April 27, 2006
The Julia Roberts Story.
The story begins long ago in a town far away. Well, not from people who live in Pittsburgh. Here's the deal. My mom sometimes works for people designing silent auctions. A silent auction is basically eBay on paper. There's a bunch of tables in a big room and each of them is decorated with a theme. In front of each theme are several clipboards with the auction grid on it.
For example, the auctions we used to have at my private school were usually pretty cool. Little Johnny's dad was the goalie for the Pittsburgh Penguins, and he'd donate a signed stick or a sweaty jock strap or something. Little Suzie was the daughter of a Senator, so he donated a trip in a private jet to eat lunch in Washington, DC! Then a few tables down, the kindergarten designed a quilt by vomiting all the colored paste they ate.
So in steps my mom. She's given the list of items and she decorates the tables and the rooms with themes pertaining to them. The Penguin auction might be decorated with a stylish net and a stuffed penguin inside it. The Senator auction might have a miniature White House with...a stuffed plane by it. Okay, that auction would suck, but that's only because I got most of my personality from my dad. I can't thread a needle, but I can quote a comedy movie like nothin'.
Anyway, so my mom's awesome at this. She's like the Martha Stewart of auctions. After a few years, people told people who told people, and she's made it to some pretty cool auctions over the years. One is the Tiger Jam for the Tiger Woods Foundation in Vegas every year, which I'm actually going to this weekend. Whoo!
Another auction was a fund-raiser for Paul Newman's Hole-in-the-Wall Gang Camp. Besides making spaghetti sauce, Paul Newman holds a camp every year for kids with terminal diseases who wouldn't be able to go to a "regular" camp.
Then every year he invites a bunch of celebrities to put on a little show at the end of camp to raise money for the next year. Before the performance, there's an auction and a dinner, and since it's largely an invite-only event, the celebrities often mill around the campgrounds. You have to have a keen eye, since even the wealthy can be fan boys, but they're there.
Anyway, I've met some really cool people there, and most of them don't mind people coming up to them since, you know, it's a benefit. Even if the guests aren't the terminally ill ones, the celebrities are usually happy to take pictures with people and sign crap. One year, Julia Roberts was the Big Deal, so my mom, looking to have the coolest Christmas card evar, went searching her out to get a picture with the two of us. I should also say that my mom was wearing a bright red jacket, so she didn't exactly blend with the crowd.
We spotted her milling around behind the main theater building, and we casually strolled back there, like we did with most of the celebrities. It was off-limits to most guests, but my mom worked there, so we were allowed. Julia was alone, walking back to the make-up area, and she kept turning around to look at us. We kept walking casually, but then she'd turn around again and walk faster. Well, we were hardly gonna chase her down. At one point, she turned around a final time and sprinted off. I told my mom her red coat scared Julia off. I think I was 15 at the time, but clearly hilarious anyway.
We helped ourselves to some food and hung out by make-up for a while. I met Paul Newman's bodyguard, and he was really friendly. I also think he said he could bench me, which in hindsight probably should have been terrifying. As I recall, he looked like a 6-foot-tall Vin Diesel, even though Vin hadn't been invented until years later.
Anyway, we caught sight of Julia heading back from wherever she sprinted to, and she had no choice but to pass us again. Somehow the rudeness of "don't bother a celebrity" was overshadowed by "how cool would it be to get a picture with Julia Roberts?" and I got the guts to step out as she passed and asked for a picture.
"This is a benefit, isn't it? You can pay me for one," replied Julia fucking Roberts.
Unfortunately, my young 15-year-old mind wasn't finely tuned enough to shoot back with an equal insult of such ferocity that she'd swallow her collagen injections, and I believe I responded with the typical awkward teenage rebuttal of standing there with my mouth open. P-Pretty Woman? Wasn't she a hooker with a heart of gold? She wasn't my favorite actress, so I wasn't too torn up, but it was still strange to me and a little hurtful. I wasn't a frothing paparazzi goon, I was a 15-year-old who wanted a picture at a benefit.
