Ashlee

It's official:

Ashlee Simpson simply cannot dress herself. Forget all the hoopla surrounding her ability to actually sing. Has anyone checked to make sure the girl can see?

I'm Sure It's Nothing

Had a dream last night where I started off on some kind of platform that kind of hopped and then allowed me to take off flying. Totally awesome. I was all Kate Winslet on the front of the Titanic.
But then, like out of nowhere, I'm walking (Hey! Where did my flying platform go?) down the street and I see the Grim Reaper coming toward me all decked out in full Reaperifficness, scythe and all. I kind of slowed down as I walked by him, thinking "Well, here we go, he's gonna lay an arched, bony finger of doom down on my wide behind." But then he kind of looks over at me and barley even acknowledges my presence. I got dissed by the Grim Reaper. So in the dream, I turn around and shout back something to the effect of, "What? I'm not good enough? CHOKE ON IT, @#$&%&%!" I may have said it out loud. This kind of stuff happens all the time, so I'm sure my husband wasn't even curious why I was yelling swear words in my sleep.
This morning, I looked up what Grim Reaper dreams mean and it said some total baloney about life transition and how meeting the Grim Reaper is a good thing. That dream analysis is completely bunk psychology. You could dream about seeing yourself getting beat up while wearing a nun habit and astronaut suit and the dream analysts would say that you're about to find love and you're going through a life transition. It's all about the life transition in dream analysis. "They" always want to make you think that dreaming about something obviously horrible and disastrous, say messing with the Grim Reaper, is perfectly fine. It's great. Nothing to see here. But then, if you have a dream about petting a puppy that poops gold coins while sitting under a rainbow (Like you've never had that dream, come on!), the dream analysts will say that you're going to go on a quite uncharacteristic serial killing spree. And also, you're going through a life transition.
So anyway, be looking for some SUPER great stuff to happen to me real soon.

One More Thing I Can Do Without

Been sick with food poisoning. I blame the "Turkey Surprise" that I had for lunch on Tuesday. It feels like my intestines are being yanked and pulled in a manner similar to one of those long balloons that clowns form into poodles and monkeys. I hate clowns for exactly this reason. I hope to be up to full speed in the next of couple days. Until then, I will be drinking vodka martinis in hopes of killing any bacteria left in my system.
So, I 've had food poisoning several times before and in case you are looking to take it up as some sort of "Extreme Sport", I'd have to advise against it. If my colon were a symphony of the body, the main performance over the last two days would've been a glorious concerto in 150 movements. The "Turkey Surprise in Ebola Sauce" has morphed into some sort of evil entity, eager to be released again into the world. I have never experienced food that seems to have a genuine grudge against my lower intestinal track. I am curious to know how the colon/Turkey food rift began, but I am only hearing my colon's end of the story. And believe me, she is screaming non-stop about it.
My point is that I have continued to come to work during my bout and frankly, I do not need any external influences making me "queasy". However, when I went to the fountain to get a drink of clear, delicious, safe, life-giving water, I was forced to contemplate something that has bothered me for a while. Perhaps some of you zany engineering blog reader types can assist me in understanding this one: Why, when I am getting a drink of water from the fountain outside of a restroom, does the water pressure fall when someone in the restroom flushes? Why, in the name of all that is holy, are those two sets of pipes in any way related? I want to at least have the illusion that there is a single pipe for my water that's linked from a pure, natural, Colorado spring directly to the water fountain, only to be slowed by some sort of quadruple-filter distillation process. I don't need to be happily sucking in water, only to hear the whhoooooossshhhh sound on the other side of the door as the water dips below the reach of my eager lips.
Someone place a call to the Brita people about this; it is completely unacceptable.

