Land of the Free, Home of the Breakfast Cereal Aisle

This morning, I drank hot coffee through a bendy straw. I succumbed to such ridiculous behavior because I am currently employing the teeth-whitening system of Crest Premium Plus strips. Not only are they actually making my teeth somewhat whiter, but they are making them sensitive. Hence, the straw decreases the discoloring effect the caffeine has on my choppers, and also sends the hot liquid straight to my tongue, so that it can experience roughly the same level of discomfort that my teeth already feel. A balanced mouth is a happy mouth, eh?

That brings me to my first point. Why are the strips Premium Plus? I mean, is this a marketing campaign for the egomaniac who thinks him- or herself just a bit too good for the plain old Premium strips, not to mention scoffing at the Classic strips? May it never be that my teeth have only the whiteness of the plebes!

Greg bought some AKC brand dog treats this weekend. They are Super Premium All Natural Gourmet Dog Biscuits. If they can help train his dogs to actually repeat that phrase 5 times fast, they're worth it. But my point is, dogs eat their own vomit. I have even seen a dog I know (who shall remain nameless) find what she must have thought to be 'hidden treasures' in my own cat's litter box. I am not kidding. Why do these creatures need gourmet anything?

My cat, on the other hand, totally deserves and fully appreciates her Fancy Feast Elegant Medleys white meat chicken and whipped egg souffle with garden greens. This is mainly because it came free in the 20-pound container of litter that I bought last week.

We were in a Cingular store only days ago, where Greg was trying to figure out what phone to buy. The options are endless; that is why I have spent no less than two hours in the past two weeks sitting in the car, in the parking lot, waiting while he shops. A phone can now take photos, play music, calculate your restaurant tip, check your email, transfer your documents, and store movies for you to watch, all with the press of a button on the display screen using an infinitesimally small stylus, which handily fits in a compartment on the back of the phone. The problem is, if you have a manual transmission instead of a chauffeur, you are unable to utilize any of these functions, much less access the 'phone' feature of the phone. That's why Greg is on a first-name basis with the sales staff. My phone, I'm proud to say, is just a phone. It does not flip, click, store, show, check, or anything except act as a person-to-person speaking device.

This is America, I guess. We don't want to have a credit card; we want to have the executive platinum all-access 0% points and cash rewards card. We want to be able to buy a street legal 1183 hp car that goes 286 miles per hour, seemingly oblivious to the fact that the Autobahn is not within driving distance (though if it were, it would only be an 18.5 hour trip). We want to order coffee drinks that have so many adjectives preceding their names that one must practice at home before attempting to place an order in the coffee shop.

I pontificate; forgive me. All the hot air rushing out of my mouth is irritating my teeth.

Relief!

I am busy. Very busy. Various tasks now demand my constant attention, but I need diversions just like everyone else. I probably need them more than everyone else, but that is a debate for another day.

My point is, I like to laugh, I like to make others laugh, and I like it when others make me laugh. The following is the first in a series of at least five videos that make me laugh. Very hard. In lieu of trying to make you laugh by detailing certain factoids, sharing personal encounters, or pontificating philosophical musings, I will instead post the video. That is what it known as a 'cop-out.'

Thanks to Sarah for bringing it to my attention back in the day, and then for calling me last week to ask me where she might find it on the web.

*WARNING*

If you are not amused by bodily function humor, are uptight about anything, or have a fondness for television "preachers" who claim blessings in exchange for cash, do not watch this video. I will not respond to hate mail because of it.

I am 30

At least, according to a completely unscientific, unverifiable, non-specific, multiple choice quiz.

You Are 30 Years Old

Under 12: You are a kid at heart. You still have an optimistic life view - and you look at the world with awe. 13-19: You are a teenager at heart. You question authority and are still trying to find your place in this world. 20-29: You are a twentysomething at heart. You feel excited about what's to come... love, work, and new experiences. 30-39: You are a thirtysomething at heart. You've had a taste of success and true love, but you want more! 40+: You are a mature adult. You've been through most of the ups and downs of life already. Now you get to sit back and relax.

What Age Do You Act?

This is my favorite new thing:

It has always been my experience that a trip to Goodwill, or a store of its ilk, proves to be rewarding for everyone save myself. Susan, for instance, can find a Chanel frock that fits like a glove and pay no more than $5, probably bartering in kind with fish or impromptu viola lessons. Salida, a former classmate and co-worker, is the thrift store Imelda Marcos, seeming always to wear the latest in fashion and having paid for her wardrobe using coins from her car's ash tray. Oh, the humanity of wearing a size small but having a 36-inch inseam! Does anyone out there hear me?

