Griping About Griping

I feel like I'm constantly bombarded by other people's negativity.

People complaining about their weight
People complaining about not exercising enough
People complaining about their jobs
People telling me that the schedule I want isn't going to go through

I don't understand how complaining helps. I get venting. I understand laughing at the ridiculousness of it all.

Every time I hear/read this type of thing, all I can think is "who cares!?"

You think you're fat? That's your problem. Maybe you should consider developing a positive body image instead of pinning thinspiration for the world to see.

You hate your job? Maybe the energy you put into Facebook posts could be put towards job applications or putting together a more dynamic resume.

I'm a big believer in you ask for it, you declare it to the world and you work toward it. You don't gripe about it. (And if you do, say it once and then act. There needs to be some kind of action even if it's just accepting that some things can't change.)

Here I go complaining about complaining again.

Big Girl Accomplishments: Back to Earth

I've decided that my benchmarks are good, but my prizes are too lofty to serve a purpose.

The idea of goals, for me, is to distract myself from my compulsion to shop. If I was more tech-savvy, I'd block online stores. What I have done (and this is silly) is I bought myself a wonderful, beautiful, quality purse that I would love to use and think about everyday. I set this purse on top of our DVD stand. I've decided I am not allowed to use my purse until I'm out of debt (small bank loan, store cards, credit cards). I'm about half way there so far. I want to pay off all my store cards and credit card before touching the loan. That way, I'm eliminating high APRs.

I can't really worry about money though. As long as I pull in some sort of income, I'll be fine. With my rent and expenses as low as they are, I can easily survive on unemployment insurance while searching for a new job. However, I find myself more frugal and more financially insecure when I'm making money and on the edge of debt. When I'm close to maxing out my credit... I feel like I can go crazy, like 23 is a great age to go into an absurd amount of debt. When I have a job, and feel the struggle of paying bills using workable income... I stress out.

I'm off topic. Here are my new prizes that are in a lower price range. Plus, some of these things I need to replace/need for my house. What I would like to do... (and this is something I'm not sure is a good idea) is to buy my prizes ahead of time (not all at once) and set them in the living room like I have my purse. It's easier to say no to temptation with a goal within reach.

Accomplishment: Pay Off Debt

I finally will get to use my new purse! AND I'll buy a vacuum!

Accomplishment: Build Up $1000 Emergency Fund

New Keen shoes AND a new wireless mouse!

Accomplishment: Build Up $2500 Emergency Fund

iPod Nano

Accomplishment: Find a Full-time Permanent Job

Canon PowerShot ELPH 300 HS AND (if I need them) computer glasses

Accomplishment: Build Up $1000 Savings Account

ECO Citizen Watch

And to all you self-proclaimed responsible adults out there - I understand that the goal itself should be enough, but I'm a Womangirl and need pretties to make myself work.

Retail Associate Inequality

Working front-line retail is a low-paying and thankless job. Once, when trying to explain to Jared why I would rather work for a non-profit for half the pay than work a full-time retail position, I compared front-line retail sales to prostitution. True, this was an instance of hyperbole, but I had a few valid points.

People who work retail are looked down upon. Some customers treat the woman behind the counter as less than human. Her name tag suddenly makes it okay to ignore her when she speaks to you and carelessly dismiss her while she caters to you.

Sales associates make minimum wage and have no benefits. Their position in society's eyes is not a career and is temporary. Front-line sales positions are associated with after-school employment. Often times, people are under the impression that working retail is an easy job for slackers. What customers fail to realize is that these people are not hired to fold t-shirts, but are hired to deal with customers. They fail to realize that many of those who work retail balance multiple low-paying, under-appreciated jobs. Sales associates are from all points of life; they're not all high school or college kids looking for beer money. This isn't a position one would do for fun and a little pocket money.

I say this, because I went shopping yesterday. I talk with sales associates and treat them like people. I witnessed a woman who vaguely nodded without making eye contact to a sales associate who went out of the way for her. If I wasn't staring at the two when this exchange went on, I would assume the associate was totally ignored.

