Smiple, Smiple, Smiple! - Take That, Spell Check!

Bare with me (or bear, whichever you prefer), this is my first entry I've ever made without having a topic in mind beforehand. I'm just going to meander my way through this. Feel free to come along.

A couple things spring to mind. 1) Who puts a stupid blizzard in Minnesota right before finals week? and 2) Haven't they figured out Christmas lights YET? Hmm, I seem to be feeling very passionate about that at the moment; let's go with that.

You would think that with all the technology we've come up with (I'm not going to list any examples, because honestly I'm not all that up to date with my technology, although I do recall seeing a commercial for a car that could parallel park itself awhile back) that they...'they' being the Official Christmas Light ... Committee (yeah!) would figure out how the dickens to get Christmas lights to actually work for more than one holiday. Every year, I take out tangles of lights and plug them in, only to find that half of the white ones, two danglies on the dangly ones, and the ugly green ones are the only ones that work. Then I set up the ugly green ones, smile with satisfaction, and them promptly kill the Christmas spirit in my house by accidentally slamming the cord in the sliding glass door. Do they have high tech Christmas lights that still work after one of the little bulbs breaks? Because it's sounds really freaking simple to me, yet I'm never seen it. (curious...I've just accidentally types 'smiple' and spell check hasn't said a peep about it.) Anyway- the end of the story is that the Christmas Spirit is dead in my house.

I really don't feel like talking about the blizzard anymore. Except maybe, to say that the Weather Channel is here in Fargo. I found it slightly amusing that our regular reporter is literally wearing a ski mask, goggles, and a furry Elmer Fudd-like hat, urging all Minnesotans and North Dakotans (I'm not quite sure what they'd like to be called...maybe North Dakotians?) to "repeat, STAY INSIDE" one minute and then telling us exactly where the Weather Channel folks are reporting live so we can come and meet our favorite reporters the next, then showing images of a few idiots trekking through the blizzard to come meet the WC crew. (see, I cal them that because I'm not impressed by them. Too cool for school, this one)

Ack. This diversion sucked. Back to my report on Degas and my brainstorming on my self-portrait which I don'tdon'tdon'tdon'tdon't want to DO!

Moral of the Story- Don't Put Makeup on Monkeys

Everyone has a horrible haircut story. I'm happy to say that this story isn't so much about how bad the haircut was as much as how bad the haircutTER was. The hair- not so bad. Don't worry about the hair. I know you're all worrying.

So this college student decided to let another college student cut her hair and trekked from the photography department over to the cosmetology department. A coworker recommended someone who was just a week or so away from graduation so I assumed (wrongly, as you might has guessed) that all would be well.

Let me preface this next thrilling part of the story by mentioning an assignment I had earlier in the semester. A small group of us had to go around the college taking photojournalism shots and ended up in the cosmetology department figuring as they seemed to be the most narcissistic group in school (plus the dairy guys were kind of mean) we'd get plenty of shots. Enter R. (name withheld to protect identity): probably the scariest looking human being I've ever seen in real life. Mind you, not naturally scary; the scariest looking human being who made themselves look that way on purpose. I wouldn't want to know the details of her morning routine, but I imagine it goes something like this:

• Grind old fashioned shaving brush into Wet N' Wild dark maroonish blush

• Grind said blush onto cheeks intensely until face is about to bleed

• Crookedly draw lip liner onto lips with an unflattering brownish color ¼” outside of natural lip line- attempt to fill in.

• Draw same color onto forehead to make eyebrows appear where they seem to have fallen off beforehand.

• Last but not least- apply liquid eyeliner is the most cartoonish fashion so far past eyes that it makes friends with fake eyebrows.

