Coco Want a Cracker?

I've never owned a bird as a pet, but am I the only one who thinks it's odd to put up a lost sign for a parrot? I mean, I guess Texas isn't swarming with wild parrots, so I could imagine a parrot would stick out like a sore thumb compared to all the other gross birds flying around and tagging our cars ... but how exactly does one find a lost parrot? Furthermore ... and I apologize for the next question because it's probably stupid, but again, I've never had a pet bird - will it answer if I start yelling its name? Can I play Marco Polo Coco with it? Will it just be taking a leisurely stroll down the boulevard? I don't have a bird cage, will a cardboard box suffice as long as I poke holes in it? Can you put a leash on a bird? Is that even humane? Pretty sure it's not.

Oh by the way, I was at Kroger last night and there was a dude walking out while I was walking in, talking and laughing out loud while pushing his cart of goodies to his car. I thought maybe he was on the phone using his bluetooth because he had both hands on the cart, but I think Coco was on his shoulder talking back to him! I'm confused. Either Coco is still lost and just landed on the lucky shopper's shoulder as he was walking to his car, or Coco's owner is CooCoo and takes his bird to the grocery store with him. If that's the case, I'm a little concerned about Kroger's policies on bringing pets into the store ... unless Coco is a seeing eye bird (or whatever service birds are used to help people with). Then I guess it'd be okay because its perfectly legal. And I guess that's why Coco's owner put up a lost sign ... and why the reward was $1000. Mystery solved. I think.

P.T. Is that why pirates with eye patches always have parrots on their shoulders?

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The Real Battle of the Sexes

Are you a man dealing with PMS? That's right ... I said PMS. Milk may be your hero (according to the California Milk Processor Board). Confused? There's a new controversial 'got milk?' ad campaign from the CMPB that claims men are the real sufferers of PMS and milk is supposed to help ease those forsaken symptoms. (Because when women are seeing red and crying simultaneously, and feel like a beached whale, they're reaching for the wine gallon of milk chilling in the fridge.) Still confused? The entire campaign is aimed at just how clueless men are when it comes to the monthly tornado of emotions. Consider this anti-bitch pitch your personal advisor.

What's the catch? It has apparently set off WWIII and women are attacking. The campaign caused so much controversy that the everythingidoiswrong.org site has been transformed into a damage control discussion board. To several women, this claim is sexist and offensive. I must admit, I was a little pissed at first, but after visiting the original website, I found myself laughing because it is SO TRUE! For a week or so, men and other innocent bystanders are hit by a sh!t storm of crazy out of the blue. And dare you ask if it's related to "that time of the month", we'll flatten everything in our path ... even if it is! This topic is so touchy, but SO incredibly common. Sure, it's maddening that men can't truly understand what it's like to have to physically endure PMS, but ladies, you can't tell me you don't ever feel a tiny bit of guilt in the aftermath? I can certainly understand why women are so pissed off and offended - the statement that men are the real sufferers of PMS certainly stepped on my toes a little. But there's nothing new to the other stereotypical statements. They're just calling us out on the bullshit they let slide because of PMS. COME ON, GIRLS! This is truth in advertising for once, but the truth isn't always rainbows and butterflies. It's not like they're saying it doesn't exist, or the symptoms are all in our heads. PMS is a real problem, but why is it not okay to address it? They knew this was a balls to the wall move. Think the "sexist" campaign was created by nothing but a team of men? Okay, even if it was, they're poking fun at themselves too - they're idiots on the subject.

The website had a "current global PMS level" indicator, similar to that of the color-coded Terrorist Threat Level Advisory, an emergency milk locator, a vocabulary changer (say spirited instead of fiesty), and a video apology enhancer. Here's the series of print ads.

What are you going to do, stop buying milk? Unless you’re lactose intolerant, hate milk, or are a vegan, let me know how that works out! I understand women are the main purchasers of milk and most household items, but my glass of milk is always half-full. It looks like they’re trying to target the men here … and if that happens to benefit us women by washing down the Midol and chocolate with a good ol’ glass of milk, so be it! Nothing goes better with chocolate than milk! Plus, women are at a higher risk for osteoporosis, so we could use the extra glass anyway.

And if you’re still pissed, use this campaign as an excuse to send the husband/boyfriend/significant other to the store with the whole list! It’s a win-win: save yourself from a trip to the store, save him from the upcoming bitch fest. No?