The story doesn't stop there. The silent auction had a few special items that carried over into a live auction, which was basically the type you see on television where some MicroMachines announcer shouts out, "$1 billion, do I hear $2 billion? $2 billion to the woman wearing the diamond-studded hotpants!" I guess they were having trouble selling off some lame item, and Julia bounded down the stairs shouting, "Come on, guys! Bid on this! It's great!" and made all the WASPs laugh hysterically with her Vanna White impression because it was so fresh, and no one's ever done that hack shit before.
The item finally sold, and as she was making her way through the crowd, she was signing stuff and taking pictures with anyone who circled around her! I re-equipped my pride, told my mom in her blaring red jacket to stand back, and I sneaked into the crowd. I figured if I blended enough, I could probably get a picture just by catching her off guard. Plus, there were tons of other teenage girls in the crowd. I made it to the front layer of a semicircle in front of her. She was working the semicircle clockwise, signing, snapping pictures, joking with everyone. She signed an autograph for the person next to me, and it finally came to be my turn. She looked me right in the eyes, glared for a second, then plastered the fake smile right back on that enormous mouth, and skipped right over me, taking a picture with the person right next to me.
I can understand not wanting to be bothered by anyone. I guess I can understand getting tired of being pestered at events, but that was downright spiteful. I fumed with my mom for most of the night, which kind of sucked, because instead of crying with the rest of the audience when they read the letter by the kid who had sickle-cell anemia, I was instead imagining bludgeoning Julia Roberts with a giant sickle. A lot of people would have since dropped that sentiment, but I have nursed it and nurtured it, and I often still imagine kitties, birthday cakes, and Julia Roberts with a sickle in her face with the same cuddly warmth.
So, yes, even to this day, when sitting around with friends, when anyone mentions her name, my hand instinctively forms into a fist and I shake it into the heavens growling "JULIA!!!" And then everyone looks afraid of me for a little while until Melissa or someone else who knows the story puts an arm around me and pats my shoulder until I calm down.
In a sick way, I'm sort of glad it happened. It taught me a lot about fame and how even the seemingly smallest gesture to a fan is what they will keep with them. That's why I vowed that if I ever got famous and people bothered me all the time, even if it became tiresome, I'd try to keep my cool as much as I could. And if a young girl with hope in her eyes ever came to me just to beef up her Christmas card, even if I were really tired, I'd take a deep breath...and I'd sit her down and tell her this story, and we'd both walk into the sunsets shaking our fists at the heavens and heading towards the sickle store.
April 25, 2006
As much as I like to have a neat beginning, middle, and end to my blogs, I'm no Dave Barry, and I sometimes have to sweep up all the crumbs for you kids, just so no one misses out on even the most mundane details of my life.
So first things first.
Buzz-Wear.com is officially live.
It's not the prettiest since I only have one t-shirt design ordered and they aren't supposed to arrive for a couple weeks, but it's there and all the pretty buttons (should) work. So if you're champing at the bit for your buzz-wear fix, have at thee.
Second, I hope that I make a tiny bit of money on these shirts so I can support my habit. When people used to ask me why I didn't do drugs, I would tell them that it was because I liked Big Macs. A lot. And when I like something a lot, I get it every day, and dream about it when I'm not currently partaking in its delicious special sauce and extra pickles, washed down with a refreshing diet coke and spiced up with some salty large fries. And if I'm the kind of person who would act that way over a Big Mac, I should probably not really look into a heroin addiction. I'm still like that with things that I like. I believe I watched the entire first season of "Lost" in one sitting. I currently have 5 video games that are waiting to be finished, but somehow I keep buying more. (KoTOR 2, Prince of Persia, Fable, Chrono Trigger, Kingdom Hearts)
But unfortunately, all of those things will probably be on hold for awhile (except Big Macs. The only time I can't eat a Big Mac is when I'm already eating a Big Mac) because of my latest addiction.