Li-Lo

I seriously feel like my relationship with Lindsay Lohan is sort of like the blogger/actress equivalent of a Lifetime movie, wherein she keeps doing incredibly stupid stuff (getting arrested this morning for suspicion of drunk driving and cocaine possession, the flashing, the serial dating/stalking of inappropriate dudes, and the rumor that she was dating K. Fed), and I keep making excuses for her. Lately, I've been at the point where I don't even make the excuses anymore, because I know y'all will be like, "GIRL. You have GOT to MOVE ON. She is BAD NEWS. This is just going to HURT YOU." And I don't want to hear it, because I secretly STILL LOVE HER. So I make excuses in my head. "She's just dating K. Fed because she wants attention. It's a cry for help really. No one understands her the way I do. Everyone else is so mean." I know: it's a sickness. Next thing you know, Lindsay will stab Tori Spelling with a vegetable peeler or release a new Blackberry missive titled "Mother, May I Sleep with Danger?" ("Danger" being Kevin Federline and "Mother," I assume, being self-explanatory) or start an affair with an underage student as a means to forcing him to murder someone and then I will really have some justifying to do. God! No one understands her but me. So, I have come up with a last ditch effort to save my self-destructive starlet from ruining both her career AND her septum. If this doesn't work, I am out. I swear.

Dear Angelina Jolie,
I would like to congratulate you on all your humanitarian work. I am really happy you've made philanthropy the new black; there are worse things to make trendy, that's for sure. Like, say, leg warmers. So well done for giving a nice chunk of your personal fortune to international causes, and for opening your heart and home to children in need.
Indeed, Angelina, it's the latter quality that has prompted my letter. There is somebody in desperate need of a mother, a real one, and since you seem to care about your children very much, perhaps you can widen the sexy Jolie-Pitt familial embrace to include one more person in peril.
Angelina, this girl needs adopting. Fast. She seems cursed. She's jumped through all these hoops to claim she's sober now--although it's not auspicious that she talked about how she's been to AA for a year in the same breath with which she trumpeted being on the wagon for all of seven days--and yet she still is having no trouble going out in public and doing something regrettable. I hate to say it, but she's starting to spend just enough time in Tara Reid territory (well, except how she gets work and has real talent) that she might start owing rent soon.
You can see now how much help she needs, right, Ange? Sure, she has a mother, technically, but I don't think she'd notice if you handed her some adoption papers. Frankly, I'd consider doing this myself. But I think you are a better fit for her. Sure, I think strapping her down to a couch in front of 90210 reruns might be good for her--especially because I'm getting to the part where Brenda finds out about Dylan and Kelly and screams at them that she hates them and never wants to talk to them again--but on a grander scale my advice wouldn't quite come from the same realm of common experience as yours. Consider it--you too were a wild child with prodigious talent, like your prospective daughter here, but you managed to come out the other side. And you have the cash resources to help clear Lindsay's head. I don't, and I wouldn't want to take her into my home and make Promises I can't keep, if you get my subtly capitalized drift.
Anyway, please consider my proposal. Just think of it as an investment in babysitting--if you turn her into a responsible human being, you and Brad can have all the free weekends you want. It's a bargain! Good Luck.
Regards,
Jenny

It's Not Me, It's You

I've taken to encoding everyday conversations for my own personal amusement. I think you'll find this to be a valuable tool for managing your daily stress. In today's example, I suggest that when someone asks you to help solve a problem, but you know that, in fact, they mean DO THIS FOR ME, then them that you'll be sure to rectify it for them.
"Rectify", of course, being our new codeword for telling them to stick it up their rectum.

Night Shift

I have not yet watched General Hospital: Night Shift, the GH spin-off that's currently airing on SOAPnet, although sources tell me that Billy Dee Williams is on it! This is exciting to me for reasons I can't quite pinpoint-maybe I have unresolved Lando Calrissian issues? At any rate, I don't watch General Hospital very often, but of course I am aware that it features or has featured BOTH Luke and Laura AND Dr. Rick Springfield, and every time I read a synopsis of something that's happened in the last five years, I find myself thinking, "Oh, I totally remember when that happened to Carly!". In other words, GH watchers, I get where you're coming from, I salute you, and I suspect that I may have a televisual version of that thing people get where they eat in their sleep, except I am watching soap operas. Anyway, I hear from reliable sources that GH:NS is sort of entertaining, but what I want to know is why no one realized that they accidentally replaced Kimberly McCullough, who plays Dr. Robin Scorpio (who, Wikipedia tells me, not only originated the role as a child, but also sang back-up on "Toy Soldiers" by Martika) with Jennifer Love Hewitt.
The GH:NS ad:

Versus everyone's favorite Ghost Whisperer:

I mean, it's fairly obvious that J Lo Hew's got Kimberly McCullough locked away in a cage mine shaft while she takes over her life so as to enact some terrible revenge because they're secretly twins who've been kept apart their whole lives and J Lo Hew is tired of people coming up to her and a) asking her about Bailey b) asking her if she can tell their dead grandmother hello c) starting sentences with the phrase, "well, I don't know about you, but I CAN'T HARDLY WAIT...." Frankly, I can't believe no one has caught on to this yet, but I just hope J Lo Hew will find herself so busy with seances when the next season of Ghost Whisperer goes into production that she lets poor Kimberly out.

The Line

A new line has been drawn marking whether or not you are allowed to speak to me. If you spell vacuum v-a-c-u-m-e, please kill yourself.
It's not that I'm incredibly smart, it's that so many people around me are dumber than a box of Q-Tips.
Vacume? Are you kidding me?
And then, then if you say to me, "Huh, is that how that's spelled?", do not be surprised if I lunge forward and stab you in the larynx with a highlighter.
You have been warned.

The Tuesday Test

Time for the Tuesday Test, of course, wherein you must state the following moronic opinion to a friend, co-worker, or complete stranger and report back to me on the results:

"I've always hated dolphins. They are just sharks with blow holes. Terrorists of the ocean, if you ask me. They should all be rounded up and killed immediately."

Preferably you'll be able to find a tree-hugging vegan to test this on and then watch his or her head explode. Take pictures for me.

Piece By Piece

Have you ever happened upon a thought that you were certain was an inside piece to the puzzle of existence? This weekend, I had an idea about the nature of man that I'm sure is globally important. And it came, as all genius does, while I was eating sushi.
Here is an ultimate truth in life: people like things in pieces. Okay, so that's not Earth shattering, but it explains a lot.
Sushi is an excellent example. Though I love sushi, my body is technically capable of processing only a six-piece roll and maybe a couple of nigiri pieces at one sitting. But I've never been one to let my body be the boss of me. Which is why I traditionally eat three or more six-piece rolls and eight or ten dozen nigiri pieces. And then wait to die.
Why do I do this? Because I break it down mentally as just one more piece. It's the American way. Just one more piece always has fewer calories. Just one more piece really doesn't count. Just one more piece is my birthright.
It's basically true of all food. We can justify eating an entire pizza, as long as it's broken down into pieces (often called "slices"). Eating an entire chicken seems ludicrous, but ordering a 12-piece bucket seems perfectly acceptable. Even more acceptable: chop that bird into smaller pieces! Nuggetizing is the ultimate piecification.
I know this doesn't seem like a revolutionary theory yet. But The Beale Piece Theory of the Universe is much broader than you may have ever imagined.
If you ask most people, the two greatest days of lives are their wedding day and the day their child is born. What are the basic traditions on a wedding day? Cutting the first piece of cake. Guests sometimes throw pieces of rice. What is a child? A piece of each of you. A new piece of family history.
See!?? Spooky, no?
So how about religion? Catholics eat a piece of Jesus as part of their ritual. In a traditional Jewish wedding ceremony, the man stomps a glass into pieces.
Politics? The world is broken up into pieces and everyone wants a bigger piece (not to be confused with a bigger peace). Politicians promise that everyone will get a piece of the pie. Every President wants to make his mark on a piece of history. Our government is based on being in pieces-the Legislative, Executive, and Judicial.
How about our monetary system? It's all originally based on pieces of gold. Pirates based their whole existence on pieces of eight and who in their right mind doesn't love pirates? Also, who in their right mind doesn't love the Pieces of Eight album by Styx!??!
My God, do you see how far reaching this all is?
Let's talk about violence in our society. We know for a fact from the NRA that guns don't kill people, bullets do. Bullets are very important pieces of the gun. And we all know that cool people refer to a gun as a piece.
Of course, violence often leads to death. Are you ready to be buried in your own piece of land? Were you insured by the piece of the rock? What will the piece of marble headstone say about you? Did you think R.I.P. meant "Rest in Peace"? No! It means Rest in Piece!
So there you go. I've blown your mind. I'm not sure what it means exactly, but I am pretty sure it's all an alien plot. After all, what did E.T. love?
That's right. Reese's Pieces.