Of course, I start thinking about this girl (who honestly would SCARE small children) while I'm sitting there, toying with my bra-strap length hair, chuckling (yes, I chuckle) at the thought of my co-worker recommending this girl. Just as I decide if it turns out to be Scary Spice, I'm going to leave- guess who walks up, smacks her gum at me, raises those unholy crayon eyebrows and calls my name. (yes, I know you've guessed by now, you're all smart like that, but keep reading...I'm putting off a paper to write this...AND I've turned off Scrubs)

By the way, Scary Spice is also Grumpy Spice and the Nonpersonality Spice (Spell Check tells me I've been being very creative with my words throughout this story but I told it that it's not the boss of me). At this point, I'm still under the impression that this girl's name is Jessica and I'm wondering which foot I'm going to kick my coworker with. While clown girl (I have an array of names for her...I'm sure her friends do too. And people who see her in the street) is washing my hair and grunting at me in her non-personalityish way, I mistakenly look up at her, first in horror, then in amazement that a) she does this on purpose, and b) nobody stops her, and finally I look at her in amusement. Yes, I start laughing. And I'm usually not such a mean person, sincerely. You can be the most naturally fucked up looking person in the world and I'll be nice- but if you guys had seen this girl you would HAVE to agree that she at LEAST deserves a “wtf?!” face. At the very least.

Anyway- so throughout the hair wash/cut, I'm trying to stifle my laughter and I do so by making conversation. Turns out Scary Spice is half deaf and incredibly stupid. To every single thing I said, it was, “Huh?” [repeat] “Oh...uh huh....what?” [repeat while shrugging shoulders in a 'what's the point?' manner] “OH YAH!” She kept “OH-YAH!ing things she had no clue about and no reason in the world to say OH YAH! to.

This seems almost like a side note, but I have to mention she didn't seem to know what she was doing with my hair. I went in with my hair naturally curly/wavy without any product, told her my hair was naturally that way and she still asked halfway through “So do you perm your hair?” Another thing I have to mention is that I loved my hair. It was long, dark, layered, and wavy/curly. I loved it. It was just damaged a few inches on the end and I thought I would do something different for the first time in years instead of just a trim. I asked for a longer angled bob with layers. She gave me a nonbob that wasn't at all noticeably angled and when the instructor checked her work and said “Oh, no layers?” she says, “Crap. I forgot...do you want layers?” when the salon had just closed. And no, she wasn't nervous, new, or inexperienced- she's graduating!

Oh well. At least I was occupied by planning out this blog entry in my head- otherwise I would have started crying when the stupid tiny pretty little blonde cosmetology student next to me let took the hot rollers out of her hair and ran her fingers through the hair cascading down her back and I realized this idiotic deaf clown had just chopped off my hair. (that's the line I planned while I was sitting there!) But then I would have stopped crying because I saw her put her over teased hair into a ridiculous looking 6” bouffant. Maybe it's not just the clown; maybe it's all of them.

P.S. I saw the clown in Wal-Mart yesterday and my 5-year-old (who has never seen her) pointed at her in confusion and said, “Mommy?...look.”

By the way- I don't have a monkey. I didn't borrow one and put makeup on it. I don't think that's a very nice thing to do.

Sorry, Pilgrimmies

As we all know by now, Christmas season begins November 1^{st, cool!! I can write tiny!}, Thanksgiving will be obsolete by 2020, and Black Friday will soon be on the calender if not already. Instead of resisting and bitching about how upset pilgrims would be if they only knew what the world was coming to, I decided to go with the flow and get in the Christmas spirit. I actually got really excited for Christmas, forgetting about Thanksgiving and now that a major holiday just passed, I keep fucking forgetting that Christmas hasn't happened yet! It totally screwed me up. I felt like we just had a big holiday hurrah and I get confused seeing Christmas stuff on tv. No more planning for one holiday when there's still one in the way.

But slowly, I've been getting back on track, getting a few presents, fretting about money (it's just not Christmas if you don't sigh/growl at the cashier “Ugh, Christmastime, huh?!”). I've even noticed that the Old Navy holiday commercials aren't bothering me nearly as much as they should. This Friday I even get to wear a Santa hat and work in Santa's Workshop taking photos of screaming kids on his lap. Look at me being all jolly. Truthfully, I'm actually more excited for tax season than Christmas, though. Sad, huh? I'll even settle for Financial Aid disbursement at school.