Did you hear about that California woman who chopped her husband's peter off and tossed it down the garbage disposal ... maybe he should have brought home some milk.

...Too soon?



Sources:
http://news.yahoo.com/blogs/upshot/got-controversy-milk-campaign-helps-men-deal-pms-214103675.html
www.everythingidoiswrong.org

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Mystery Solved: The Crusade of The Midnight Potty Perpatrator

Let's start this chat with a little Marcy Logic, shall we?

I work in a 46 (forty-six) story building with at least one men's and one women's bathroom on each floor (I say "at least" because The Man has his own en suite Princess Potty ... and if our own Man has his own can, I would imagine there are a few other boss mans in our building that won't take a leak among the public). In each ladies' restroom, there are 3 stalls. Now because I don't use the men's room, I'm going to go out on a limb and say for all intents and purposes, the men's bathroom has 3 stalls too ... plus probably a few gross urinals, but we'll leave those out of the equation. So we have at least 276 working toilets in the building. Our office up in the sky has anywhere from 30-50 people on any given day. I think only once during actual business hours have I ever had to wait for a stall to open up ... and we have quite a few females in the office. I understand that other floors are probably set up to fit more employees, so there may potentially be time to play the waiting game and maybe give your best potty dance a go.

Furthermore, when we first moved into our office back in August, our floor had been vacant for quite some time. So naturally, one could expect for the other building tenants that sandwich our floors to take a quick trip up/down the stair well and use the bathroom on our floor. But wouldn't it also be reasonable to think that once the floor becomes occupied, they would stop infiltrating our territory? I mean, I know the hydrant has already been marked, but it's ours now. Beat it! I remember some random lady that didn't work with us walking in as I was washing my hands saying, "Oh! Someone is actually on this floor now?" Yes ma'am. Now fly, fly, little birdie. Spread the word! Almost one year later, and people are still using our bathroom. I mean, it's probably not technically ours since it is out in the hall, outside of our doors, but we have the whole floor. And we pay rent. It's just ours, okay? Hmph.

One other restroom nugget (ew, that didn't sound quite right) for you to ponder is that our bathrooms have motion sensors. So after X amount of motionless time in the bathroom, the lights go out. A week or so ago, I got up to go to the bathroom. I opened the door, and the lights were off. I continue walking in quite content because I knew that meant no one had been in there for a while (i.e. no weird smells) and no one would be in there. I go into a stall, and just as I'm contemplating my latest potty pondering, I heard another toilet flush and the toilet paper rolling. Ok, wait ... *head tilt* ... I thought I was alone. The lights were DEFINITELY out. And I DEFINITELY did not hear anyone else come in behind me. Was this person peeing in the dark? Oh. OOoooh. Oh, Lord. I'm not sure at which point the lights go out, but how long had this person been in there? Oh, no. I had to get out quick before she assaulted my olfactory senses (not that ladies do that). I washed my hands and got the hell out of there. I was also afraid that she would come out while I was at the sink (even though I was curious who it was) and there'd be that whole extremely awkward moment like "I totally just caught you waging war under the cover of darkness."

Just this week I had another encounter with the Midnight Potty Perpatrator (I like nicknames, ok? They're fun and they come in handy). I walked in and the lights were definitely off. I go in to do my business, and heard another toilet flush. Only this time, she beat me to the sink. IT WAS SOMEBODY FROM A DIFFERENT FLOOR!!!! Can we just talk about this for a second? Am I the only one who finds it odd / a little rude that she felt the need to launchWorld Wars III & IV on our floor? I mean, I guess she didn't want the humiliation of her own co-workers catching her in the act ... in the dark ...  but really? Seriously? If our floor was still vacant, bomb away. But, please, PLEASE I BEG YOU, use your own floor's bathroom. Or become The Woman of your company and get your own Princess Potty. Thanks and Gig'em.

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Beard Maintenance, Aisle 9

As I was checking out of Target, another gentleman customer approaches the register and asked the cashier, "Excuse me, Miss? Do you know where I can find products for beard maintenance? I don't think I'm looking in the right spot."

Beard maintenance. I'm not sure what it was about the combo of those two words, but something made me giggle to myself (as per yoojh). Maybe it was because I immediately pictured that scene in 40 Year Old Virgin where Steve Carell's character, Andy, is getting his chest waxed into a man-o-lantern. Beard maintenance. I mean it's a very effective description of what he was looking for, but I don't know ... I can't say I've ever heard it. Additionally, I've never needed to look for beard maintenance supplies because I'm a girl, but I think I would have just asked for razors or something.
Anyhow, as the cashier begins to tell him which aisle to check next, I stop digging in my purse for a brief moment to turn around to see who would say such a thing. I think I L-LOL'd (literally laughed out loud) ... Just a single guffaw ... as I saw the beard needing maintenance. Dude.