Save the Future

While I agree that we should save the future (as well as the whales and Ferris), or perhaps Go Back to it, if things go awry with our families or if our mad scientist mentor needs saving from terrorists, but there's something about this girl's outfit that's distracting me from her message:

I can't quite put my finger on what it is.

Test Tuesday

Today is, of course, Tuesday. That means it's time for me to introduce the concept of a little something I'd like to call: The Tuesday Test. This is my little experiment in annoying people, wherein you must make a totally moronic statement to a friend, co-worker, or complete stranger and report back to me on their reaction. It's fun for me and could possibly make you look really really silly. So, you see, there's no real downside. And today's statement is:

"I honestly don't know how the United States can win a war against Iraq without France."

Keep a straight face. Go and spread the word of stupidity, my subjects!

It Just Slipped Out

So what exactly qualifies a person as having Tourette's Syndrome?
Hypothetically speaking, I might need a handwritten medical diagnosis delivered to my employer by the end of the week.
Let me set the stage for you. As referenced in my earlier blogs, my company has hired a new President. What I neglected to mention is that said new President is uber attractive. He is funny, smart, nice, funny, and hardworking. Did I mention funny? Or attractive? Totally not the type person who intimidates someone as suave and socially sophisticated as I am. Ahem....
This morning, New Hot President (his formal title) calls me into his office to discuss the end results of our mid-year inventory. No problem, I tell NHP. Little did I know that by the end of our chat, my self diagnosed case Tourette's Syndrome was going to flare up all over my career.

This is the initial part of the actual conversation between NHP and I:
Me: Good morning Sir.
NHP: Good morning. How did inventory go?
Me: Excellent, this is the result....here are the reports....let's look at some charts....great!
NHP: Boy, I bet you are glad that's over!
Me: Whew, what a relief!

This is a summary of the conversation I was having with myself while chatting with NHP:
Me: Wow. Chris is really quite cute. He even has a dimple. I wonder if he likes movies. I wonder if he has seen A Prairie Home Companion? That was a weird movie. But it does have Lindsay Lohan in it. I totally love her. She's just so misunderstood. You know, she only wore one outfit in that whole movie. Unless you count that shawl thing. And those singing cowboys were hysterical. Woody Harellson and John C. Reilly are too funny. Remember the part where they sign the song with all the jokes in it? The joke about diarrhea. That was super funny. I need to remember that one for parties.

And then it happened. Tourette's reared its ugly head. The following is our conversation in its entirety:
Me: Good morning Sir.
NHP: Good morning. How did inventory go?
Me: Excellent. This is the result...here are the reports...let's look at some charts....great!
NHP: Boy, I bet you are glad that's over!
Me: What a relief!
NHP: (Pause)
Me: Did you know that diarrhea is hereditary?
NHP: (Pause)
NHP: (Pause)
NHP: (Pause) (Cough)
Me: It runs in your genes!
NHP: (Pause)
NHP: Well then, I really need to get to a meeting.....

Again, I ask what exactly qualifies a person as having Tourette's Syndrome and how quickly can I get to a doctor?