Your Fucking Walrus Can't Play the Trumpet

All week, Inside Edition has been building up anticipation and showing previews of this miraculous trumpet playing walrus from Turkey. Who wouldn't be excited? Sea creatures playing horn instruments?! Whoo! Well, when I say all week, I mean Tuesday and maybe Monday. When I say anticipation, I kind of mean annoyance at the idea of Inside Edition trying to trick me into believing a SEA CREATURE could play a trumpet. Regardless, I sat through a half hour of Britney Spear's birthday bash teasers and news about some idiot sports guy who shot his own leg in a bar and got arrested.

While I was scoffing (which I do quite often) at the idea of the Turkish trumpet playing walrus, the reporter referred to the video as “the footage to prove it!”. I put the scoffing on pause, thinking there may possibly be actual footage that would prove the thing was actually playing. Wanna know what I saw? A video of a walrus grasping a trumpet and swaying back and forth while the speakers played bouncy trumpet music and the trainers clapped along in a very animated and quite gay fashion. For 6 seconds. YOUR FUCKING WALRUS CAN'T PLAY THE TRUMPET! I'm inclined to use the word imbeciles. I will. YOU IMBECILES.

You're Bothering Me Again Listerine...

Mouth sounds. Not great. Listen up, Listerine Vibrant White Rinse- don't make an entire commercial out of people swishing shit back and forth in their mouths to the tune of “chicka-chick chicka-chick chicka-chick.”

I don't freaking like it. Really bad. ERRR! And while I'm at it, Yoplait, I've developed quite an annoyance and watching people make out with their yogurt spoons. STOP IT.

Karma's Bitch

As a ferocious believer in Karma, I understand that good things happen to those who put good things into the universe and bad things happen to those who put shitty things out into the universe. Very simple, but if any of you need further assistance, feel free to use the following examples. Say you help pick up someone's groceries after they've dropped them: good karma may come back to you in the form of getting the very last copy of the newest Harry Potter book on the shelf (although I truly believe that Harry Potteresque karma is so great and only to be doled out when one has been very, very good). Another example would be having your phone drop in the toilet, only moments after you've shoved past the wheelchair bound elderly person to race to the roomy bathroom stall. Easy enough to follow, right?

Lately, it hasn't been so simple for me. While I don't have any concrete examples of good karma to speak of, like a receipt for a charitable donation or a volunteer name tag at the local hospital, I just try to be good to others in general and hope that it's enough. Since I've recently moved to a new town, I've been busy with my new job, new apartment, new classes, and new elementary school for Ayva. With all these new people, I've been doing my best to be polite, helpful and smile often, even if it's the fakey smile that makes my face hurt. So, (I know it's poor grammar to begin a sentence with 'So,', but I really think that rule should be revisited; sometimes there is just no other choice. 'Therefore,' just doesn't work in all cases.) when I found $24 on the floor by the carryout counter in Pizza Hut, I chalked it up to a karmic reward. I wrestled with whether or not to keep it for awhile, with factors like who saw me pick it up and how long I had to wait for my pizza weighing in. After deciding the two soccer moms behind me gossiping furiously about their kids' new teacher didn't see me pick up up, I told myself that as long as no one came looking for the money while I waited for my pizza, I would keep it. No one came. In fact, I even got an extra order of bread sticks, which was another situation where I had to decide if I should keep my 'reward' or give it back.

Knowing that this wasn't such a clearcut case of good karma coming back to me, I asked my 5 year old (who is very familiar with the idea of Karma after being told many times, “So what? That's Karma for you.”) if she thought it was a reward or a test. After she very thoughtfully told me that it was a test and she knew the answer (to feed it to Froggy, her piggy bank, who, incidentally, was 'starving'), I figured that the following days' events would give me the answer and until then, I would not spend the money.