Yeah. It's all 7 seasons of "Buffy" and 5 seasons of "Angel." If I hadn't cropped it, you would have gotten to see my duplicate "Buffy" series 1, 2, and 3 in the back row, because I bought them before my delightful co-worker decided to downsize her collection. I can't stop watching. Why didn't someone tell me how cool this was when it was on? Where was I? The late '90s were my peak TV-watching years!
The third topic is to answer a question from the comments of the Shelter blog I wrote. This answer is probably not very PC, and even I know it, but taking an animal is such a big commitment, I have to be picky. When my mom got me Purriey as a gift for my 8th birthday, she found a woman who was giving them away and drove to her house. She squatted down in the middle of all the kittens, and most of them ignored her, milling around and mewing randomly. While she was looking in another direction, young Purriey hopped right up on her knee and mewed in her face. So she sort of chose my mom.
When I was looking for a kitten, I really tried to factor in the fact that these little kittens were in a scary metal cage with dogs barking loudly in the next room, and even the most playful guy wouldn't act himself in that environment. But each kitten I picked up would screech in terror and tuck its tail between his legs and claw to get back in the cage. When I picked up Scamp, I sat him in my lap and he immediately started purring as loud as a motor boat. Then he flipped on his back and started wiggling around like a worm. I was shopping without Justin, and I knew we had to make the decision together...but there was this other chick there, and she was totally ready to get Scamp from under me.
So, yeah, I guess I've decided that a cat really has to be unique to catch my heart. Some people go on looks or age or plenty of other stuff, but I feel like I've had pretty good luck so far.
I was going to end with my Julia Roberts story, but I've rambled so long on this other stuff, that I think that can constitute its own update.
So until next time! Same blog channel! Or something!
April 24, 2006
So...I met a guy on Friday who works in the sound production of the popular hit intelligent not racist at all show "Mind Of Mencia," on Comedy Central (motto: Bringing You Mediocre Comedy Since "South Park" Got Us Signed to Most Cable Packages!).
Now, in this town, you really meet someone involved in the most random things you can think of. I believe my friend Casey is friends with the girl from the movie "Curly Sue." Donkey Lips from "Salute Your Shorts" lives a couple streets down from me.
What I have slowly learned from Los Angeles is that for every moronic show out there, there's hundreds of people getting a paycheck from that person. More to the point, no matter how vapid or racist or whatever the person may seem, they could potentially be a really cool person. Unless that person is Julia Roberts, because I met her and she was really rude to me, and if I ever see her on the street, I'm going to run her down with my car.
Here's the thing. I'm sure plenty of people are unlike the characters they play on screen. Does Lindsay Lohan prat fall as much in real life? Well, yes, probably what with all the cocaine, but that doesn't help my point. My point is that "Mind of Mencia" is...well, the mind of Carlos Mencia (real name: Ned Holness). And I don't care who tells me that Larry the Cable Guy doesn't really have an accent and he went to a wealthy private school, you sleep in the bed you make. I'm sure Carlos Mencia doesn't really go around...okay, well, I don't actually know any of his jokes, because the one time I accidentally saw the show, I had Felicia hit me in the head with a bat so I forgot most of that night. My point is, I'm sure he's just as racist and hack and "shock jockey" as he seems.
So when this guy told me that he puts the microphone on Carlos Mencia every night and beamed with pride as he told us all that Ned was really a nice guy and "nothing like how he is on stage," the smile I was able to squeeze out was Oscar-worthy.
Here I was, meeting a new acquaintance, sharing a few laughs, and then finding out something akin to "Yeah, you know Hitler? I hooked up his megaphone for every speech he gave! He's actually really cool in real life."
But I faked it, because I'm in Hollywood and that's what we do out here.
Unless I meet the person who puts the microphone on Julia Roberts.
If that happens, I will immediately call them a liar, because that mouth would inhale any microphone within 5 yards.
April 20, 2006
So, yeah, don't tell my mom, because she thinks I'm crazy enough, but I've been going to a few animal shelters recently looking for a girlfriend for Scamp.
He meows all night and throws himself at the door when the landlord cat walks by. Now, I'm no catologist, but I think he's lonely.