"Try one of the aisles past the cosmetics in Health and Beauty."

No sir, wait. I think you may want to try Lawn and Garden with that thing. That's quite a beard; may I suggest taking a gander at a nice pair of hedge shears?

Now I understand why he said beard maintenance. This wasn't just your typical grizzly bear scruff of a beard, or a 5 o'clock shadow (and by the looks of it, he probably grows a 5 o'clock at noon). This was definitely the beard of a guy who takes his beard seriously - jet black, fluffy, and evenly distributed about his face.

Beard maintenance.

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Shoots and Lighters

From time to time, I get a few interesting tenant phone calls. One of our Houston tenants called last week to complain about a series of unfortunate events at his apartment. Now, I appreciate great customer service, so I think it’s important to deliver the same kind of service I would expect as a customer. But sometimes the customers make it so hard to hold in all of the smart-ass comments  (shown in blue) that jingle-jangle in my brain.

Here’s what transpired:

Ring, ring …

“[Blah blue blee blue], how may I help you?”

“Yeah, hai. Ah’m eeun apartment eighteen-nahnteen. Ah wanted taooo make a complaint.”

You know how all you hear when Charlie Brown’s teacher speaks is “womp, womp, womp, wah womp womp?” Well, I didn’t hear that, but all I could hear was “Lieutenant Da-un, I brought some ice cream for ya, Lieutenant Da-un” and “I love you Jen-nay.” Lock it up, Marcy.

“Okay, sir. Which property are you at?”

“Eighteen-nahnteen.”

“Okay, but which property ... what is the name of the complex?”

“Uhh, the one in Houston.”

Oh, jeez. Here we go.

“Okay, sir, we have 7 properties in the Greater Houston area. Are you at *starting at the top of my list* [Blah Blah]?”

“No, the one in Houston.”

Sir, do you know where you live? I understand you’re in #1819 … in Houston … but I’m gonna need you to be a little more specific. We’re not in Kansas anymore, kapeesh?

“Okay, how about [Blah Blah]?”

“No! In HOUSTON!”

Listen, buddy. Houston is the 4th largest city in America. Regardless of whether or not you live inside the actual city limits, if you’re close, most people just say Houston. So forgive me for including these, but unless you can give me a little more direction, spare me the ‘tude dude. I’m just going to keep playing Go Fish. HOW DO YOU NOT KNOW WHERE YOU LIVE?!?

“Sir, which part of Houston?”

“On the Beltway.”

……………………….. I realize we only have one property just off the Beltway, but can I show you why this response irritated me?

“Ok, so [Blah Blah]?”

“Yeah. That’s it.”

Oh, good. Glad we took 5 minutes to knock that out.

“Ok, sir. Shoot – how can I help you?”

 “Yeah, someone’s been stealin’ mah lat[mumbling]s.”

“…Your lights?”

“No, my laiiighters.”

“…Your ladders?”

“Yeah, I’ve had three laiiiighters stolen. I think it’s every time the lawn crew comes. But I’ve had 2 Zippos and a Bic stolen.”

“Oooh, your lighters. As in cigarette lighters.”

That sounds like an emergency. Maybe you should hang up and call the police.*

“Ok, sir, have you talked to the leasing office there?”

“No, this was the only number I could find. But I’m pretty sure it’s the lawn crew stealing my laiiighters off my patio.”

Here’s a thought, PUT YOUR LAIIIGHTERS INSIDE. Who’da thunk it?

“That’s strange.”

“No, it’s not straaaynge. Someone’s just stealin’ mah laiiighters.”

“It’s uh….just a personal opinion, sir. Let’s try the leasing office there. I’m sure someone will be happy to assist you.”

Seriously? You’re absolutely right, sir. It’s not strange; it’s not strange at all that someone swipes your lighter when you leave it out in the open. Strange would be your lighter growing a pair of legs and walking off after you told him to stay. Day-own Laiiighter. Good boy.

*Additional commentary brought to you by this funny lady.