To think less of anyone or treat anyone with so little care is disgusting. The well-dressed business woman morphed into a troll. Recognizing a person for helping you takes a second. There is no way to camouflage being an ugly person on the inside.

If the world was a little less rude, I could spend less time hating on people.

What I Can Do When I Finally Find Employment

Preparing for the life you will have before you've even had an interview for a job is all the rage right now. In the spirit of poultry economics, I am going to list out all the amazing things I can do once I'm awesomely employed.

• Continue volunteering during the evenings at Jabbok Family Services
• Move to a bigger apartment (possibly the adorable ones one block off from here)
• Go to Disney World
• Adopt a corgi
• Feast on raspberries whenever I darn well please
• Shop without a ton of guilt
• Pay off credit card debt
• Get fat off of baklava
• Spoil Jared rotten with all the PS3 games he can shake a controller at
• Go to a concert (Deathcab will be here late August)
• Network with coworkers 
• Buy a Halloween costume
• Get a bus pass (yay!)
• Take dance classes
• Leap tall buildings in a single bound 
• Go three rounds with Rocky Balboa
• Party like it's 1999
• Live a lush life of affluence
• Spend my invisi-children's college funds on gambling and booze
• Buy myself a little something ... like a watch, a necklace... or a yacht
• Bring powdered wigs back into fashion 
• Use all that commute time on the bus to read Hunger Games and Harry Potter
• Replace that PS3 controller Jared broke from all that shaking
• Own a replica of a mastodon, or dig up a frozen one and reanimate it
• Use reanimated mastodon as primary transportation
• Eat a lot of pizza
• Have name legally changed to "Your Majesty"
• Hang out with Beyoncé
• Become a one-hit wonder
• Write a list that goes on far too long
• Challenge Katie Binning to a gun show
• Block out the sun, Mr. Burns style
• Create a super hero costume that functions in everyday life
• Create insane platform and run for Republican office
• Learn to love Cheetos

The employed care not for your horse power.

Sorry to all those searching for a gif of a corgi in a mastodon costume eating Cheetos.

A Very Fantasy Fluff Piece

David Boreanaz as Angel in Buffy the Vampire Slayer and self-titled spin-off Angel was the Taylor Lautner of his generation. I really don't have empirical, matter-of-fact evidence about this. But, this is my blog, and I can say whatever I want.

Angel (aka Angelous) was a hottie bo-body, two-hundred year old vampire with an angelic face, square jaw and a six pack that puts all existing, human abs to shame. He killed this one Romani chick and was sentenced to suffering the rest of existence with a soul (a problem many people can relate to.) Previously, he was a full-on blood sucking, tribe destroying ANIMAL. For the sake of Science, here is a photo of his abs... and the rest of him.

ME-OW

Admittedly, I don't know much about the character Taylor Lautner plays in these Twilight movies. Mostly, because it takes all of my paying attention brain cells to stop my jaw from dislocating and my tongue pouring out of my mouth. Proudly, I can tell you that sometimes he morphs into a wolf sometimes. I know this, because dogs without shirts don't make me subtract 1992 from the current year. And I have never looked up a shirt-less wolf's age on IMDB. Although, sometimes I wonder how old Rocko from Rocko's Modern Life is.... but that's a wallaby and very off topic. Back to the subject at hand:

WTF Hormones!?

Given a little online research, I have found that Lautner and his starring role Jacob are both into older women. And, given the very obvious that Angel is a 200 year old vampire that never ages and digs high school chicks, I think I can say he's into younger ladies. I think I fall within the age spectrum of both Angel and Jacob.

Graphically, it doesn't make sense. Graphs can't stop true lust.

Now... to work on being moody and my pre-attack puns.

Alteril Alters Me

Most people who know me understand that I have near crippling insomnia. My internal clock would like me to stay up until around 10 AM and wake up at about four PM. To alter my preferred sleeping pattern, I have been trying Alteril. I take one Alteril an hour before bed and then patiently wait for it to finally kick in.

Tonight, I made a grave mistake for which I blame Michael J. Fox. I stayed up past the sleep wave I usually get at the end of the hour to watch the rest of Doc Hollywood (which is a wonderful, heart-warming movie). Now, I am awake and still planning on waking up at nine AM.