Now, I don't know how many of you know about shelters and animal fostering and all that business, but it's rough. Okay, a lot of those people are volunteers, and sure it's not their fault that there's pet overpopulation or neglectful owners, but they go about educating in the wrong way.
Let's take a look at Craigslist alone.
I'll make up a few scenarios that I have actually seen happen to illustrate my point.
Scenario 1 - Kathy has been a loving pet owner for 5 years. Unfortunately, she just got a job in Uruguay/got pregnant (some studies have proven cats and litter are bad for pregnant people)/got married to someone with a cat allergy/died and has to give up her loving kitty. She is really torn up about it, but she doesn't want to go to a shelter which might euthanize, so she's posting it here to find a loving home.
Fast forward 3 milliseconds, when approximately 15 different people have replied to her post calling her a horrible person and saying that she knew the responsibilities when she got the cat, that cats go through terrible trauma at being re-homed, and why would she accept a job where she couldn't bring a cat/get pregnant, what are you, a slut?/marry someone with a cat allergy -- keep the cat, dump the guy!/die? Weren't you considering the cat's needs when you decided to die?
Now, sure, there are a lot of irresponsible people out there, and no, it's not fair to the animals, but this person was just looking out for the cat by bypassing the shelter system. Is criticism necessary?
Scenario 2 - Eduardo has been responsible and loving for her outdoor cat all his life. One sad day in sunny Southern California, a wild coyote swooped in and had a nine course dinner on each of the kitty's lives. Eduardo (like 98% of the people on Craigslist) doesn't really have anything to say. He just posts his sad story -- not even to warn others, though it might help -- but mostly to eulogise the life of his great cat.
Fast forward 2 milliseconds, where hordes of frothy CL users descend upon him, chastising him for letting his cat go outside at all. They also twist the jagged knife by saying awful things like the cat is lucky to be dead for having such a stupid owner, or that they hope every time Eduardo sees the cat's mangled body in his mind's eye, he blames it entirely on himself, knowing that it's completely his fault an innocent cat is dead.
And that's just Craigslist! Keep in mind that none of these people are PETA, since PETA doesn't think people should own animals at all. PETA is the Scientology of the animal kingdom. These people are just the...I don't know, whatever Kirk Cameron is.
Now, pet foster moms are really a wonderful type of person, and I know that personally because Ex-Boyfriend Sean's mom was one, and she loved those foster dogs more than...well, having a house that didn't smell like dog urine.
But, as with everything, there are a few bad seeds in the bunch. I'd foster cats myself, but I have such a tiny apartment, and I'm usually busy on Saturdays, when the animals need to be taken to adoption fairs.
But to foster, usually various foundations will foot the bill for vet visits and sometimes even food until the animal is adopted into its "forever home." But as fosters are looking to give the best home for an animal, they usually require extensive background checks, and sometimes a hefty donation fee. So...what exactly is keeping this foster from throwing every interview?
"Gosh, you make $120,000 a year, you have a mansion, and you only work one day a week, so you can stay home 6 days to play with the kitty. That's preeetty good. Ooh. Uh-oh. It says here you like tacos. That means you probably like Choco Tacos, and as we know chocolate is lethal to cats. Ooh, sorry about the tacos. Maybe next time."
And the foster gets to keep a free cat.
And then there are the actual shelters. First, when you walk in, they treat these cats like bizarre sideshow orphans, shoving them in your face, saying, "Isn't this guy cute? He rescued a baby last week. He needs some major love. You're getting at least one cat today, right? Promise me you'll take one." Now, call me a snob, but I'm picky since I'm going to be living with a cat for its entire life. And I don't want one of those lame cats that hate to be touched and hides under the couch all day long. I want one with personality like Scamp, who doesn't mind if you're just bending over to tie your shoe. He thinks your flattened back is the perfect place to hop up on and take a nap.
Then all these shelters have signs on the cages like, "THIS cat's owner obviously didn't think it was cute enough. Will you give it a chance?" I joke a lot for comedic effect, but that was a word-for-word sign on the cage across from the one where I got Scamp.