All that to say, since starting my new job, I have needed clothing that bears no name brands, is comfy yet durable, that I don't mind getting dirty, and is presentable for that one hour that I am on the sales floor (customer service - who needs it?). So during one of my four recent trips to Goodwill, I actually perused the t-shirt sections for good finds. I came away with a child's shirt, bold purple, bearing iron-on letters, that reads 'downtown kids' on the front and 'meet me on broadway' on the back, as well as the gem pictured here.

**For those of you who don't know the extent of my wardrobe: my mother, upon learning of my purchases, is most likely experiencing a mild to moderate stroke. She has recently commissioned a king-sized quilt to be made entirely of my high school and college era t-shirts. It will match nicely with my camp-themed t-shirt quilt.**

But I digress. I have received one, lonely compliment on this shirt. A co-worker with a purple streak in her nearly-waist-length hair pulled one iPod earbud out of her head long enough to say how much she, too, loves Goodwill and how that guy looks like someone's grandpa, "Only happier." I agreed.

It rained here yesterday, and has been pouring on and off today. The weather has officially changed, and I must now prepare to wear skirts again, even above-the-knee ones. I have forgone them in the recent months.

Lyndsay and Chris Slaten are skiing Summit County right now. I pay tribute by whining and gazing longingly at this photo of my Xterra in front of Copper Mountain in August. The last time I returned from skiing, I purchased brand new Rossignol ski boots. Alas, I have been fully outfitted for my next snow-filled adventure for three straight years, but as yet have not even used them. My snow blades have travelled across the country and back in the last year, but not seen the light of day. Despair.

News of the Millennium!

Jesus has returned, in the flesh! I mean, not like He said He would, descending from the sky or anything, but this time as a Puerto Rican former heroin addict! Jose Luis de Jesus Miranda is our guy. For real. I saw him on ABC last night; he's on his second marriage, has four kids, wears a nice Rolex and has the number '666' embroidered on his vest and hats. He also says that Satan doesn't exist anymore and that God doesn't care if Christians sin. Wow, so glad I turned on the TV at 8.30 or I might have missed out on the news. The only thing that didn't seem quite right to me was that he travels with a group of bodyguards...I guess the reincarnation version of his body isn't as tough as the first one.

In other, obviously less important news, I have returned to a pocket radio. Or will, once it arrives. My new job is great because we don't have to listen to the store CD, which is not the best mix of music, in my humble though discriminating opinion. However, the boom box that takes our mind off the cold and the early hour is set to a local pop station. The unfortunate thing about that is the syndicated show, Kidd Kraddick in the Morning (right, he couldn't come up with a better show name than that), that I am then forced to listen to. No kidding, a few days ago, the trio of personalities spent about 15 minutes trying to compose a 20- word text message to Justin Timberlake to invite him to play golf with Kidd. It was painful; have they nothing better to do with on-air time? I think I have actually lost brain cells by being subjected to their drivel.

Also, the show has a soundtrack (much like the store's) that consists of about 8 songs, most of which are not cool. For example, I have heard the song 'Riding Dirty' before sunrise at least 5 times now. The song 'Lips of an Angel,' by the band Hinder, also gets more than it's fair share of air time. I am a bit wary of Mr. Hinder, or Mr. Howe, or whoever wants to claim credit for such a song, as it describes a phone call from an ex-girlfriend. The gentleman singing tells her, 'My girl's in the next room; sometimes I wish it was you. You make it hard to be faithful.' If any woman is in even slightly involved in any romantic way with this band, heads up! They don't sound trustworthy to me. Or very bright for that matter; airing one's inmost desires or dissatisfaction with a girl- or boyfriend on Top Ten radio is not a very good way of keeping a lid on them.


This weekend, Greg, Greg's boss Charlie, Charlie's wife Linda, and I all went to Memphis. We took Charlie's truck, pictured above, to the tune of 11.3 mpg on the way down. As we passed Macks and Peterbuilts, we looked at the drivers. At eye-level. Before we left, Charlie requested that we drop by the bank so he could make the house payment in person. This is the scene.


It would seem that Charlie's truck is too big to fit through the drive-thru. Notice how no cars pull up behind Charlie. To see more fun photos from our weekend trip, as well as more from this engaging series, go here.