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Ditch Bums, Lobotomies, and Singing in the Rain

Howdy, dear friends and strangers, I’m baaaaack! I’m sorry for the neglect, but I seemed to have lost my mind.  Where does your mind go when you lose it? I’m not really sure where mine went, but it must have been nice wherever it was! I’m thinking it was lying on a nice sandy beach somewhere on a breezy tropical island (similar to the one I have on my desktop background at work with a little hammock) … or somewhere really cold since lately it’s been hotter than blue blazes in the sauna we call Houston.  

Let’s see, what’s been going on around here? I’ll give you a quick update.

I took a weekend road trip to San Antonio to visit one of my best friends Frances and her family (one of my many bonus families). It’s always great to see them! Her little brother Jacob graduated from high school (congrats Broham!). Tons of family and friends showed up to celebrate and have some of Papa Driffill’s awesome brisket. We were sitting around the table with a few of Fran’s family members, including her Grandma and Tia, when they mentioned they read the obituaries in the paper every day. We talked about how it’s kind of depressing, but a lot of people browse this section of the newspaper. Grandma then said “Hey, that’s how we keep up with our friends!” and Jacob just started laughing … “The obituaries are like Facebook for y’all!” So true.


I stopped at Buc-ee’s on the way home. That was interesting … as always. For those of you who don’t know, Buc-ee’s is known for their glorious and pristine bathrooms. Now, I’ve seen my more than fair share of dark and sketchy, creepy, axe-murderish bathrooms at numerous gas stations in Podunk towns because I couldn’t hold it ‘til the next major city. When I was in elementary school, we drove with another family to Colorado and pulled over at sundown for some fresh peaches at a fruit stand, I asked the nice lady if I could use her restroom. She pointed me to an outhouse off in the distance between some trees … I’ve reluctantly used plenty of Porta-Potties, but this was a dark and all wooden outhouse … now that’s Podunk. I hesitated a little, but since I didn’t think I could hold it any longer, I took off running, “I think I can, I think I can.” Well, I think even God hates outhouses, because the second I took off, it got very dark, started pouring down rain (which didn’t help my situation), and when I opened the door and took one look inside the dark abyss, the thunder let loose, and I flew like a bat out of hell back to the car. (Sidenote- someone at camp many years ago told me things live in Porta-Potties. And even though I had never witnessed this tall tale, I was certain that using an OUTHOUSE in the middle of freaking nowhere that night would result in my demise. To this day, I have this irrational fear that some snake or nasty creature is going to crawl out of the hole and bite me.) Luckily, there was a Dairy Queen a few miles down the road. Dad peeled out and I’m pretty sure I was doing what appeared to be some sort of tribal potty-dance in the back seat to avoid the embarrassing. I ran inside the DQ and past an old lady headed to the bathroom. (Sorry!)

So, all of that to tell you if you’re like me with a tiny bladder, and can hardly ever make it on a road trip without at least one pit stop, Buc-ee’s bathrooms are heaven sent. No, really. Choirs of angels sing when you walk in. Just be sure you know which side of the parking lot to park on so that you are as close as possible to the restrooms or else you will find yourself running the 100 meter dash through a throng of slow people, clothing, food, and random knick-knacks to get to the Great Hall of Thrones on the complete opposite side of the not-so-convenient-convenient-store. Luckily, once you get in, their doors have the little green “vacant” or red “occupied” door signs that change when the door is locked,  so you don’t have to play the Bend-Over-and-Look-for-Feet Game which becomes increasingly difficult if you just potty-danced your way through the last leg of the race. Don’t let their funny billboards mislead you; if you see one that says “You can hold it. Buc-ee’s 70 miles” and you don’t know if you can, go with your gut instinct and pull in to the next available stop. 70 miles is deceiving when you have to go.

Aside from the great bathrooms (Beaver Nuggets (lol), Buc-ee’s ice, and fudge … so I’ve been told)., Buc-ee’s is also a fantastic place for people watching. For instance, I followed a guy in the parking lot on a motorcycle, holding his beard down so it wouldn’t fly up his nose. I also saw all kinds of interestingly dressed people. But not only this, but when I got back to my car to hit the road again, I saw a police car drive up behind me. Whatever it was, I didn’t do it. I swear! He got out and started walking around in the grass ahead of me, looking down into the ditch down below. He started talking into his radio, and an older lady walked up to him. I’m assuming she was the one who called for the police. I was getting a little uneasy, so I decided to back out and go. As I put the car in reverse, a homeless man appeared from the ditch. For any of you hard core SNL fans, there’s a “deleted sketch” on The Best of Will Ferrell DVD where his character is the crazy Old Prospector, Gus Chiggins. This homeless man looked exactly like him, minus the pick axe and lantern. As I made it out to the street, I looked back to see Old Prospector getting cuffed and put into the back of a squad car. What a pit stop! So, next time you pull into a gas station to go potty, watch out for the ditch bums.

