vegbian

I really shouldn't share this on here because as soon as I do, I'm going to get judgemental calls from my family. So family, do me a favor and quit reading. Just go back to pretending that I'm normal and that I didn't play with barbie dolls till I was 14. (Or 15. Age is just a number.)
 
So for months now, I've been thinking about switching teams -- going vegetarian. Actually I thought about this change over a few years, I even experimented with it in college. I sent off for a "So You Want To Be A Vegetarian" packet from PETA but never received it. This really angered me so to spite them, I ate a double hamburger with a chicken patty on the side every day until now.
 
But, everytime I eat meat now I really regret doing so and I'm not sure why. My husband has tried to talk me out of this multiple times but only because he thinks Chick-Fil-A date night is being threatened. But despite all of the haters out there, I really am going to give this thing a try. You must understand I come from a long line of meat eaters. In fact, my jewish name means "clean meat." So this is going to be a hard transition for me. Even yesterday 2 out of 3 of my meals were vegetarian -- until I ate a corn dog. Never underestimate the sexiness of a corn dog. It's temptation brought me down and what was supposed to be day 1 of vegetarian eating turned out to be just another trip to Sonic.
 
There are 2 problems that I currently must conquer before becoming a V.
1. Learn how to deal with a meat-eating husband.
2. Learn how to give up corn dogs and Chick-Fil-A.
 
I'll let you know how it goes. Here's to Day 1. Again.

yes.

working girl

I asked the new girl at work if could turn the AC on yesterday. She said yes. In return I said "Good, because I'm kind of sweaty." Not thank you, not okay, just that I was sweaty.

 

Welcome, new girl.  

dictionary girl

I've had this terrible song lyric stuck in my head for days now. I don't know the song title, just a snippet that plays over and over in my head. "I'm trying to find the words to describe this girl without being disrespectful..." Urban poetry, really. So it's been stuck in my head for two days and nothing gets it out. Not listening to Phil Collins, not listening to the Glee soundtrack -- NOTHING. Nothing works. It's basically self torture on repeat. One time this happened to me with the song "Fancy" by Reba McEntire. I finally just had to break down and act out the music video for it to get out of my head. Bryan played the older Fancy and I played the younger version. We rented costumes, hired extras, the whole shebang. It took us days to get the scene where she breaks her necklace off just right.

I'm actually afraid to google the music video for this rap song that's in my head though. I mean how skanky can this girl be if a rapper can't find the right words to describe her? That's got to be the worst insult ever: Your so ___, I've gone speechless. Now get my dictionary girl so I can figure out what you are.

lunchables

Sometimes when I heat up my Lean Cuisines at work for lunch (or breakfast) I leave them in there a little bit longer hoping that they will magically turn into something else. Something more delicious like Chick-fil-a. I mean it's all chemicals any way and if I remember my 10th grade chemistry class then my logic is not that far off. Preservatives + chemicals + microwave cancer rays = Chick-fil-a. Or a really burned frozen dinner.

Yesterday I left it in for 5 minutes. Nothing happened. Next time, I'm leaving it in for 10.

team infection

Day 7 of The Sickness. I'm now starting to suspect that I'm on some weird version of bio-warfare Survivor. Mainly because I've worn my team bandana in multiple ways, like a headband, as a tube top, a flag. Also, I've only been given cheerios and saltines to eat, I haven't showered in days and Bryan's been trying to vote me out of the house. Luckily, I get to vote too so I'm still here.

Bryan's set up another challenge for me to get through today. He said it was just "folding laundry" but I know better.

the sickness

I am sick. My body is rotting on the inside. I smell like a nursing home. When i called the doctor this morning, the receptionist lady on the other end said "sounds like someone's got the flu..."

I got all excited, as I've never had the flu before. I was thinking of all of the sympathy that I would be getting, I might even tell people it's the swine flu. I felt so lucky -- this year's flu virus decided to hosts itself in little old me. What an honor.

Well stupid receptionist lady, I actually have an untreatable virus that the only cure for is narcotics and orange juice. You didn't call that one, did ya? I'm going to need you to go ahead and quit your job, ma'am.

Create, Don't Duplicate

**This is not a funny post. I repeat, this is not a funny post. In fact more than likely it will be awkward for you. But awkward is my speciality.

I don't really know how to go about this because it is not an easy thing to say, so I'm just going to say it. I found the blog of an old friend who I am not acquainted with any longer. This was all good and fine until I started noticing that her words sounded suspiciously like mine. So I started reading through post after post and I was mortified by the blatant copying that this person had done. These were my thoughts that I was reading, my words. I told Bryan about it and he suggested that I do very hateful things to this person. But instead I turned the other cheek and tried to forget about it. Also, we don't own any artillery and this person lives too far away.