But, if I stay up past one AM,
I will not get a full eight hours sleep
and might rise from my bed
a fifty-foot, fire-breathing monster
hell-bent on using hyphens with
enjambments. Then, what will this
world come to?

Here I am online, downloading audio books on how to speak Italian. My plan is to go to the Minneapolis Institute of Art and sketch copies of their carefully curated collection and alliterate a lot. Just joking. I'll iterate Italian idioms instead.

Sleeping pills make my humor do wacky things.

Also, I've been reading Your Money or Your Life. (I'm thinking! I'm thinking!) It's making my ideas on time and use of time seem less out there. Tomorrow, I sketch, and then I blog about my time since we last spoke. Oggi, parlo poco Italiano. Parla inglese? Forse. Non capisco. Pizza.

Small Words

When I was fifteen, I read a book titled Stranger in a Strange Land by Robert A. Heinlein. Admittedly, I didn't understand a lot of the misogyny and ego stroking that went on behind the curtain of martians and religious questioning. Because of my naivety, I loved this book. One of my favorite topics approached was the difficulty of language. Michael Valentine remarked that the smaller words are, the more difficult they are to define. His example was "love." At this point in my life, I'm having a hard time with small words. Specifically, I have a hard time with "adult" and "peer."

I can drink, smoke, marry and vote, but I am not old enough to be considered dependent of my parents according to the FAFSA. I pay my own rent, have credit cards and utility bills. My parents haven't helped me much over the years. (They did give me $250.00 in 2007, when I overdrew my bank account and freaked out. But, what's a girl to do working part-time at a small record store while attending boring lectures on Macroeconomics.) And yet, when I want to apply to a community college for a degree in Network Administration, I am told that I need to supply not only my tax information, but also my parents. All these hoops because I was born two days shy of the cut off of July 1988.

FAFSA hoops aside, I feel like I won't be an adult until I'm married or grey-haired or a homeowner. As if I won't be fully developed until there is an "r" in my prefix and a mortgage to my name. Or better yet, if I have tiny copies of me running around driving me insane. 

My hopes and dreams of being an adult without giving birth or incurring serious lifestyle change ride solely on the statistical fact that I am not alone. More women (and men) are choosing to stay single and rent their dwellings. More homes are choosing dogs over children. I am not sure if as a nation we are building a new normal that will stick, or if this new normal will be gone once the economy picks up. For now, I don't feel quite so alone in this Peter Pan life. 

The other confusing syllable is "peer." Personally, I've always had a problem with the word "peer." Mostly, because the word is so flexible. We can choose who our peers are in context between similar age, status or ability. For instance, my peers are anyone unmarried; or twenty-something; or anyone who can draw or blog or paint or walk and chew gum; or anyone unemployed; or anyone lower class. (Or am I lower-middle class? Everyone thinks they're middle class.) So, when a friend tells me she is jealous of her peer who has the new job, should I be jealous? What if, to me anyways, that person is not my peer? And what if I haven't found myself jealous of anyone? 

I have always felt that I exist, mind and body, as a separate thing. I feel like I am not a part of a tribe or group or gander. I don't compare my life to others in a competitive way. I can make a factual statement without spin.  Or, at least, I'd like to think so. This makes it very difficult to point out my peers and, better yet, to understand competition among peers.

Then again, find me a 22 year-old woman in a large city with an art degree from a small town who struggles to find a job and lives with her slightly older, introverted, science-y boyfriend. Maybe then I will have a peer. Or maybe I'll pretend it's a social experiment and one of us can be the control. Who knows what adventures doppelgangers might have.

Why Packing (to Move) is Awful

I am very much a student by nature, and I choose to research most topics before diving into projects. I have read many different how-to's on the best methods of packing. While I did enjoy and employ many methods of purging excess objects, I found most how-to's lacked a tactic on actually packing up your home. A lot of them just stated to pack up your house and label the boxes. Easy peasy? Not quite.