Old Prospector Gus Chiggins

 

In other news, Elle had sinus surgery. I had a few sympathetical pre-ops jitters, but I'm happy to report the surgery went relatively well.  She asked me if I would still be her friend with all of the swelling, bruising, and bandages/packing, and if I could compliment on how well the colors in her outfits match said bruising. Of course I’ll still be your friend, but I can’t say I didn’t just gag a little thinking about all the packing (and removal thereof).

I need to practice some of my compliments.

• That shade of blue really complements your eyes.
• The black in this bruise really slims the swelling down.
• I tinted the mirrors yellow to offset that purple.
• Thanks for not being scary on Vicodin after surgery, unlike someone else we know after she broke her foot. (Love you, Fran.)

Speaking of surgery, even though I know good and well that a lobotomy is a neurological procedure where they remove connections in the frontal lobe of your brain (yikes!) and is only spelled with one ‘t’, I can’t help but giggle because it’s got the word “bottom” in it. I think we should double the ‘t’ so it can be the name of a surgery on your bottom – like maybe the J. Lobottomy, a procedure to enhance the lacking of the badonkadonk, no?. I know, I’m 23 years old, but I still laugh at immature things … life’s too short. I couldn’t get through a news story about Representative Weiner (lol) without snickering every time they said his name.


Ok, so the real lobotomy procedure (according to the 1970 Psychiatric Dictionary) was used to treat different kinds of psychological disorders, namely OCD and different versions of schizophrenia. Here are a few procedural nuggets that caught my attention:

• Good results are obtained in about 40 percent of cases, fair results in some 35 percent and poor results in 25 percent. The mortality rate probably does not exceed 3 percent.
• These odds would not have convinced me back in the day ... so you're saying I don't even have a 50/50 shot at ending up with good results? I noticed "great results" was not included on this scale.
• Greatest improvement is seen in patients whose premorbid personalities were 'normal', cyclothymic (bipolar), or obsessive compulsive; in patients with superior intelligence and good education; in psychoses with sudden onset and a clinical picture of affective symptoms of depression or anxiety, and with behaviouristic changes such as refusal of food, overactivity, and delusional ideas of a paranoid nature.
• Ok, wait. Why are 'normal' people partaking in these surgeries? Furthermore, why are you removing cranial matter in the patients with superior intelligence and good education? You know you can't transplant intelligence, right? You either have it, or you don't ... and I pray for your soul if you don't.
• The removal of these aberrant and fixed pathological brain circuits, therefore, might lead to some improvement in mental symptoms. 
• ...might? ...some? Again, if you're going to be snipping my circuits, I'd like a little more confidence in the outcome please.
• Because nearly all psychosurgical procedures have undesirable side effects, they are ordinarily resorted to only after all other methods have failed. The less disorganized the personality of the patient, the more obvious are post-operative side effects. (Side effects include convulsive seizures, blunting of the personality, apathy, irresponsibility, distractibility, childishness, facetiousness, lack of tact or discipline, and post-operative incontinence.)
• These side effects are pretty intense, therefore it seems pretty OBVIOUS that if you have a less disorganized personality (read: normal) going into the procedure, then these outlandish post-op side effects will be more obvious.
• Basically, if Dr. Freeman went in looking like this, but came out of surgery looking like this, the side effects will be more noticeable than if he went into surgery already looking like one flew over the cuckoo's nest. Duh!

Anyway … Elle, I'm glad you're out of surgery, wish you a speedy and relatively painless recovery, and most of all, I hope you don't get any more sinus infections!

I still owe you guys a ditty on my Vegas trip – it’s just a matter of me sitting down and uploading pictures to my computer to accompany some stories. Las Vegas was awesome, until it was time to come home. After a long night out with my cousin and her friend (small world - they planned a trip to Sin City the same week we were there), I tripped and ate it. For any of you who play (or have played sports), I’m sure your coaches told you if you fall, don’t catch yourself because you’ll mess up your wrists on the impact. Well, you guessed it. I tried (keyword) to catch myself and wound up with a sprained wrist and missing half the skin on the back of my hand. I’ll revisit this incident with a dedicated Vegas post.


