had one scoop.

Ice cream has become one of those treats I rarely allow myself.  There's very little in life I 'splurge' for, being on a tight budget in an expensive economy and all.  I shop with coupons at the grocery store--- obsessively, and I shop strategically at grocery stores, only spending the necessary minimum to earn 10 or 20 cents off of my gas bill when I go to fill up. I only buy what's on sale. My last purchase of clothing was during a 30 percent off everything sale with coupons good as cash in hand to help pay for the purchases.

My cosmetics are more expensive.  At least, more expensive than your drug store variety cosmetics. Less expensive, however, than many types of "high-end" cosmetics. 

And I like expensive ice cream.  I'll spend $10 on a quart of delicious, homemade ice cream from a treatery near my house before I'd spend $4 on a gallon from the grocery store.

That's not to say I won't eat the $4 stuff, if someone handed me a bowl of it at no cost. But if I'm buying, I'm prepared to pay out the nose for it. Or into my mouth. Or...surely there's a better turn of phrase for this here.  Lemme know.

That last ice cream I had?  I'm doing the math... it was nearly six weeks ago.  Yet every day, at lunch, after dinner... hell, sometimes I wonder if I could get away with it at breakfast (and I live alone. I totally, absolutely could. Who's gonna tell on me? And to who?).

I'm sitting here, thinking about ice cream now, as I type. How I very much would enjoy a creamy milkshake or a candy-filled scoop on a waffle cone. And I don't leave to obtain it.

I've made no attempt, other than locating in my mind all of the establishments nearby my office that serve up creamy deliciousness from the heavens, to obtain a treat to satisfy this constant thought process. Worse yet, there's an entire half-gallon of dutch chocolate ice cream in my freezer at home (not the most expensive stuff, but not cheap either). 

This leads me to the question: Why am I denying myself this treat?  I'm not quite my grandmothers, who believe ice cream is the third course of every meal. Perhaps my inclination for craving ice cream at *all* times is, in fact, genetic. Thanks Grandmas.

Perhaps it's unhealthy to deny myself this craving. Perhaps I'd stop craving ice cream if I just sated my desire for it.

Isn't that how desires work.  Someone tell me yes, please.

No, today won't be an ice cream day.  But perhaps there's something to look forward to tomorrow...

Silence would be appreciated

I wish my camera phone didn't make noise. Because then, I could take a photo and share with you the glory that is the moomoo a coworker of mine wore to work today.

I didn't think moomoos existed anymore. Is that even how one spell's it? (A Google search turned up a better spelling of "Muumuu" for all intents and purposes. Yet, "moomoo" feels more accurate.

I am not a fashionista. I could care less about something that appears on a runway, unless it has something to do with the plane I'm about to board, I suppose (and then I'm thinking safety over style... I'm digressing).   


Anywaaaaaaay ... Come. On. A moomoo?

I've always associated the fashion mistake that is the moomoo with my mom... who is a human mistake walking in all aspects of life. She used to wear them all the time, but I've got to give her props in that I can't ever remember her wearing the moomoo out of the house.










Unless the driveway counts. *remembers neighbors reactions...* Okay, yeah, it counts. But, more digression...

My coworker is not an unattractive woman. And I know her fashion sense is a wee less than mine, given that I've seen the intricate patterned (read: colorful cat) sweaters she's worn. But... the moomoo? She came to my desk to discuss... something, I'm really not sure what, because I couldn't stop staring at the full turtlenecked, long-sleeve, skirt-to-the-floor moomoo she was wearing.

Obviously, human resources departments should take such distracting clothing choices into account when writing dress codes into the books.

Just terrible

I'm incredibly bad at blogging.

It was the same when I was a kid. Every year I'd get a new diary for my birthday. And throughout the year, I'd forget to write in it.

Probably much to the chagrin of my mother, who purchased them so she could come into my bedroom and read them later. Ha.

It's not that I don't want to blog. I do.

It's not that I have nothing to say. That's crazy-talk. Much like the stuff I have to say.

I just forget to do it sometimes.

And by sometimes, I mean a lot. All the time. Years have gone by in some cases.

Anyway, I'm avoiding doing other things today so I thought perhaps, I'd write this. It's a start. I think.

(Not really. What a waste of space.)

Yeah, sweetie, the sex was mind-blowing

Excuse me, but you have no evidence but the other person’s word that the sex was ‘mind-blowing’ if having sex gives you amnesia. In fact, maybe it was awful and you’re just trying to forget it, but your husband Fred is all ‘No really, honey, it was an amazing time! I can’t believe you don’t remember it was the best sex you've ever had! We should get you to a doctor ASAP!’

I call 'suspect' on the husband's story. http://bit.ly/oCOK9q

Mandarin Orange Protest of 2011

There are those days… and for me, these days come often… when I wish I could claim to be related to anyone else but my family.

The story goes like this: My aunt, who is crazy sixteen ways to Timbuktu, sends out e-mails like it’s 1999. That’s not a metaphor. She really forwards e-mails with messages from Pat Robertson and jokes and all sorts of smiley faces bouncing around like the emoticon just got invented, with some sort of “Pass is on to 10 more people and God will continue to love you” ultimatum at the bottom of the e-mail.