It seems that Karma immediately kicked in, starting with dropping the pizza on the ground not 10 minutes out of Pizza Hut and continued throughout the weekend. Some of Saturday's events include getting lost and taking an almost hour-long detour on the way to the Mall of America, being accosted by a giant plush shark mascot who seemed to follow me throughout the mall, urging me to explore Underwater Adventures, having nothing fit in the way of dress pants, which was the sole reason for the travel to the Mall, not getting out of the mall until 10 pm when it closes at 9:30, which, of course, caused me to lose to $5 deposit on the rented stroller that had to be back at 9:15, not having time to get new shoes or go bra shopping and being stranded on the 3^rd floor in front of a closed Nordstrom's with no way to get the stroller down the stairs besides dragging it down two 'no strollers' escalators, walking halfway around the mall to get to our parking ramp, taking two elevators up only to circle the ramp for 20 minutes without the slightest clue as to how to escape from the parking ramp, getting lost once again by taking 77 South instead of North for 20 minutes, taking two more detours that added on another 45 minutes, and of course, the grand finale of being pulled over 20 minutes from home for 'driving suspiciously'.

Now is where I toss it over to you. Was I being punished for failing Karma's test and taking the $24 or was it all just a coincidence? “I don't believe in Karma” is a boring answer and makes your face look boring. I might even call you a boring loser. Or not. That could be bad Karma.

If it helps you decide, I'm also pretty sure I vacuumed up the diamond earrings my mom gave me for Mother's Day. Cheers.

Bye, bye, GPA! (alternative title: fuck)

So finals week is almost upon us and like many others, I'm a bit concerned with where I stand. So I start doing the math (which I can now do thanks to my remedial math course!) and see that I'm sitting with an A, B, C, and C+ with potential to become a B. Not bad, huh?
Well I start doing the math on my "B" class which happens to be the worst class I've ever had- Ethics, and I realize that not only is my Ethics professor a pretentious prick, he somehow manages to be a sadistic asshole at the very same time. (One can only imagine the fun he's having with being able to prick his own asshole)

I've yet to find his reasoning for this, but it seems that he likes to award points for things that weren't completed or earned and make it look like you have a certain grade and then kick you in the shins and laugh while he starts deducting all those points at the end of the semester. My comfortable 86% is soon to be a less comfortable 64% if my math skills are correct (which they fucking ought to be- where do you think that A is coming from?). Not that it's entirely his fault; I was the one who earned the 64% but the part where I get pissy is when I recall the mass email sent out two weeks ago warning students of their last chance to drop a class.

Anyway, consider me fucked. That's enough to bring my GPA down enough that I won't get admitted to the University I was looking at as a backup in case this other school I'm transferring to doesn't work out.

In conclusion: Fuck you Danielle for telling me "Hehe, Ethics is fun, yay! It's all rainbows and butterflies, yaaaayyy!". Fuck you, guidance counselor for convincing me to drop English Lit for this. Fuck you "Mr. T" for obvious reasons and fuck you, me for getting a shitty grade and fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

Stop staring at me, Beckhams...

I've just realized that after going through all the trouble to find this creepy ad on google, I've saved it to my computer to post it here and now every time I open up my pictures folder, these fucking people will keep staring at me like that. Exactly what I don't want. I don't think it's possible to convey how uncomfortable this photo makes me. Kudos to the photog- I guess that's good if you can make the person looking at the picture squirm because it's just so gosh darn intense but come-the-fuck-on! (a phrase usually reserved for my computer or people who are being slow)

Stop fucking staring at me.

I saw a dead bird today. It was ok.

I've noticed (or perhaps made up in my head) now that we have a Super Wal-Mart, the fellow shoppers have gotten really fucking weird looking. I don't really have any examples but I was there yesterday and I remember thinking "Wow...what a strange looking person." and then a few steps later, "He's a weirdo, too." the next aisle down, "What the fuck is up with Wal-Mart consumers today? Is there anyone normal here?" Case still unsolved.