I believe the void of packing instructions is due to people owning and choosing to keep a wide variety of objects. Packing is done on a person by person basis (or unique room by unique room).

Now the best thing about moving is that it's a great opportunity to downsize and take stock of what holds value to you.

Here is what I do when I pack to move. First, I pack my closet. I spend a good week going through every item of clothing I own. I hold the pieces; I try on the pieces; I ask other's opinions of the pieces. I tend to purge between 25-50% of my clothing that week. The select group gets the honor of living in my closet/dresser rent free and the opportunity to clothe me. I pack up the majority of my clothing, but leave out enough to be worn over the next two months. (Yes, I said months. I like to plan ahead.) Next I pack my shoes. I make note of which shoes I wear most often, which shoes still fit with my insoles, which shoes are beaten to a pulp. I then go through my jewelry. I take all the clothing, shoes and jewelry that didn't make the cut to a resale store. What they don't take is donated. I DO NOT go through my donate pile again. I DO NOT have a "Maybe" pile. If I even consider donating it, it should be donated.

Next, I go through the trinkets in my closet (I haven't unpacked much, because Jared and I thought we'd be moving sooner.) I spend time objectively going through my artwork and deciding what will be on display in the new apartment. Any trinkets or artwork I do not plan on displaying are boxed to be stored.

Jared and I go through our kitchen together once already. We take out all of the pots and pans and deliberat on what we will keep. This is a huge mess that we have to go through yet again. We simply have far too much bakeware.

I pack up the trinkets in the living room.

I go through and dispose of 80% of my toiletries.

Now I am a good month and a half into the packing process. My closet is mostly empty. (I need to give my mother back her photo albums.) Our dresser is empty. Our endtable is empty. Our bookcase is empty. The agony is the scattered items on every available horizontal surface. It's like the floor, kitchen table, dining room table and coffee table have become our maybe piles. It's aggravating to work so diligently at packing up when all you've done is pack up things that were neatly stored away and caused all the miscellaneous items to pile up. The house is pretty trashed. I've been sorting all the keeps into a back room which makes our house look like it's been robbed... only the robbers weren't interested in flat screens or laptops.

I'm considering just taking a big cardboard box and filling it with everything I find in these "maybe" piles.

The Rabbit in the Room

I would like to preface this entry by acknowledging that I sometimes will make horrible statements. This is one of those times.

I hate our rabbit. 

Three years ago Jared told his mother he wanted a pet rabbit. A family friend was giving away rabbits that year, and his mother picked one up for him. This was perfectly nice of her, but I seriously doubt Jared put any real thought into what having a rabbit would be like. 

In my short experience with the rabbit, I have come to the conclusion that rabbits are unrewarding pets. They do not want to be held, touched or bothered with. They take up substantial space (when in the correct size cage and given running room.) They defecate constantly. Training a rabbit through conditioning is time consuming and dissatisfying.

I understand that people have different views on what makes for a rewarding pet as people have different views on what makes for a rewarding vacation. I recognize that there are people out there who enjoy having a rabbit in their homes. I just (unfortunately) am not among them. 

Right now, Jared and I collectively have a rabbit, a hamster and a fish. The rabbit is in very good health with an aloof demeanor. She nibbles on cords, defecates everywhere and stomps on you if she feels threatened. The hamster is for the most part autonomous. I provide food and clean out his cage on an irregular basis. He's extremely neat and sorts his food according to type in different piles around his cage. He also chooses to relieve himself in one area of his cage. (He's admittedly a little strange.) Our fish, Scoopie, was once the favored pet. "How can you favor a fish!?" one might ask in an exclamatory way. Scoopie had a personality. He would creepily watch me dress every morning following my every move. He would flare out his gills if Jared got too close to me or him. He would readily swim to the top of his bowl and attack the pellets of food provided to him. Without looking, I can guess what Scoopie is doing right now. He's at the bottom of his tank, lying slightly to his side, struggling to exist. 