When I was looking at shelters, too, after a family would come in and test out a few cats, then leave, more often than not, the shelter workers would turn to me and complain about how that family spent so much time looking and had the nerve to not adopt and they were probably horrible people anyway.
These workers are the same people who are shocked that there are hoarders -- mentally ill people who take in ridiculous numbers of cats because they think they're the cats' only hope. The cats can get diseases in situations like this, but a lot of times, they were the cats' only hope. And who can blame them? They just cracked under shelter workers' pressure!
So if I am to find a friend for Scampy, I have to turn a blind eye to these shelters' sob stories and pressuring and just find a quirky one. Then they can both jump on my back when I'm tying my shoe, and they'll curl up so cute together that I'll walk around hunched over all day just so I won't disturb them.
April 16, 2006
This has been a pretty cool weekend.
Yesterday I saw Cirque du Soleil's Quidam, and even though I bought the cheap seats right behind a damn pillar, it was a very cool evening.
Then for Easter, Justin and I went to IHOP (get it?), and that, too, was delightful.
Then I uploaded some videos of Scamp to YouTube which you can view here. For some reason, none of them have comments but my first one, Cat Basketball, and that one has 17. Who knows? They probably put me on some new user list that put that video up top. Lame.
Anyway, I figured, why have the internet wonder if I'm a crazy cat lady, when they can just see proof?
In other news, I read dooce.com almost every day, and she recently opened up comments on her blog. I had no idea she had that many readers. How does she do it?
Anyway, some people post with really rude things to her because, well, this is the internet. She's said in the past that no matter how many nice emails she gets from people praising her website and her writing, the (rare) mean ones hurt so much more than the nice ones could even it out.
Although mean comments and emails do sting me more than they should for being on the internet as long as I have, I still get a little shocked when I happen upon some cool hidden praise. I was just linked in two livejournal communities for my pictures of Scamp doing wacky and cute things.
Okay, sure, a lot of the praise was for Scamp being so cute, but I think I can take credit for the play-by-play that got the LJ lolz. (I can't believe I just used that word.) When I saw someone linking my site, I almost couldn't believe it. It's like that part in "When Harry Met Sally" when some chick quotes some article to this writer guy, and he was the one who wrote it. I've never been quoted to myself!
And sometimes when I find a link on a person's page that I don't actually know, it shocks me a little at how nice people are for, well, finding me interesting.
I used to keep my hate mail in a separate folder in my mailbox, I don't know, because I'm a masochist or something. Maybe I thought it would keep me from getting too big a head. Maybe I'm just that organized.
It was lost in some great crash, and I'm really glad it was, because I like feeling the love from you great people.
So, thanks, guys.
You make all this complaining and sarcasm worthwhile.
At times, I may seem gruff and curmudgeonly, but inside, I'm just a soft little kitten.
Dressed up like a pilot.
April 12, 2006
So I got a flat tire on Monday.
I don't work on Mondays, but if I want to do something other than watch Forensic Files and eat Carl's Jr. all day, I have to drive Justin to work. I think everyone can understand why driving him to work is a rare thing.
Come on. 99 cents for a spicy chicken sandwich, Carl's Jr.? AND solving crimes without leaving my couch? The choice is clear.
I usually try to wake up as little as possible so I can make a smooth transition back into bed after I get home, even though that never works, and I just end up half-sleeping and having really messed up dreams. But I don't even brush my hair or my teeth. I even considered not even putting on shoes and driving home in my slippers because I have this foot thing.
We have hardwood floors, which translates to "floors with a thin layer of Scamp's litter." I don't know where my foot thing started, but since I was in high school, I've had an obsession with washing my feet and keeping them clean. Sandals terrify me, and I have no idea why someone would volunteer to get dust all between their toes all day. I'm shuddering just thinking about it.
Well, to put it mildly, living here with hardwood floors is not unlike playing that game in elementary school where the floor is lava and you have to spring from chair to chair so you don't get burned.