I did notice another, less judgmental, thing though. The frozen foods section has the most sophisticated technology ever. Actually, they just have light sensors, but leave it to Super Wal-Mart to make everything look superer (I can say 'superer' if I want, just in case you were wondering about that). Discovery of said light sensors lead to me strutting down the frozen entrees aisle, throwing my arms out at each cooler in a witch-like fashion, commanding them to light up. However, these sensors are quite smart and see a shopper coming a few feet away and turn on before you get there (how convenient for people who don't wish to pretend they are magically controlling the lights) so of course I had to do this whole routine at a bit of a run. As you would imagine, managing to look cool while running and strutting is a difficult feat. A feat conquered by moi.

You may ask, as others have, is this the only way to shop in the frozen foods section of Wal-Mart? The answer, my friends, is no. It is, however, the only way to do it with pizazz.

Ballerina Nazis

Surprisingly, there were quite a few photos that would have worked well for this post I found by googling "ballerina nazis". After referring back to my days in 4th grade when I had no idea what the swastika meant and thought it was the most beautiful thing in the world and drew it all over my homework and folders, I thought better of it and decided this would be a picture-less post.

So what is a ballerina nazi? Don't worry, I wouldn't leave you hanging. My daughter's brand new ballet school sent home a newsletter with her after her first day of class. Littered all over the newsletter next to the upcoming show announcements and birthdays are threats and rules.

• Students are to arrive not one minute more than ten minutes early, as this encourages bad behavior.
  
  
• Students are to do homework between dance classes.
  
  
• Parents are never to be allowed in the room to watch their children dance, they need to bond with their instructor and their dance mates and disruptions will not be tolerated.
  
  
• Parents are never to leave the hallway during the 45 minute class.
  
  
• Chairs will never be provided for parents (Ok, it doesn't actually say that but I think it's important to know!)
  
  
• Parents must walk their dancers from class to class as they are never to be unattended and no one should be wandering the halls.
  
  
• A blizzard is no excuse for missing a class and you WILL be billed regardless of whether you were there or not.
  
  

My daughter? Oh she's 4. Turning 5 actually. Which is on the newsletter. Too bad they spelled her name wrong.

Fucking Nazis.

Little Baby with the Sundress on...Lookin' so Damn Right you're Wrong

Tonight I had this sinking feeling that I absolutely needed to blog. A horrible, terrible feeling of failure. Sad, huh? I think maybe because it's one of 'goals' for the year. Nevermind the fact I haven't thought of anything to blog about. Besides how much I like the word blog. But I'm not sure that would be such a thrilling topic.

You know what is interesting though? The word blog is showing up on the spell check. Ironic. Or something that is like ironic. Wait. I just remembered I already said that on here. Isn't that sad- it hasn't even been a month that I've had this blog and already I'm repeating myself.

I don't know what it is about being sick, but every time I get a scratchy throat, I am always convinced it's the sexiest voice ever. If it's really bad and cracking, I practice my Titantic skills "Jack...Jack. Jack, wake up. Jack, there's a boat! Jack? Noo, Jack!" Skillz, I seyz.

Speaking of skills, guess who graduated to medium on Guitar Hero III. Ooh and guess who is so addicted that she taps taps out Guitar Hero keys on her stick shift while singing and driving? Damn right. "RubyRubyRubyRu-bay!"

Keeping with the randomness of this post (although not all that random, I did manage to segue quite successfully between topics), I'm leave you with a kitteh or two.

5-Year-Old AssHats.

I'm not sure I am entirely qualified to use to term 'asshat' but it seemed appropriate. Yes, I know, most people don't refer to 5-year-olds as asshats, but these particular 5-year-olds truly were.

I volunteered this week to help out with my 5-year-old daughter's field trip to giant sporting goods store (and no, my 5-year-old isn't included in the asshat group) like I often did last year. I admit, I like being called "teacher" and feeling important. Plus, I adored the kids in her class last year. This year, however, there was a batch of asshats, as you may have guessed.