Taking the hamster with us to Minnesota is a no-brainer. He's the easiest pet I've had to care for ever. Part of me is considering euthanizing Scoopie. He's barely alive as is, but Jared keeps expecting a miraculous recovery. The whole of me wants to ditch the rabbit. When Jared's father visited two Sundays past, he said that he might be "winning [the rabbit] back." I was pretty happy to hear that, but Jared is really fighting for her. My main issue with her is that she is not litter trained and her cage has a wire floor with a large litter troth below the wire mesh. Right now, we have a backyard and a hose to clean out the rabbit cage. Jared rarely cleans out her cage. I can't imagine how infrequently she would have a cleaned cage once we no longer have access to a backyard. Jared is trying out a system of plastic bags to see if he can find a remedy to the situation.

I would like to leave the rabbit behind with his parents. I have doubts towards Jared's ability to care for her once we move and he finds employment. Also, in such a small space, I would rather not have her destroying the few pieces of furniture we are keeping. This situation makes me very grumpy.

Today, I felt I had the choice of two topics: how much I hate our rabbit or how much I love mustard. Then, I realized that my love cannot be put into words. 

Why I'm Taken

Fellow blogger Erin McManness wrote an recent entry entitled "Why I'm Single." I've decided to write a differing viewpoint not to argue against Erin, because she is an intelligent, capable person who will one day take the world by storm, but because I need content the way Kathie Lee needs Regis, the way Kanye needs Jesus. (But I hyperlink digress.)

I pride myself on being capable, upstanding and grounded. I've ripped myself from the grips of an abusive home. I've worked and saved for a life I can afford. (With the help of a few years of therapy), I have conquered my demons. I'm a happening, righteous woman that is easy on the eyes. I may not be the sharpest tool in the shed, but my words can cut deep enough. I've bricked and mortared a friendship network I can count on through any storm. I consider myself my own super hero, because I've saved myself. This doesn't make much of an interesting coming of age tale; it's more of a one woman show.

My boyfriend is my companion. He's here to share in my successes and defeats. He'll stand by me and laugh at the ridiculousness of life. We crack each other up everyday. We know how to piss each other off, and for the most part avoid it.

I am very lucky to find someone so willing to listen to my crazy and shake it off. He grounds my flights of fancy far before they've had the time to take off and crash. He'll listen to my awful analogies and smile if I punctuate word play with, "Pun!" I get him out of the house and push him out of his comfort zone. We help each other with everyday life.

My theory of life-long relationships is thus: Find someone you want to watch the movie of your life with in real time.

I like the idea of travelling through this nomadic period in my life with a buddy. I need someone to experience the events I'm experiencing to get a differing point of view. In these modern times, it is easier to find a life partner than to convince a friend to drop what they're doing and travel with you. Dogs can't share their opinion.

When faced with the possibility of having to start over with a different man in a different town, I shrink back thinking of the time I've invested with this person I love. No-thank-you to retelling every unfunny story of my life. Also, it'd be like having to watch the rest of a long movie with someone you have to explain the beginning to. I am plain awful at retelling events. Not to mention, I suck at dating. I'm pretty great at being single though.

TLDR: I'm taken, because I want to share my life.

Blog Title

We are a wonderful 16 to 28 days (depending on when Jared's job ends) from no longer being Wisconsin Residents. Admittedly, I am nervous about the move and am using over-planning to soothe my nervousness. (I'm making tons of lists, Excel sheets, maps of our future apartment... you name it.) But, that's not what this post is about. This post is far more minimal and unimportant. It's only the future of my blog.

Once the Wisconsin to Minnesota transition is completed, having a blog titled "WI to MN" is no longer relevant. I've been ruminating on what my new blog will be called. Here is a list of all considerations thus far:

Holley Today
Holley Lately
A Typical Holley
Minnesota Ametuer
Holley Moly
Whittier Holley
Miss. Minn.
Frozen Hottie (Now, I'm just brainstorming.)
Urban Catfish
Holley Projects

That's all I have right now.

