Signs

At the moment, as well as cutting down on the naughty words, I’m trying to drink more water.  According to the experts in magazines and online, if you don’t drink at least seventy three gallons of water every day you will likely lose your mind and start kebabbing babies and little kittens and gnashing your teeth or speaking in a strange Welsh monotone while lamenting on fine wines and their complement to certain internal organs.  

The thing is, water’s so boring.  It’s not exciting in the least.  It’s the beverage equivalent of Michael Bolton, only substantially less offensive, mainly because it has no mouth or vocal chords or pictures of Fabio hanging in its bedroom. 

Incidentally, beware of bottled water brands who make ludicrous claims like “we have the best tasting water” because water shouldn’t “taste”, surely?  If your water tastes of anything, it’s tainted and you’re going to die a painful, torturous death possibly involving your innards being sucked out through your belly button and eaten by a wolverine.

I’m trying nonetheless.  For example, I just drank a liter bottle of Norwegian mineral water named “VOSS” which comes in an attractive tall glass cylinder that looks like it belongs in a lab or Regis Philbin’s bathroom (or wherever he keeps his embalming fluid). 

Before you all go thinking “Wow, don’t you have some high-fallutin’ tastes, Veg!” I don’t normally go buying designer water when I can just turn on the tap and get it for free, but this water was a gift of sorts.  I got it at the market across the street while I was trolling around in there muttering to myself one afternoon.

This place calls itself a “Mediterranean Market” which is a fancy way of saying “We import regular foods from other countries, most of decidedly non-Mediterranean origin and charge exorbitant amounts for it.”

When I went to pay for my items, the cashier handed me the cylinder of water as a free promotion and as I’m all about free stuff, I smiled all the way home.  Because I am easily pleased.  

But don’t be thinking I’ve quit Diet Pepsi because honestly, I’d rather run through the Senate wearing a Miley Cyrus t-shirt and sporting a salami clenched between my buttocks than do something that outrageous.  No, I have merely limited myself to one DP a day (to ensure peace on Earth – and in my gut).

Gosh, look at me – a non-swearing, water drinking, goddamn ray of sunshine.  Does this mean I’m becoming a functional member of society?

Mean Girls

Sometimes I’m a mean, mean person. And I laugh at things that other people love and I don’t even feel bad about it. Like today, when I found out that Hackers had taken over Twitter, like dirty little cyber pirates aboard an Internet cruise ship, I practically got some champagne and toasted those rogues.

Of course, they hack a damn thing of mine I will castrate them all with rusty gardening shears. That goes without saying.

But I have a feeling we can all survive a day without hearing about the size of people’s poop or the fact they’re cooking boef bourgignon for dinner or seeing Ashton Kutcher’s ass photos of Demi Moore. Or Michael Moore. Or Mandy Moore. Whichever Moore's ass photos he's exploiting today.

Although I'm sure Mandy has a nice ass.

I don’t know about you, but I can’t say anything in 140 characters or less. That’s like saying “Here’s an ice cream cone without the ice cream part” – what’s the point? I’m VERBOSE, people. I will not be cut down to bite sized morsels and thwarted.

Even though you wish I would.

You know what would make Twitter better (apart from someone making it explode in a glorious, bloody mass of pulp and brains and letters and user names)? If you had to haiku everything you posted in a hilarious manner. I might even embrace that concept. I heart haikus. They are wonderful and make me happy in my pants. It could be called “Haikwitter” (no, it couldn’t) or “Twittu”.

Anyway, I have this pleasing image of everyone running around cyberspace today in a giant, panty-wadding panic, unsure of what to do with themselves, or where to find people to talk to. I imagine Facebook is contemplating alcoholism due to sending out five billionty of those fake beverages and poking the ass out of half the world, just to give people something inane to do with their typing fingers.

Ironically, I didn't even know Twitter had gone down (there were no Tweets all over the fucking place to tell me about it, after all!) until I read about it in the UK Sun, which is hilariously ironic in itself, since you're normally more likely to find a giant naked picture of some diseased strumpet's boobs in The Sun than you are details about some actual current event, so kudos to them I guess, for recognizing "news" when it reared up and bit them on the ass.

It’s all pretty funny.

Yo (No) Quiero Taco Bell

In a rare bit of frantic optimism, based solely on some rose-tinted nostalgia, we decided it was entirely necessary this afternoon to acquire some Taco Bell. Once you get an idea in your head, especially one that involves procuring fast food, it’s hard to shake it.

Except the reality slipped both of our minds just a touch. The last time I had Taco Bell was probably ten years ago and I completely decided to forget that it was like eating a burrito filled with refried bean lava and disappointment.