I leave slippers and socks and pairs of shoes strategically placed all over the place like some sort of OCD Japanese house. This way, if I happen to find myself sitting somewhere, having absentmindedly kicked my shoes off, I can quickly hop into a fresh pair of something. Unfortunately, Scamp is a scamp, and he often opens his toes over my socks to let a few grains of litter fall in just because he thinks it's funny. So I trust no sock or shoe. My slippers have protective flaps that repel litter.
So long story short, I didn't want to put shoes on, but I finally caved after shaking my sock out for 10 minutes.
So Justin's driving, we're cruising down the road about to get on the highway, and I'm trying to simultaneously get some more sleep and listen to that delightful Adam Carolla, who has the esteemed honor of being the only radio personality who doesn't make me want to drive my car into oncoming traffic. Can't say the same for his posse, though.
Anyway, a friendly passing motorist started honking and gesturing wildly towards the back of my car, and sometime just before I dove onto the floorboards to avoid my very first drive-by shooting, I realized that he might be talking about my tire.
So we pulled over, and sure enough, my third flat tire in 9 months. The first two were actual flats. The first happened on the drive back from Alabama picking Justin up, and that tire was in shreds. The second was noticed after Justin got to work, but it was an old tire. This one...was a nail. Can someone tell me how a nail gets lodged in a tire? They're, you know, long and flat. I can tell you that if *I* were run over, I would not shoot into an upright position, lodging myself in a tire. So unless those shady characters who live across from me took a break from letting their dogs run loose in the alley to drive a nail into my tire, I have no idea how it happened.
Luckily, we live in a town where all you have to do is turn around 360 degrees on any road, and you can find any business you need. So we pulled up to a nearby tire place, and I did my best to fix my appearance by putting on a hat and a coat, but that only made me look more like a homeless person than I already did. And next to Justin in his nice work clothes, we must have looked like quite the pair indeed!
The tire patching only took about half an hour, and I passed the time by explaining to Justin how the book "Timeline" was infinitely better than the movie by recounting to him the entire plot. As a matter of fact, I believe a video of me summarizing the book dressed like a homeless person was actually better than the movie.
Anyway, so I'm pretty glad I wore shoes, but it still sucked.
Who gets three flat tires in less than a year?
Chumps, that's who.
April 10, 2006
I get too much satisfaction deleting the spam on my website.
I might actually invest in a version of MovableType someday where you have to pay for the blogging software in exchange for kickass spam blocking. Probably other stuff, too, but nothing so snazzy that I would otherwise have given up my sworn pact to never pay for things that I can get just as well online for free. Same reason I never pay for hentai.
Just kidding. I have a lot of hentai manga.
Anyway, until I buy MT, I'm just Jim Dandy erasing all this crap from my site with MT-Blacklist. For those of you not in the know, MT-Blacklist is a plugin that basically lets you list suspicious-looking comments. "I think your site is hilarious, from your bestest pal apok@skullz.org." Sure, move along, now. "I think your site is hilarious, from your bestest pal GayPornTexasHoldEm@free-online-credit-report.cz." Well, you almost tricked me, GayPornTexasHoldEm, because I went to high school with someone of the exact same name, but I think I have you figured out.
So MT-Blacklist lets you make a big long list of them and then delete them all in a mass exodus. It takes a small amount of time to keep it updated, as more and more wackos come up with wacky domain names, but not more than a minute every couple days. But I imagine these spammers wearing babushkas in an overcrowded factory in some war-torn country trying to spam me for their weekly allowance of 3 rubles so they can feed their family, and BAM! I erase 75 spam comments at once. Ha HAH!
In reality, it's probably a 13-year-old named Jason who wrote this spamming software in study hall and pressed one button to spam the entire internet, but allow me this one dream, will you?
Anyhoo, I got a new idea for Buzzwear and I made a new avatar that probably no one will get, but I think it's hilarious.
I sent in my first order for my Buzzwear art to be approved, and I'll hear back from them tomorrow. Which one will it be? Which one will it be?