Also, I've been considering getting a tattoo. I'm always considering getting a tattoo. But, I have a hard time committing to a hairstyle or agreeing to a blog title (both of which can be changed at anytime). I seriously doubt a tattoo will be in the immediate future. What I've been considering lately is a tattoo of a catfish. At first I was considering a koi. Let's be a little honest here: I am not a koi. My Dad is from New Orleans, LA. My Mom is from Oneonta, AL. I grew up in sweltering heat and high humidity in the "World's Luckiest Fishing Village." I grew up poor in a rich neighborhood. I'm stoic in nature and take whatever I can get. I'm not saying that when I die from unnatural causes Donald "Ducky" Mallard is going to find a license plate in my stomach. I'm saying that if middle classed suburbanites are tilapia, upper-middle class are salmon and I'm a catfish. I certainly am not a koi. I suppose if I could choose, I'd be a pompano, but those fish are far less recognizable without color. End fish rant.

Please contact me with title suggestions. I don't think anyone is going to connect "Urban Catfish" with the young woman reviewing their restaurant then ranting about corgis on blogspot.

Photo Source

Road Most Traveled

Robert Frost (1874–1963).  Mountain Interval.  1920.

The Road Not Taken

TWO roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;        5

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,        10

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.        15

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.        20

I have virtually no opinion of the above poem. However, every time someone talks about taking "the road less traveled" as some great thing, I swallow back a whole lot of rant. Where is it ever stated that the narrator was proud or even happy that he took the unbeaten path? What I read is that he spoke with a sigh... and that the choice "made all the difference." That last phrase can be read similarly to the backhanded compliment that something is "unforgettable."

Personally, I am a firm believer in not being outstanding. I believe in doing what you do well and with your head high. Aiming high, dreaming is not for me. I dream of having a mid-level salaried job, a cozy (see: small) house, a dog and little to know financial responsibility (see: kids). I don't have the urge to be famous, popular or rich (see: Trump).

I'm not sure if these life choices are about being realistic. I just think that life's disappointments are more readily reached when you try get rich schemes or to hack it out into the world on your own. I'd prefer to age into moderate wealth over winning the lottery.

This mind set keeps me happy. That and the idea that every setback is an opportunity in disguise.

Something about growing up poor makes you feel like at any moment the bottom could drop out. I am building my sand castle one grain at a time. Right now, my life is great; I am taking the road most traveled (in America). (We can talk about how the "American Way" is the only way in modern lit later.)

Natural You

I just watched a fantastic documentary on beauty on Hulu called America the Beautiful. I had a huge reaction to this film... much like my reaction to Good Hair. And now, I welcome you to a beauty slash health rant.
I will open with a confession that I have permed and dyed my hair, exercised obsessively and whined over every little lump and bump on my body. I also own makeup and a padded bra. None of these things exclude me from general disgust at the beauty industry, if anything these things help to instill my message: Nothing is more beautiful than normal, natural you.

America is a society where people are led to believe that what they wear and how they look defines who they are. It tells us that those oh so tight jeans, striped tee and possibly ironic tennis shoes... if properly accessorized can speak volumes about your personality. It also leads people to believe that others not only take note but care. (I am not encouraging everyone to run about naked --especially not in this Wisconsin weather-- nor dress inappropriately for the occasion. I will threaten a much shorter, louder rant on sweat pants.)

I find a lot of this paranoia based in insecurity. The beauty, fashion, magazine, food... health care etc. industry relies on women and men alike to think that they are less of a person, that they are broken, that there is something foul about them. It's a business plan based on denying people the thing a lot of them crave: The idea that they're okay and whatever they're doing with themselves is fine.

An article relayed to me through Jezebel.com (a site that I highly recommend) touched me deeply and not in my heart, but in my brain. It made me realize that I have never been skinny, but I've always been healthy. I sometimes joke that my numbers (when tested at the doctor's) are always good. I have an excellent standing heart rate, blood pressure, iron count, cholesterol level. You name it. I have it, and it's all good. With the teeny tiny exception of my height to weight ratio. From the time I hit 100 lbs in the 8th grade until now I've always been marginally overweight. Right now, I'm a thrilling 156 lbs. (Naked, of course. Try washing that out of your brain.) I'm 5'2'' tall and a size 6 in pants, 10 in dress. (Mostly, from the boobs.) It's taken years of therapy and far too many grovels over dieting to realize that this is not fat. I'm not fat. In fact... until you've reached the point where you are endangering your health... who gives a fuck. Excuse my french. So, now I don't diet. I do eat well, not because I'm forcing myself to either. I just like carrots, bananas and grapefruit. I get twice my weekly servings of fruit and vegetables, because they are delicious. I also eat pink-dyed coconut covered Snowballs for the same reason.