It’s sort of encouraging to see that not a lot has changed and slightly irritating to realize there’s still more flavour in the packaging than there is in any food Taco Bell serves. It’s what Mexican food tastes like if you remove every last trace of Mexico - every spice, anything resembling real cheese, anything with a modicum of zing and anything that involves the decapitated head of a drug lord.

I’m kidding about the last part. That only comes with the combo meal.

If desperation had a flavour, it would be Taco Bell.

I ate my 7 Layer Burrito, frowning that the kid on the register promised me no lettuce (seriously, shredded lettuce is for rabbits and deviants) yet suspiciously seemed to neglect to inform the burrito maker of this.

“I bet you three hundred bucks I get lettuce.” I said to God, before the food arrived.

“Well he pressed some button when you asked for that.” said God. “But despite this, I fear you’re right.”

I upped the wager. “I bet you another three hundred bucks that the part of your order when you said ‘can I have the volcano meal without the hot part?’ means your food shows up with more jalapenos than the whole of Mexico City on ‘National Jalapeno Day’.”

“Again, I fear you are right.” replied God.

God is wise. He knows.

“Besides…” I reminded him, “He didn’t press anything when you asked. I don’t think there’s a button on that till for ‘lose the heat’.”

“Sure there is,” said God, “It’s right next to the button that says ‘Spit on this guy’s food for being picky.’”

So indeed I got lettuce and God got enough jalapenos to set an entire town on fire and the food STILL lacked taste or spice.

The thing is, it’s sort of hard to fuck up Mexican food if you have the ingredients, because Mexican food by its very definition, is tasty. If you look up “tasty” in the dictionary I bet there’s a Mexican flag next to it. Even if you go wrong, it’s still tastily edible. The Mexicans know their shit when it comes to cooking. 

Neither of our meals included even the basics – no salsa, guacamole or sour cream. The cheese was that mystery orange goo they give you in movie theatres with nachos, that is designed to scald your taste buds on the first attempt, so you can’t tell that it has no flavour. I bet NASA made that “cheese” at some point to deal with those pesky tiles that keep falling off the space shuttle.

Taco Bell is magic. The first time you go they implant a chip in your food that you swallow, which then embeds itself in your gut and activates at certain times in the future making you immediately crave Taco Bell and momentarily forget the suckage involved, until you’ve parted with your money.

So if you’re out tomorrow and you see someone driving around, vacant yet expectant expression on their glassy-eyed face, you can bet your ass they are headed for an afternoon of disappointment at Taco Bell.

Evil Google Overlords

You know how there are a lot of things in the world that are stupid? Like Speidi, believing the Moon landing is a hoax, calling something "The Slap Chop" and hitting your thumb with a hammer?

Well it might shock you to know there are way, way more stupid things than those. On a Global Scale of Stupidity, those rank about a four out of ten.

Maybe five if you’re Speidi…. Six even. Seven on a day with a “y” in it.

But do you know what else is stupid? Google. Google is sort of a frenemy to me. We have a love/hate relationship. I seem to have acquired its many goods and services without blinking, but suddenly they all CONNECT and it’s freaking me out, man.

First I had Gmail. Gmail’s good, right? A logical email program that keeps all your related threads in one email, instead of having 20 emails on the same subject cluttering up your inbox like unwanted Menudo songs in your head.

After this I got the Google Reader. Makes sense. Keeps all my reading material in one convenient place and lets me know when all you glorious bastards update your blogs. Sure, it takes its own sweet time about it, but it works.

Later, I broke up with my fiance, Firefox, who was just taking too long to do anything, so I downloaded the speedy Google Chrome, totally on the rebound.

Then of course, there’s Blogger. Blogger also links to Google. You can log in with your Google account.

Now it’s getting a little confusing. Bear in mind, my brain’s the size of a gnat’s ass, so maybe it’s just me. Now if I log into Gmail, I am automatically logged in to the Reader AND Blogger. It’s like a giant conspiracy of convenience.

HOWEVER, one day I noticed that the Google Reader has little built in thingies I hadn’t messed with before. Like a profile.

Naturally I had to pimp mine up just a touch by adding some of my high-class illustrations. So I clicked the “add photos” button, expecting a box to pop up asking where on my computer these photos were.

Instead, it was an action which lead me to the King of Stupid – Picasa. Until this moment, I didn’t know Picasa had a goddamn thing to do with Google OR Blogger. I didn’t know that the fact I have a Blogger-Google account meant I also, by default, have a Picasa account.

I mean what’s next? I go for a “Wendy’s sandwich and find out I need my Gmail password to get anything vaguely “waaaaay delicious”?!