Most importantly, it rained yesterday for several hours. I did my part and got my car washed on Sunday. You’re welcome, Texas. This is most important because short of a few droplets here and there, it hasn’t really rained in the majority of Texas for 7 months. That’s a pretty severe drought.

That just looks hot, huh?

Here in Bayou City, we’ve only had 1.5 inches of rain from the last three months which is apparently only 15% of what we normally get around this time. So, here’s what I was thinking. We need to organize a flash mob (since everyone seems to be doing those now) and do one giant rain dance. That should at least get us the 10 inches we need to be on par for the season. Check this out – apparently even parts of the Sahara desert are getting more rain than we are! We could also make a Facebook event to have everyone wash their cars on the same day. Just a thought.

 Sheesh, after writing this post, I'm beginning to think I might be a candidate for a lobotomy.

 
Gotta give credit, where credit is due:
http://28.media.tumblr.com/X6pnpwdzPi3d3f1nppEZmgzio1_400.gif
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lobotomy
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2011/05/10/texas-drought-2011-record_n_859902.html
http://www.myfoxhouston.com/generic/weather/texas_drought_monitor_weather_subindex
http://www.cerebromente.org.br/n02/historia/freeman.gif
https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrmvDm8b1WvljFtLisouY21dCUFG1QSFHFRmvI9SVmv4nVvogt95WDGAupxbJYcanRI1mGIlUvqsSJtXZrhqbiU6FU_6ocXj6fffL6nNFjfCeP1cEmUmYLfCDUYi1cQAk3RyT3MLbj4nM/s1600/lobotomy.jpg

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Pretty Moments

Sometimes, people say or do dumb things ...

Example:

Visitor: You know you guys aren't listed in the directory downstairs?
Me: Oh, really? No, I didn't. Thanks. I'll have that checked out.
Visitor: Yeah, so then I tried looking [him] up under Individuals, but I couldn't find anyone there either.
Me: Well, I would imagine if we aren't listed as a company in the directory downstairs, our employees wouldn't be individually listed either.
Visitor: Oh, yeah ... that's true.

(Of course it is.)

And sometimes it's so far beyond a blonde moment the only thing you can say is "you're pretty" - as in, "I'm not sure where your brain just ran off to, but at least you're pretty." You don't want to draw attention to their brain fart with mean insults, so you give them a "compliment".

Example:
I walked into the mail room and a co-worker was trying to run an envelope through the postage machine, saw me, and asked for help.

Co-worker: Oh, good! It's you! Can you show me how to work this?
Me: Sure, of course.

I walked over to a blank screen ... (Seriously. Seriously? Really? I know it all looks pretty vague and makes loud noises, but it's not THAT difficult!) ... and pressed the power button.

Me: You're pretty. It helps when you turn the machine on.

I can't make this up.

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Hugh Hefner vs. Scotch Tape

This just in!

Hugh Hefner is 4 years older than Scotch Tape. 

Born 1926

Born 1930

WOW, HE'S OLD! (Yes, that's me. Circa 1990.)

To refresh your memories, his future wife was born in 1986. She's only 2 (two) years older than me.

.........................................................................................................

Vommit say what?!

Not enough money therapy in the world universe!

Even Palin agrees - disgusting!

Dude, I know. Horrifying!

I watched Jay Leno for this tidbit of information.
Found this pic of Scotch Tape here
Found the dirty old man here
Interesting nuggets about Scotch Tape
I can see Russia from my house.
Home Alone

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The Royal Wedding: Holy Brow!

In case you were living under a rock last Friday, Kate Middleton wedded Prince William at the Westminster Abbey on April 29, 2011, in front of the Queen and thousands of their closest guests (and the entire world ... so if this is breaking news to you, you really were living under a rock.) Kate was a beautiful blushing bride and William was the giddy grinning groom. I must admit that I didn't wake up at 3 A.M. to watch the royal couple exchange vows live, I was resting up so I could turn another year older - it's kind of exhausting, you know. So I watched a little bit of the coverage of their big day on Saturday, and boy, was I glad I did.

 WHAT IS THAT?! CHECK OUT HIS EYEBROWS!!!

Can we just talk about this for a minute?

I would have been thoroughly upset had I missed this. This picture doesn't even do those crazy brows justice. I originally saw those squirrel tails on NBC in HD as the camera man panned the Abbey and circled around the royal couple and padre for different views. Let me see if I can find a close up for you. Google time!