A gang og 4 or 5 of them standing on tables then jumping off, screaming at the top of their lungs, banging their glasses, and one called me a dummy. Me! I'm no dummy. Well, I might be, but I will not be told I am by a 5-year-old.

I very politely told one young man to give a little girl back her spoon and he looked at me and licked both of the spoons very thoroughly before throwing one of them at her.

I'm told we are not allowed to 'throttle' the children so I refrained. They were like mini highschool assholes (yes, they change from hats to holes in about the 11th year) condensed into a 50-lb body. I swear one of them had a little mustache.

Asshats.

Kiss my ass, Respondus LockDown Browser

Almost 4 a.m. I think we're all just going to have to accept that I only reach my genius-blogger potential in the wee hours of the morning. I'm ok with that. Doesn't really matter if you are, though.

The semester started on Monday but it doesn't really get underway until next Monday. I was beyond annoyed to find out my Ethics teacher requires a special browser to take tests online- a lock down browser that won't let you leave the page to google something. Damn teacher. It also saves your answer automatically and you are not allowed to change it. I figure the lock down part I can't argue with since I'm technically not supposed to be cheating anyway- but I left him a little note letting him know I thought it was pretty ridiculous that as a student, I'm not allowed to review my answers before turning the test in.

It's a good thing that school hasn't really gotten started yet since I'm a little preoccupied. My aunt gave my other aunt a kidney on Thursday. Currently, the receiver of that coveted kidney is in a drug-induced coma and temporarily paralyzed. Only because I know they're going to wake her up tomorrow, I think it would be the greatest prank ever to convince her that it is 2010 when she wakes up. The nurses don't agree.

I have little colored, squishy balls rolling around my house. They once belonged in a bigger, squishier ball that was supposed to be my stress reliever ball. Ball got a hole. I noticed this and used caution while still vigorously squeezing the ball to relieve stress until one day, I thought it would relieve even more stress if I just popped all those fucking balls out that fucking hole. It did. For awhile. Now I can't even explain the stress it causes me to have captured at least twenty of these Skittle-sized balls and still have them roaming around the house. Ironic, huh? Cue Alanis Morrisette.

I still haven't decided who is going to have access to this blog. Obviously everyone on the internet, but I don't know what kind of people in my life I want reading it. I don't want to write that I think my tits look really great right now for some reason (actually, the reason is that it's 4 a.m., I'm alone, bored, and I arranged them into my bra until I got them right where I wanted them) and then forget I said that, and send my little brother over to read my blog. Hmm. Decisions.

I would like to end on this note: Why is the spell checker telling me that 'blog' is not a word when I am on a blogging site? Bloggity blog blog blog. I really don't like disobeying my spell-checker but I just don't think 'log, bog, slog, flog, or clog' would work in this situation.

Goodnight. Blog. (clog.)

1 a.m. feels like 5 a.m.

For some reason, I decided that I absolutely had to have a new blog tonight. Nothing wrong with that. Except, of course, the name I wanted was taken. Gee, though, Blogspot sure was helpful: "Photobean is taken. How about photobean-photobean?" "Hmm, good suggestion, but how about fuckyou-fuckyou?". By the way, 'fuckyoublogspot' is already taken. I checked.

Still though, I settled for photo-bean and went on my way (although I will never admit how much that little dash truly makes me want to drop kick the person who chose photobean first...) Now that I've got that all taken care of, I am left with the task of choosing a template out of the 16 fabulously boring blogger choices. I then turn to my trusty friend, Google and begin searching for a more unique one. All I find is MySpace-esq 'skins' that are so in-your-face "Look at me, I'm emo! No, look at me, I'm happy and colorful! No, me! I love romantic teen movies!" that it would be impossible to read anything written here.

Which is where you find me. Exasperated and annoyed, thinking it has to be much later than 1 a.m. At least I accomplished something. It's 1:09 a.m.