I noticed (because I didn’t come down in the last storm) that there were already several albums installed in my Picasa account and they were teaming with photos and illustrations – mostly stuff I’d posted in my blogs or graphics I’d made and not used. So I thought “When you add a photo to your blog it must save a copy in here too, in case you want to have a little photo album!”

And I thought, “Isn’t that nice of them?”

And I thought, “Bless their kind little Googly hearts!”

Then I thought, “What’s the point in having all this shit cluttering up my account when all that stuff is already in BLOGGER?!?!”
Yup. You already see where this is going, don’t you?
I DELETED EVERYTHING IN PICASA. Every photo in that fucking account.

Yesterday morning I get up and check something on my Photo blog. A blog comprising only of photographs, I should add. And what do you know? There’s my blog right where it should be. Only is there one, single, solitary, stinking photo anywhere?
NO THERE IS NOT.

And I realize that all those pics you upload to your blog? They don’t get stored in Blogger’s memory or cache, oh no. They are hosted by PICASA. Which I just DELETED.

Yes.

This made me laugh and laugh.

(No it didn’t. It made me say a bad word and punch a pillow.)

So I spent all of the afternoon reposting every photo back into the blog. And talking to myself. A lot.

“Alles gut!” as they say in Deutschland.

And all WAS good. Until I came over here to respond to a comment and found - what a SHOCKER - there are no photos or illustrations over here either. NOT ONE. And you know me, I’m all about the photos and illustrations! And about 50% of them are stupid web photos I have no copies of!

I know!!! Isn’t it great?

Needless to say I was underwhelmed with delight. And it took THREE HOURS to re-acquire and re-publish everything with the photos back in. I sulked the whole time and it’s entirely possible that I might have called Google/Blogger/Picasa a “pigfucker”.
And now I’m getting it off my chest.

Kewl

There was a time in my life where I thought I was really effing cool. Cool like an ocean breeze. Cool like The Fonz. I think every kid goes through the “I’m so cool and ironic in my vintage clothes and pink hair and peace sign Sharpied onto an old Army satchel." phase. The "I am making a statement about being unique in a society full of sheep!” stage. Because, you know, no one ever dyed their hair pink before you or wore clothes from the thrift store. You are TOTALLY the first person to do that. How do you get through the day being so damn GROOVY? I don’t know, people, I just did.

Then one day you look in the mirror and you think, “Is it possible that I have gravely misread the situation and I am actually a complete TOOL?” And you panic and buy something that isn’t black and dye your hair a colour that IS found in nature and find other ways to express yourself that don’t involve frowning in a hostile manner at people with perms who listen to the Top 40 for their incredible lack of imagination or taste.

Although, you know, those people do need a reality check. Who gets a perm nowadays? Did they not see pictures from the ‘80s? Did no one learn ANYTHING?

Sometimes when I’m driving somewhere I see groups of sullen teens congregating on a corner somewhere, poutily checking their iPhones and peering out from behind their giant Emo fringes and inch thick eyeliner and I want to open the window and yell, “Enjoy it now kid because tomorrow? You will be wearing a suit and talking about 401Ks and wearing HEELS and worrying about your lipstick matching your shirt and how to pay your rent. You will look back at photos of you from today and you will think, ‘Wow, when was I in a Tim Burton movie?’ and you will wonder what the hell you were so miserable about when your biggest problem was your mom objecting to you getting black dye on her favourite towels.” And then I will twist the knife by shouting, “I was like you once and look at me now!” and if they never contemplated suicide before, they surely will after that.

Then I will probably crash into a pole because I’m too busy yelling to watch where I’m driving and those kids will be like, “OH MY GOD, look at that old person, she should get her eyesight checked, let’s end it all if we ever get to be like that!” And I will climb out of my wrecked car with blood all over my face and my dignity all over the sidewalk and I will clench my fist and drag my half-dead, bloody leg stump over there, growl menacingly and say, “Can I borrow your phone before I bleed to death?”

The History Of Me

Some might say I was an odd child.  I was social yet quiet.  I enjoyed people, yet I was perfectly happy to spend time alone.  I lived happily in my own world.  I liked to draw and I liked to read and those two activities took up 90% of any time I spent indoors.  I didn’t get into much trouble and if I did, I was stealth about it.

From early on I disliked dolls and enjoyed collecting toy cars and trucks.  I had a train set, which you wound with a key to make a little miniature steam train run around a circular track. I knew the make of every car on the road.  My parents, probably envisioning me fifteen years in the future coming home with a buzz cut and a girl dressed in plaid, started buying me dolls.  When I did finally play with them, it was to strap them to some devious contraption I’d concocted from an old roller skate and I’d crash them into walls, or drop them off of cliffs or run over them with my bike. 
When I was a little older I’d make them have orgies with G.I. Joe, Action Man, and Ken.