I'm ready for my close up!

Holy Archbishop of Canterfurry, Batman! ... What? ... How? ... I just ... ah ... uh ... DUDE! HIS EYEBROWS!

Now, if Her Royal Highness has declared a dress code for such royal events, you'd think that would include a little personal grooming, no? Go get those bad boys under control, Padre! WOW! How does one even get their eyebrows to do this? And, why? The higher the hair, the closer to Heaven I guess, but sheesh! Those are some crazy brows.



Sources:
The Royal Wedding
I'm ready for my close up!

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Yia Yia Black Sheep, Have You Any ZZZs?

As I was lying wide awake in bed last night, I thought of the old wives’ tale about how counting sheep will help you fall asleep faster. Why sheep?

I frequently feel like the girl in this comic strip before I fall asleep- questioning why we do the things we do and wonder what it would be like if we did it some other random way. Okay, fine, Yia Yia … I’ll humor you just this once.

*DRAMATIZATION*

I was in a large, green, clover-filled pasture leaning against a big rock, with my buddy Sam Sheepdog, while we kept watch on our sheep jumping the fence. Well, I only got up to No. 8 because No. 9 was vertically challenged and couldn’t quite clear the fence. Can I get a mulligan? Sheeps 1-8 hopped back over and round two begins. I gave No. 9 a pep talk and told him to take a longer running start. Thirteen sheep are now successfully on the opposite side of the fence, but now No. 14 is chasing a squirrel, sheeps 15 and 16 are fighting, and I just found a note that said little Jimmy Johnson took No. 17 to the rodeo for the World Championship Mutton Bustin’ Contest. I decide to let them duke it out and just come back to counting them later. What number was I on? Oh yes, 18 – 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23 … Hey, 27, stop tripping 24 and get back in line!  Dammit 25, how many times do I have to tell you? It’s OVER the fence, not through it. Now I've got the rest of my sheep taking off through the big gaping hole. Splendid! Can I get a new flock? This isn't very relaxing at all. I can’t sleep.

Wait a tic, why did I let them jump the fence in the first place? Aren’t I supposed to be herding them? Where do they think they’re going? These old wives’ husbands must have been really pissed off at them for letting all their sheep go. Someone has some ‘splaining to do.

Can I please trade my sad excuse of sheep for a fun flock of fleece like this one?

P.W.

Can we just talk about that nursery rhyme “Baa Baa, Black Sheep”? That tune sounds all too familiar … oh, that’s right! We’ve heard it before in Twinkle Twinkle Little Star AND The Alphabet Song! Next time someone uses that little ditty for a nursery rhyme, can we maybe get a little creative and drop a bass line in there or something to spice it up a bit? Just sayin'. Thanks.

Sources:

Found this comic strip nugget here.

You can find Yia Yia here. Opa!! That face kinda made you chuckle a little, no?

Here's where I found Sam Sheepdog and the big boulder we were leaning against. Remember him?

This video of the awesome flock of sheep was part of a cool Samsung campaign (linked in their press release) announcing their 2009 LED Electronic line up. Check out the story.

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That's My Story and I'm Sticking to It

Ok, friends and strangers ... I'm sure you're probably thinking "Make up your mind, woman!" for changing the look of my blog for the third time, but I was trying to figure out what exactly this La-La Land should look like so I can establish a "brand", if you will. It's a lot of pressure! Not really, there are just too many options. Yeah, remember our talk about options and indecisive girls? But I'm pretty confident I like this makeover. I may make a nip here or a tuck there, but I won't go Joan Rivers on you guys. I liked the crazy colors of the last look, but it was getting a little harsh on the eyes. (Read: if I, at 23 with relatively healthy eyes, am having issues reading the thoughts of Marcy Magoo, I don't want to alienate any of my wiser readers.) Enter the current background. It made me think of a Rorschach (pronounced 'Rorshak') ink blot test which I think I thunk is similar to my kind of thinking ... don't ya think? It's random in appearance and when looked at with a different eye, you can find many things in one. Didn't know Marcy was philosophical, huh? It just got real, yo. And the fact that those Rorschach tests are used in psychology to detect underlying thought disorders, especially in cases where patients are reluctant to describe their thinking processes openly? That's just coincidence. Besides, I'll openly tell you my thought patterns... but don't say I never warned you.