I also am not a fan of makeup and hair enhancement. Some of that stems from laziness, but most of it comes from the fact that I look pretty awesome without a layer of paint. The other Universe sized problem I have with cosmetics is medically labeled as dermographia. I have pretty, puffy, red reactions to a lot of different products. ("Pretty" was sarcasm.) But why does this matter to you, the reader? Because my reaction to products can be severe and triggered [not instantly but] pretty darn fast. I consider this a great advantage. I get to know what's bad for me right away. I don't need to expose myself to a product over and over again to figure out it's filled with chemicals my body can't take. And, once I accepted that I can only buy Wet and Wild mineral foundation, it's cut down my beauty box to a tenth the size it used to be. Now, imagine what chemicals are absorbing through your pores and consider how long it's going to take your body to react.

I do want to take note that while I choose to go barefaced out into the world (except for special Wet and Wild occasions), I am totally cool with ladies who love themselves and love makeup. Those people who want to experiment and want to doll themselves up, but can feel confident without the extras... you guys rock! My message is to those who consider makeup the means to an end. The ones covering themselves, hiding their perceived "ugliness." I want to say to those ladies that I am all about the idea of letting your freak flag fly. Be you, exactly who you are... don't cover that up, because I want to assure you that it is awesome.

I watched a news segment this last year on a group of popular teenage girls who choose to not wear makeup once a week. I was shocked that these girls considered this to be a publicity stunt. Then I was more shocked that the stunt got such publicity. Imagine it... women whose faces are just faces. Shock and awe. This newscast added to the hundreds of reminders that I face everyday that looking like you woke up and washed your face this morning is a strange thing. How truly shocking is it to want to look the way you do lumps, acne scars and all? Why is the world so bent on covering the faces of women?

An Analogy

President Obama recently appeared on The Daily Show. Amongst different political topics covered in the half hour special was socialized health care, more specifically "Obamacare." The President compared Obamacare to racial integration basically (and I'm inferring here) he referred to it as a foot in the door.

But, I've decided that that metaphor sucks. And, that the only reason I can come up with a better one is because I'm not a public figure and can talk about goldfish. Sounding crazy works for me.

Here we go folks. Obamacare to Socialized Medicine in 30 seconds:

When you bring a goldfish home to introduce into your aquarium, you don't just dump the fish into the tank willy nilly. You place the goldfish in it's plastic bag of previous tank water into your aquarium. This way the temperature of the water in the bag adjusts gradually to the temperature of the tank. If you just dropped the fish into the aquarium, it would die of shock.

Now, in this analogy the fish is socialized medicine, the bag is Obamacare, and the aquarium is the United States of America,

The idea is that Obamacare will ease our political demographic into accepting socialized medicine. If socialized medicine was just dumped in the laps of the USA, the bill would die from the country's shock.

You're welcome.

P.S. This is a Betta. His name is Scoopie.

Tiny Rant

With every fiber of my being I hate those cereal commercials claiming that "studies show" that people who eat whole grain live longer or weigh less than people who don't eat whole grain. It's statistic BS. Of course people health conscious enough to toss delicious fluffy carbs for scratchy brown carbs will live healthier, longer lives. This doesn't make cereal some miracle cure for death or obesity. It just shows a marketing tactic of showing causation by correlation.

It'd be similar to say that people who don't eat whole sticks of butter rolled in sugar everyday live longer than people who do. What kind of condition/mental state would one need to be in to eat a whole stick of butter rolled in sugar everyday? He/she is more likely on the edge of death more often than going for a morning jog.