I loved being outside and in summer, when it was light till late, I’d be outside from early in the morning till late at night, coming home only if I was hungry or thirsty.  I was tall for my age, athletic and sported scabs on my knees for most of my childhood.  I embraced a challenge. I was always falling out of trees and off of swings.

When other little girls were asked what they wanted to be when they grew up, they said “teacher” or “stewardess” or “nurse” or “pop star” whereas my ambition was to be a writer or a truck driver.  I guess those two things go hand in hand!  I’d hand write “novels” in a lined notebook and design my own covers for the outside.  I wanted to travel.  Later I wanted to be a pilot until I figured out I was scared of flying.

I had a big imagination.  I’d ride my bike around and pretend it was a horse, or a car, or that I was on a great adventure, like the sort kids in movies always seemed to have.  I’d climb trees and read among the branches.  I’d act out crazy scenarios in my mind.  I’d carve figures out of Plasticine or clay.

In the summer my grandparents would take me away for weekends by the ocean, in their camper, to give me a break from my more extroverted siblings. I had a strong interest in going places and in the Camper trailer itself.  When I visited their house, I’d pretend the camper was my den.

I’d have mad crushes on boys but they never knew.  I’ve never chased boys.  The ones I’ve had have always just happened, accidentally.  I wasn’t a long-haired, dainty, pretty 12-year-old Lolita that made teenage boys weak at the knees, I was the lanky, messy-haired tomboy who biked everywhere and was taller than most of them.  They never noticed me.  A few years later they were all much taller than me and I had boobs, so the whole dynamic changed.  Despite my huge collection of friends and acquaintances, I was shy but I maintained a wicked sense of humour. 

In my teens I didn’t mind school.  I found it fairly effortless and I was a straight A student.  I had a lot of friends but rarely a “best” friend. I liked my own company. I was interested in languages and screen printing and photography and music.  I rocked quadratic equations.  I sucked enormously at history.  I didn’t mind.

I’d lock myself  in my bedroom in the dark with my headphones on and listen to music.  I mean REALLY listen.  To every instrument, to the vocal, to the lyrics.  I favoured the obscure but I still demanded melody. I thought “mainstream” equated “boring”. 

Things I always had around:  a guitar, a sketch pad. I’d buy vintage clothes from the flea market and alter them to fit me.  I wrote short sci-fi stories. I drew cartoons.

I preferred the geeks to the sporty popular boys.  I wrote my own songs.  I wished I wore glasses.  I dyed my hair pink, then black, then bleached it blonde.

Sometimes I have trouble remembering the old me.  Other times she’s right there in the mirror staring back at me, only now she’s a little more tamed by the bonds of reality that growing up brings. It’s sort of bittersweet.  I’d still like to drive a truck. I still suck at history. I’m still imaginative and in love with creativity. 

I just fall off of swings less often.

Follow This

Everyone’s sure obsessed by “followers”, have you noticed? People have hundreds of followers. And those are just the ones that show up in the sidebar using the Blogger Following option. Which I don’t use. Because I’m special.

Special Ed.

Me, I follow 130 blogs on my Reader yet I don’t count towards anyone’s “followers”. Thanks Blogger. Thanks a lot.

See you reading right now? Yes, you! I probably follow your blog and you don’t even know it. Am I creeping you out now? I’m totally stalking you.

I see people every day trolling for followers like it’s a sign of their self worth and it kind of reminds me of the kid at school who handed out candy because he wanted to be popular. It’s strangely fascinating.

Me, I don’t have many followers and that’s really ok. I looked today precisely for this post and I have 26 followers on my main blog here. But you know what, they’re 26 QUALITY followers. I mean I’d rather have 26 freaking awesome, creative, fabulous followers than 200 bargain basement followers, with cooties, you know? When I get my pimped out Airstream? All 26 of you magnificent beasts are invited to help me christen it with debauchery.

Hmmm. Wait a minute though. My Google Reader stats tells me I have 97 people actually subscribed to the shite quality prose that I write. Isn’t that crazy? So actually I have 97 quality, awesome, creative, fabulous followers. I’m not sure I can fit 97 people in an Airstream. The debauchery will have to spill out into the yard! Bring your own chairs. And beer.

*note - I now appear to have guilted 2 of you guys into becoming followers and am at 28. I can achieve my dream of my own private Waco, sooner than anticipated! Unless you're totally fucking with me to mess up my figures. Jezebels.


I wonder who came up with the term “followers” and didn’t find it totally creepy? They couldn’t just have gone with “blog buddies” or “friends” or “interested parties”?

So hi followers! I’m like Charles Manson. Only without the beard. Or the murder in my heart. Or a penis. Or the crazy eyes.

OK, I have the crazy eyes…