So I tried to let this go, passing it off as something small. But it just kept haunting me. Look I know that the Internet is a melting pot of thoughts, ideas and words for anyone to take. There are no internet police hanging around waiting for someone to plagerize. I realize that once I put something out there, into the dark abyss of the unknown, it can be offensive, misunderstood, misconstrued or worse -- stolen. But I take that chance because I like to write and because I like to blog. I do not put it out there for someone to take on as their own. I do not write so that someone else can be esteemed, so that someone else can feel funny or witty. I write because that is what I love to do. I share it because I hope that someone out there likes to read it as much as I like to write. And although internet police do not exist, I would hope that integrity and honesty still do.

As an aspiring writer who hopes to one day find an audience who enjoys reading her works, this is a complete punch in the face. There are reasons for copyrights and patents and trademarks. There are reasons for protecting intellectual property. There is a reason that teachers and professors try teach you to think on your own and not to plagiarize. This is why. It's because of people who can't, steal. I appreciate that you find my words appealing to you, but please find your own voice. Everyone has a unique point of view, everyone has something that they need to say -- so say it. Be your own person.

All of this to say that I do not think that I am the best thing since sliced bread and that this is probably an isolated case. But I just wanted to say to the person who has hurt me by stealing something so very precious to me to please stop. I encourage you to find your own thoughts and words. If you can't think of your own words to write, please don't steal mine. In the end I'm a writer, not a fighter. But plagerism is the death of creativity and is not appreciated.

Always create, never duplicate.

goodnight moon, goodnight chores

I just said goodnight to our dishes. They've been in the sink for a few days so I feel like they are just a part of the family now. Plus the plate that held last week's pasta dish now looks like it has a little smile. Isn't that just precious?

Goodnight laundry pile, goodnight muddy floors...

some like it hot

I hate to say this but there is someone else in the relatioship. Our marriage is now not just between two but three. Every night she goes to bed with us. It's my heating pad, Jean. And Bryan hates her.

When we get ready for bed every night, I sneak her in on my side. Bryan gets in the bed and puts his arm around me, finds Jean just doing her job, gets jealous and kicks her out. It's just not fair. He's given me an ultimatum: him or the heating pad. I've weighed my options -- they both keep me warm at night but jean doesn't have a job and doesn't talk to me. Bryan takes me on dates and helps me clean the house, but he farts into our couch a lot and I hate that. Jean would never do that, mostly because she doesn't have a digestive system. Oh another point for Jean -- I don't have to feed her.

It's going to be a tough decision.

New Lent Resolutions

I asked a co-worker on Ash Wednesday what she was giving up for Lent. She said junk food. She then explained to me that she had dieted a while back and it was working out for her but she'd fallen off the wagon. So she's going to give up junk food and start exercising for Lent.

As she walked off I wondered if I had asked about Lent or her New Year's Resolutions. I'm all for self-improvement, but I've got a suspicious feeling that when you turn Lent into a diet program you've missed the point.

Well, I'm off to go eat a pound of chocolate since I gave up exercise and french fries. The next 40 days are going to be rough.

passive-agressive revenge

Tonight we cheated on our groceries and went to Chili's. we shouldn't have and we've since apologized to our perfectly good box of hamburger helper. But there is just something about going to the nicest restaurant in town on a Tuesday night that makes us want to rebel.

So we get there and we immediately regret it. Our waitress was awful, there were birthday parties on either side of us, and a scary alien baby wouldn't quit staring at me and my ovaries. I pray he didn't see his brother in there. That was only the begining.

As I went in for a bite of my burger, I noticed that the inside looked more like a Victoria Secret's bag than cooked meat. (It was hot pink, not covered in sheer lace.) This is the second time this has happened to me at this Chili's. And for B this was the last time it would happen. We waited for the waitress to come around and she told us that it was just the "way we cook it here. next time ask them to cook it well well well well well done." Then she apologized for not being around more and asked if she could do anything else. I had a feeling that her father had said the same thing to her a few years back about her childhood. "So, do you really want me to do something about it?" She asked, like she was threatening us in a dark alley. We said no, knowing that it wouldn't do any good. She handed us our ticket, told us to come back again when she wasn't so busy and walked away. But tucked into our receipt was a beacon of redemption. The Online Survey. Like a light in a dark tunnel, B spotted his revenge.

So now we are sitting on the couch and all I can hear are angry fingers slamming on B's poor keyboard and him talking to himself. He's filling out the online survey in hopes to get a young girl fired and 10% off our next meal. I've never seen this side of him before. He is really mad. It's kind of cute, in a way though, him defending me albeit over an online survey.

It's just like Patrick Swayze in Dirty Dancing. No one puts baby in a corner table and gives her a raw hamburger to chew on. No one.