Playing Catch Up

We are 111 days from Christmas. 110 days until finalizing our move. I am very excited. Actually I think I'm nesting. I bought a coffee table this last week, received it on Friday and had it in the door and put together in under an hour. Today, I bought a small side table... but I probably won't get it. It'd be nice to replace the big hunker that's next to the couch, but the last time I checked there were only two left.

Other than shopping -- which is always a wonderful thing when you have some money to do so. Especially, when the company is buying. -- I've been working, cooking, cleaning and watching Covert Affairs.

So the working has been okay. I'm looking forward to not working weekends anymore. Saturdays and Sundays are so slow that they let us off early. I am let off last of the morning shift, because my hours go through first shift and into second. The calls sometimes have 4-7 minutes between them. Today I sang "Dancing By My Self" at least 20 times while waiting. I ate some cookies... and attempted doing the crossword.

Cooking wise I made a Greek dish from allrecipes.com for the work week's lunch.

Greek Penne and Chicken

Ingredients

1 (16 ounce) package penne pasta

2 1/2 tablespoons butter

1 tablespoon olive oil

1 cup chopped red onion

4 cloves garlic, minced

1.7 pound skinless, boneless chicken breast halves - cut into bite-size pieces

1 (14 ounce) can artichoke hearts in water

1 can diced tomato

1 1/2 cup crumbled feta cheese

3 tablespoons chopped fresh parsley

2 tablespoons lemon juice

2 teaspoon dried oregano

Directions

Marinade chicken bites in parsley, oregano, lemon juice, 1 1/2 tablespoons of butter while noodles boil. (About half an hour)

In a large pot with boiling salted water cook penne pasta until al dente. Drain.

Meanwhile, in a large skillet over medium-high heat melt butter, add onion and garlic and cook for 2 minutes. Add chopped chicken and continue cooking, stirring occasionally until golden brown, about 10 minutes.

Reduce heat to medium- low. Drain and chop artichoke hearts and add them, diced tomato, feta cheese, and drained penne pasta to the large skillet. Cook until heated through, about 2 to 3 minutes.

Serve warm.

Here is the original recipe. My version makes over 12 servings.

Cleaning is never-ending and not worth talking about.

Covert Affairs is worth talking about. It's an excellent addition to television. It's sharp, action packed and the blind tech guy is hilarious. I like it a lot more than the Bourne Identity movies.

On a side note: Jared and I are constantly battling with our city planning office, and Water and Sewer. First they dug up our yard. Then, they put gigantic concrete tubey things on our yard for three weeks. Then they filled the holes with sand and gravel instead of dirt. Plus, the people across the street believe it's better to park in our driveway instead of the numerous parking spots on the street. Now, the workers went into our backyard and took a hose from the house. They hooked that hose to a fire hydrant. Jared was really angry when he saw it. He made the rounds of calls the figure out what was going on. Apparently, the construction workers are running water to our house with that hose. Jared is still kind of riled about them not asking permission.

Also, our microwave has gone rogue. We have the breaker off to stop it from beeping loudly unendingly.

We start our new work schedule tomorrow. Jared works 6am to 4pm, and I work 4:30pm to midnight. We have weekends off. We should do something this weekend.

Tornado

I've reached another end of day and not too much has happened. Except, once again it's storming. Since it's storming and we are in Wisconsin, there are tornado watches. This is a fact of life in the midwest. And, for me, tornado anything is no big deal. I'm under the belief that when it is time to die it is time to die. I've seen those Final Destination movies. Even though I cover my eyes and cringe when I hear the you-are-about-to-die music, I understand the plot line. You can't run from something as permanent and life changing as death.

This is not a widely held, easily accepted belief. My best friend is on her way to crash on our extra mattress slash cower in our basement right now. I want to say that I can understand the need to hide from the inevitable. But, I really don't. Hiding from tornadoes is like hiding from time, age and taxes. Yes, it's totally possible that clenching my teeth and screaming my head off in our not-so-slowly decaying basement where there isn't a single enclosed space will somehow save my life. But running down stairs at the nearest thunder clap is only going to help prevent type-II diabetes and heart disease.

I'd really like to read a book on statistical analysis of trying to prevent injury through trapping yourself in a room.