Also, no one should ever get a 500 error AGAIN! Hooray! This is such a great day. It ended up to be a problem with MovableType -- some CHMOD error was happening in the background. The server automatically fixed the error, but it caused my site to be down for a minute after every comment. Since the error technically fixed itself, my host apparently felt wasn't important enough to tell me it was happening at all. Anyway, no hard feelings, and I accept responsibility for...well, using software that had a weird setting, but that was easily fixable (by Justin). My host's support was very quick to respond to my emails, but the runaround I got was ridiculous. Let me summarize for you a fun-filled roller coaster of emails that I've been getting for the past three weeks illustrated by pretty bullet points.
- Hello. I seem to be getting 500 errors the next time a page is loaded after I update my website or anyone leaves a comment. I use MovableType, and it worked fine on my last site. Here is a link to my last host's specs. Here is an informative link that might work from the MovableType website about how to correct certain 500 errors.
Thanks in advance for your help.
-Lauren
- You just get lots of traffic during peak times! There's not much we can do!
-Jim
- Hi, Jim. I don't think it's traffic, as the times were in the middle of the night, and oddly consistent with my updating or commenting using MovableType. My last host didn't have this problem, but I like you guys a whole lot more! I hope we can resolve this.
-Lauren
- Hmm, why don't we move you to a new server? That should solve the problems with traffic and peak times. PS -- Your site will be down for 7 hours.
-Tim
- Hello. I appreciate your swift work of moving me to a new server, and I hate to keep bothering you guys, but I'm still getting the error when I update my MovableType or someone comments. I hope we can work this out.
-Lauren
- I can't seem to replicate the error. When does it happen?
-Ben
- Ahoy to you.
The error happens in MovableType when I make a new entry, edit one, or someone comments. You can replicate it by commenting. Thanks for all your hard work!
-Lauren
- You have been moved to a higher level of support.
Are you by any chance using MovableType?
-Ren
- Yep! MovableType! I sure am! 500 errors! They happen when I update or comment on it! THANKS!
-Lauren
- You should really switch to this new type of blogging software called MovableType. The kids seem to like it, but I hear it sometimes gives 500 errors.
-Len
I will say again that it was my fault, and they have been nothing but friendly in my month of emails and phone calls, but I know they have a snazzy little system where they can write on the open ticket helpful info like "This user is using MovableType," or "This user has already been moved to a new server," or "This user is a bitch; ignore her emails."
But I'm very glad it was my fault, because I love my new host and they have a nice shiny control panel where I can check out all you weirdos who visit me.
I've got your IP, GayPornTexasHoldEm, so back off!
April 06, 2006
I was standing in line at Costco, when I suddenly noticed how ridiculously practical my foodstuffs were. Bread, eggs, milk, peanut butter, jelly, batteries, and 2 gallons of White Cranberry Peach Juice, because Justin and I like to live on the edge.
When did this happen?
It seems like just yesterday I was a wide-eyed college freshman walking into a supermarket alone for the first time...able to buy ANYthing I wanted.
Granted I left that shopping trip with 8 bags of Oreos and some Lucky Charms, but that's what you DO when there's no parents around!
No one tells you when to eat or what to eat or that you maybe SHOULDN'T microwave animal crackers with peanut butter on them, even though it sounds totally awesome.
No one says, "Hey, clean up that bowl of Spaghetti-Os you just spilled down the back of your TV. It will make it not work!"
I didn't even hear my mom's voice echoing in my head when I decided to be on a diet of french fries and honey mustard sauce that one semester.
But, somewhere, a transition occurred.
Maybe it was senior year, when disgusted by my then-boyfriend Sean's tendency to eat only pimento cheese sandwiches, and fueled by my competitive nature against my roommate Chris who was known to whip up delicious dishes with the swoosh of his afro, I decided that I should buy food with a little more variety.
And now here I am -- a girl who voluntarily buys green beans and worries about my daily balance of the fruits and grains, and who gets more excited about a new blender than I did about an Xbox360.