My aunt and her whole branch of the family are of the Tea Partying, Sarah-Palin-is-an-American-Hero-and-Obama-is-trying-to-make-us-all-Islamic-Communists-who-worship-Satan-and-healthcare mindset. So to be fair, I know when I’m opening these e-mails it’s not going to be a message from a Mensa member.

But I open them anyways. And last week, I was hit with a deluge of them too. One was the “Oxymorons” email, which I’m fairly sure my aunt re-sends every six months. For example:

“Why do slow up and slow down mean the same thing?”

(Dear Aunt Brenda, while they do essentially mean the same thing, ‘slow up’ is a term that deals most often with velocity. For example, pilots pull up on their joysticks to slow a plane down, hence they “slow up.”)

But I get the irony. Ha. … Ha. It is very funny. *deep breath*

But my favorite e-mail from last week was about the state of the American economy and how something as simple as Mandarin oranges will be the end of America as we know it.

The direct text (I kid you not) and in all caps, so we hear her slash spam-sending-guy's outrage:

I WAS BUYING FOOD THE OTHER DAY AT WALMART and ON THE LABEL OF SOME PRODUCTS IT SAID 'FROM CHINA '

FOR EXAMPLE THE "OUR FAMILY" BRAND OF THE MANDARIN ORANGES SAYS RIGHT ON THE CAN 'FROM CHINA '

I WAS SHOCKED SO FOR A FEW MORE CENTS I BOUGHT THE LIBERTY GOLD BRAND OR THE DOLE SINCE IT'S FROM CALIF.

First of all, if you want to take issue with the state of the American economy, perhaps you should choose NOT to shop at Wal-Mart and instead indulge in shopping at one of your local groceries. At some of these stores, they even sell fresh, non-canned oranges that the state of Florida, in the United States of America, is well-known for growing.

Second, MANDARIN ORANGES ARE CHINESE ORANGES!

Did my caps lock make it a more effective experience for you? I thought so.

They are Chinese Oranges. There's an entire region of China, a section of my Chinese food menu and 1.051 billion people on Earth who speak a language labeled 'Mandarin.' And yes, that region of China produces oranges. In fact, China produces 1500 percent more Mandarin Oranges than the second highest producing country in the world every year. Why? Because these oranges are native to China! The Mandarin orange was around China for at least 3,000 years before any other country began to grow them.

And in case you were wondering about their whole "American" point, Dole’s Mandarin Oranges are grown in Japan. Liberty Gold’s Mandarin oranges are produced in Indonesia and … wait for it … CHINA.

Just because they are California companies, doesn’t mean these foreign oranges are of native descent. Again, because they are oranges of foreign origins. (say that three times fast.)

I’m a big believer in buying and eating locally, because doing so is better for our health and environment. I’m the tree-hugging, hippy-dippy liberal that my family in the ‘Michelle Bachmann Rulz’ t-shirt owning business doesn’t understand.

And maybe their arguments would mean more to me if they weren’t shopping at Wal-Mart while trying to buy American Mandarin Oranges (These magical oranges fall in the same category as Freedom FrenchFries and All-American Belgian Waffles). By all means, shop at Wal-Mart if you choose. But don’t scream in righteous outrage when you figure out their secret to low, low prices. In fact, I applaud Wal-Mart for stating on their label that their oranges come from China (I had to do a bit more research to find out where the California orange-canning companies get the oranges the can in America from).

Or protest eating a foreign-grown Mandarin Orange by eating a Florida-grown naval orange instead. But to be upset that Chinese oranges come from China? Enough already, you blowhards.

I tire of the moral indignation people on the right… and the left… feel regarding where everything we make comes from. And those lefties drive me nuts too. I drive an American made car. How do I know that? My Honda Civic was built at a plant 20 minutes from my house by some American guy or gal who shops in the same grocery store I do. But Honda is a Japanese corporation, therefore, my car, and myself by extension, are evil.

Bite me.

On this note, I wish people have to stop shouting just for the sake of hearing their own voice or seeing their thoughts in caps lock. It takes very little thought or schooling to know that Mandarin oranges originate from China. It's right there in the name and everything.

The end of my aunt’s e-mail asks everyone reading to commit to buying American only not just one day or one week a month, but “for 30 days of every month, all year long.”

So, per my Aunt’s request, I encourage you to go hog wild on the 31sts of January, March, May, July, August, October and December every year and buy nothing but foreign made products. Go China.

Ten Steps

I can’t even pretend to understand it.

Okay, I can… but still, it frustrates me to no end.

I work on floor six of an eight-story building. Six floors, I dare to say, is a reasonable amount of floors to take the elevator. So is floor three, in my opinion.

But those poor people on floor two. They have 10 whole steps to climb from the bottom of the building to their floor. Ten freaking steps.

Plenty of people in my building use the stairs. I’m one of them on occasion. But never, ever will you see someone on the second floor use those stairs.

I’m never *not* in an elevator with a person from the second floor. In the morning, there’s always one person who gets into the elevator for the second floor. On my way down, we always stop on the second floor to pick someone up. During the elevator’s busiest times or its slowest times, we have to stop on the second floor.

It’s 10 freaking steps!

Residents of the second floor— you should know everyone else in the building mocks you relentlessly. We all collectively groan when the flashing light stops on Two… and that group eyeroll you see when you go to get on? Yes. That was for you.

Ten steps people. Ten steps.