That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

P.W.
I just want to thank everyone for reading! And can we just talk about how I think my favorite part of this blog (aside from the fact that I can get all of these crazy thoughts out) is how I can see what countries have ended up here (by either stumbling across my page and/or on purpose after stumbling)? Aside from my American readers, I've got 10 views from Singapore! I'm really not trying to brag, I just think that is so cool! Who knows if it's one person or 10 people (or any combination in between), but shout out to my Singaporeans!

P.T.
Thoughts, comments and feedback are welcome. Also, if you have a thought you'd like Magoogalized™, send it in!

Thanks and Gig' Em
Find more info on Rorschach tests on Wikipedia

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Double Door Decisions

Can we just talk about how several restaurants have double doors and keep one side locked? Why did they go through the trouble of installing the double door entrance instead of a single door if they’re only going to have one functioning? Oh, yes! Because it’s funny to watch people approach the door full force only to find that it’s locked and thus bounce back with a look of shock and embarrassment that sometimes causes a human pile up. I must say, it makes me giggle every time – especially when I do it. And it’s always when the restaurant strategically props one door open for you, pretty much telling you up front in neon flashing lights, “Hey, use this one – the other one is locked!” Oh yeah? I’ll prove you wrong, Door-that-is-already-ajar. Sheesh, and you can forget it when you see someone else approaching from the outside wanting to enter the fine establishment. You do the little stutter step to avoid going through the same door and then BAM! You picked the locked one. And then, to make matters worse and perhaps a little funnier (in my opinion), the person feels bad for breaching your personal bubble and wants to make it up to you by holding the door open for you (since you obviously failed at accomplishing this task yourself), but they stand in that awkward spot, you know the one - practically in the middle of the door frame, to hold the door open behind them, forcing you to again burst your bubble boundary (Stranger, danger!) as you squeeze past and thank them … tip of the imaginary top hat and slight bow to you, good sir!

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Coiled Phone Cords

Photo courtesy of this page

Can we just talk about how much I dislike the coiled phone cords? I really don't like them. Sure, they take up less space and recoil themselves, but never in a kink/tangle-free fashion. I suppose that's one of the reasons why cordless phones were invented.  But of course the corporate 8 to 5 world never adopted this handy innovation. That'd be kind of weird, though ... employees answering their desk phones, pacing around the office, twiddling with random knick knacks on other people's desks. Maybe that's where the headset came in. But I can't honestly say I'm a fan of those either; they hurt my ears and you feel like you're still wearing it hours after you've taken it off. Maybe I'm just being sensitive, but try wearing a walkie-talkie head set for almost 72 hours (thanks ARC). I couldn't imagine being part of the Secret Service.  So now I've come full circle and am back to square one. That's a lot of shapes for one thought. Apparently there are other people in this world who share my disdain for these cords, which probably inspired the invention of the Swivel Jack that swivels the cord to your every move. I'm still not convinced. I think the only good thing about coiled cords (aside from the fact that they take up less room) is the recoil factor. If you happen to drop the phone you can quickly yank the cord and the phone will come flying back to you. Just be sure you actually catch it and don't give yourself a black eye ... that'd be unfortunate. And kind of funny. I guess I'm just left with untangling my desk phone cord, which isn't really all too difficult, nor does it take much time. It's just a smidge inconvenient when you're a little O.C.D. about certain things. Maybe it's just a reminder not everything can be perfect. C'est la vie.

P.T.
Secret Service ... for an organization priding themselves on their secrecy, they certainly don't look very secret. At least the posse protecting the President & Pals doesn't look very secret. I'm sure their actions are indeed quite secret. But, they're all suited-up and stand in that authoritative stance with their heads turned ever so slightly to look out into the distance. Their brows are furrowed not because the sun is in their eyes (the dark shades help with that), but because they want you to know they mean business and they're anticipating the worst when they watch your every move. AND THEY ALL HAVE THE COILED EARPIECE!! No, I'm on to YOU, Mr. Secret Service Man. Just kidding. I'm sure you could have me arrested in .9 seconds for blinking twice and scratching my ear because that could be some secret code of yours. I'm just saying if you're not worried about keeping a secret appearance, why don't you have a little fun with the "uniform"? Dang. I've probably triggered some alarm when I started this P.T. and now have a squad of agents posting up outside my door step waiting for the go-ahead to kick in the door. In which case just ring the doorbell and I'll let you in. I've got some leftover chicken pot pie I can heat up.

P.T.T.
In all seriousness, this P.T. (as do most) taught me something. Check out the history of the U.S. Secret Service here if you're interested.

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