Well, in my defense, Oblivion wasn't out then, and...this blender is REALLY awesome. It's no ordinary blender. It's the Magic Bullet. Buy two! One to use in the 10 seconds your other one is mixing up a delicious smoothie. That's right, I said 10 SECONDS!
Anyway, I guess I'm proud of my food-related maturity, although sometimes all I really want is 8 boxes of Oreos and some Lucky Charms, but I'd just end up blending them up into delicious smoothies, and I have some kiwis I have to go through before they go bad.
Well, in accordance with my obsessive-compulsive need to do things at a time that is an even 15-minute interval, it is now half past, and I can go to sleep. This site will be down for a couple hours tomorrow. I know. I don't know what I'm gonna do with myself, either.
April 02, 2006
.....You'll realize that I'm just an old man regaling the same boring stories to you week after week.
Fun game -- if you go back in my archives, you'll see that on April Fool's Day last year I told you the same story about Stuben fooling me, and TWO years ago, I used the exact same title. Creepy? Or indicative that I use the same jokes over and over? You decide.
I'm a little embarrassed to share that, but I make fun of enough people here, I think I can include myself.
And I will continue in that thread with sharing with you this story that I don't think I've already told you two years ago, because it just happened to me yesterday.
Let me start by saying that I'm terrified of authority figures. Any authority figure, including, but not limited to: policemen, teachers, lawyers, politicians, industry types, FedEx men, bike messengers, and store cashiers.
Case in point -- there is a drugstore on the corner by my house. It is ALWAYS guarded by a policeman. Now, this isn't the safest place, but why this drugstore has a 24/7 guard confuses me. The Wendy's right next to it doesn't, the supermarket down the road with more merchandise doesn't, the liquor store across the street doesn't. Anyway, it's never made any sense to me, and it always freaks me out.
I went in there to buy a six-pack a couple weeks ago, and as I was walking out, I kept saying to myself, "Don't look drunk. He thinks you're drunk. Walk normally." Which is, of course, ridiculous, because not only was I not drunk at all, but I have never been drunk in a public place, except for that time with Matt at Penn State, but that was a college campus, and they don't let you graduate if you haven't been drunk in public.
I do the same thing when I get carded at a restaurant. As they're perusing my out-of-state license, I freeze up and worry that they'll accuse it of being fake and...I don't know kick me out? Kick me? I never had a fake ID, so I don't know what happens. Maybe they just don't serve you. Maybe they announce to the rest of the patrons that you're a liar and then everyone laughs at you. This is the option I imagine.
Anyway, so speaking of licenses, even though I've only lived here 9 months or so, it's not unheard of that I would still have my Pennsylvania one. Melissa still has a Kentucky license, and she's been here three years.
Anyway, I was making a purchase in Whole Foods, where you have to look hip, because this is California, where we care about healthy stuff, and when they ask you for a bag, you have to say no, because here in California, we care about the environment.
So I'm at the checkout counter and the guy's ringing me up. I open my wallet to pay, and the guy goes, "Are you out here on vacation?" I kind of gave him a weird look and said, "Uh, no. Do I look like it?" And he kind of nodded with a guilty look on his face.
Okay, now, yes, I've only lived here 9 months, and I don't consider myself a Californian, but like one person in this entire state was actually born here, and I'd hate to think that I give off podunk Pittsburgh rays that fill him with the urge to eat Polish food and root for the "Stillers."
"No, I'm just kidding," he said, and he pointed to my wallet, which displays my Pennsylvania license in the clear plastic window.
"Oh, yeah, I should really change that."
"Nah, lines at the DMV take about an hour to get through."
And he wished me a nice day and reminded me to set my clocks forward, which was a nice gesture, especially considering I was walking out of there terrified that he thought my license was a fake and that's why it wasn't Californian and I looked like I was caught in a lie when I said I wasn't from here.
Ah, a day in the life of me. I'm sure they have doctors for this sort of thing.
Anyway, let me keep directing your attention to BuzzWear because your comments are so very helpful. You guys are awesome.