Don't Go Into The Water

Last week, my co-workers and I were discussing dreams and nightmares. It reminded me of one of my own specific night traumas from childhood. This incident, in turn, reminded me that my parents were never formally trained in the parenting arts. Anyway....
I consider myself a really good dreamer. For the most part, I have lots of happy, colorful, carefree dreams. In particular, I have the extraordinary good fortune of having my dreams consistently slip into the yummy zone, with seemingly no rhyme or reason.
For example, I could be dreaming about traveling to Italy for a 8 day, 7 night cross-country extravaganza and my mind will tell me that I will need to take a plane there, because even though this is a dream world, and I could, technically, get there in a blip, it is best to support our air carriers in these difficult times and I am nothing if not conscientious, so there I am, reclined in a very comfortable first class seat and the girl next to me will strike up a conversation about the reruns of Beverly Hills 90210 on Soapnet and how she is in awe of Brandon's fluffy mullet and I'm all like "I know!" and she's all like "Shyaah!" and then, out of nowhere, the drop-dead gorgeous, Brad Pitt look-alike male stewardess will accidentally spill a platter of drinks on my lap and the only thing he can mop it up with is his shirt and he starts to become all nervous, so he does what any other right-thinking person would do- he gets George Clooney and Heath Ledger from coach to come and help clean up this horrible mess and they all have to clean it up with their shirts and pretty soon the Captain hears this bit of nastiness and he figures the best way to help is to put on a little Marvin Gaye over the intercom and I say "Gentlemen, Gentlemen, please. This is no big deal. This will dry. Please, let's just relax." and Brad responds, "My God. You are some kind of perfect woman. So caring and bright and beautiful. In fairness to you, I think I should make out with you." to which I reply, "Well, that does seem fair."
So, you see, I do not lack imagination. And as a child, this was my downfall.
The story is quite simple. The movie Jaws was set to be on television for the first time ever. It was a major TV event. This was something I could not miss. I begged and begged and begged my parents to let me watch it. They said it was scary and I was too young. I said, "C'mooooooooooon!" And they finally caved. There is just no arguing the "C'mooooooooon!" gambit.
It started at 7:00 Central Time. And I did get scared. A whole lotta scared. I was sweating a stain into my adorable little PJ's. I mean, that shark show no mercy, am I right? It's like he had a taste for human flesh. Even though it was on network TV, they didn't seem to be too concerned with showing the blood-letting, as I recall. With about a half-hour to go I was pretty much about to wet my pants.
"Time for bed, sweetie" my Mom yelled downstairs to me.
"The movie isn't over yet, Mom" I shouted back.
"That's too bad, honey, it's your bedtime. I told you that you shouldn't watch that movie anyway!" she countered.
"But Mah-aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhmmm!" I reasoned.
"Now!" she checkmated.
Crafty Woman.
Now, for those of you in the parenting profession, here is the problem with this particular situation: If you are going to let your young child watch a movie about a deadly and cunning gynormous shark (or axe-murderer), at least let them watch the WHOLE THING!! The problem is, I never got to see the shark die. For all I knew, he was still out there. Waiting for me. And he was pissed that I didn't have the decency to finish watching his movie.
So I went to bed, covered in sweat.There I was, in my room, under my covers. Waiting to die.
After a couple hours, I did manage to get to sleep. But here is where my robust imagination is more of curse than a blessing.
See, I lived in Northeast Illinois. My young brain knew that the nearest shark was in an ocean, like a zillion miles away. My young brain did not let geography stop it, however. As I feel further into sleep, I became aware of the local news of the day in Dreamland. There was really one major story. You guessed it: A flood. It was a really big flood too. Seems it had flooded the entire Lake Michigan, gaining ground rapidly on Northeast Illinois.
Huh. What are the odds?
As I opened the blinds to my bedroom window in my dream, I saw that the flood was nearly up to the second story window from which I was gazing. For obvious reasons (I'm an idiot), I decided this would be a good time to open said window and look out further. That's pretty much the moment that the Great White jumped up and enveloped my whole upper torso in his 8,000 rows of teeth and shook me around like I owed him money. Blood squirted everywhere of course.
Lesson to parents: If you are going to let your child watch scary movies where the villainous person/animal gets killed off in the end, please let them stay up past their bedtime. Just this once. It will save you a bundle in future therapy bills.

Freedom

The closest location for me to purchase fireworks is a group of people who've set up a makeshift operation/tent on a busy local street corner. In ninety-five degree weather. Fifteen feet from a gas station.
It's hard to believe that North Carolina ranks somewhere in the forties in education. Most in North Carolina never see that list, of course, because counting past forty is really, really hard.

Freedom is for everyone, including those that are free to be complete idiots.