Rampant Cultural Imperialism- and Some Particularly Delectable Man-Candy

So, last night I watched Criminal Minds- my new favorite show (as of about 2 weeks ago, when I started watching/Tivoing it), and the rampant cultural imperialism that was embedded within the context of the episode was staggering.

"Machismo" (the name of the episode) takes place in Mexico, where there is a serial killer targeting elderly women. Now, besides the blatant mono-linguistic attitude that pervades the BAU [Behavioral Analysis Unit] team (excluding Elle's character)- where the only a grasp of basic high-school Spanish is found in one member of the team- Dr. Reid, who does a literal translation for the idiom "doghouse" [as in, "In the doghouse"] as "la casa del perro".

Since I only have a couple of years of high school Spanish and some minimal conversational skills (which I realized when I was having an actual conversations with people from Spain in the Tehran airport), I just about died laughing. First, because idioms rarely translate effectively (hence the need for multi-lingual environments, to better express oneself), second, because it was exactly the right thing for his character to say.

Now, Dr. Reid rocks my socks off in EVERY way. [The actor, Matthew Gray Gubler, is pretty awesome, too.] You could say that the character is an exact definition of what my nerd fetish is about. Now, having said that, there are some problems with how these characters are written. Dr. Reid has 3 Ph.D.s, according to the background given on the show. How can you have that much education and not understand that idioms don't translate? Or have more than a Sesame Street grasp of Spanish? Maybe it's because I've grown up in California. Who knows?

In any case, each character has a specialty; but nobody does linguistics? Language and word choice/semantics are how people express themselves and can make a major difference in how things are interpreted. This has been further impressed upon me in the three episodes that I've watched; one specific thing that an "unsub" ("Unknown Subject of An Investigation", defined by Wikipedia) says often breaks the case. Not like the writers will ever read this, but in my opinion, adding a linguistics expert would be a great choice. Especially if she's 5' 1 ½", brunette with wildly curly hair, and is, well, me! (Hope springs eternal, I'm not holding my breath, but I think there should be more short people on television, and I could/should be one!) Or at least let me help write dialog. (Dialog is really difficult to write, but I have extensive experience speaking. I talk ALL THE TIME! I am so very qualified for this job!)

I've wandered off of my original issue with the episode- Cultural Imperialism. The writers seemed to not take notice of the fact that machismo and modesty go hand-in-hand, culturally. In a religious community, where virginity and purity are the measure of a woman's "goodness", women are discouraged from speaking out against rape, and discussing sexuality of any kind- consensual or not, would be very awkward. In this episode, the rape victims all came forward and appeared to be at complete ease describing their attacks to the mostly male BAU.

Stop for a minute and think about this; in America, women who are raped have a difficult time reporting and describing their attacks to the police officers who are supposed to be helping them. American culture is much more accepting of promiscuity, and part of the cultural method of dealing with the psychological damage caused by rape is to talk about it with a trained professional. In the US, the victim is also not considered somewhat responsible for her attack, which isn't necessarily the case in heavily patriarchal cultures. Women who were raised not to talk about sex would not be comfortable talking about it with another woman, never mind a man whom they have just met. Additionally, none of the BAU men speak Spanish! How would they effectively be understanding what is going on??!! Suspension of disbelief, yaadaa yaadaa. This isn't "Charmed" where you can make stuff up as you go, people!

The episode also portrayed the Mexican police as stupid and ineffective. I haven't had any personal experience with the Mexican police, but I found it more than a little improbable that a precinct that couldn't afford a crime lab (more than a fingerprinting kit from the '80s) could afford to have a BAU. Yes, profiling is important, but it's not exact or as easy to determine as DNA or fingerprints. It's like icing on the cake; that's why it appears that America has one BAU to the majillion crime labs across the country (take for example, the three different incarnations of CSI). When the DNA is wrong, you know you have the wrong suspect. When a profile is wrong, they stop and think more. Which doesn't solve cases quickly, except in the rapid-fire profiling on Criminal Minds.

Don't get me wrong, I get all flustered when they geek out, but the lack of cultural research and consideration was a bit bothersome. At the beginning of the episode, the main police officer tells Gideon that his lack of cultural knowledge made his profiling ineffective anywhere but the U.S.A. Then what happens? Everything falls together perfectly, the crime is solved and the BAU ride off into the sunset.

I truly do enjoy the show, I just feel like they should stick to domestic psychos. In their favor, with the package bomber episode, they didn't immediately jump on the "we hate towel-heads" bandwagon. Which is awesome.

And Matthew Gray Gubler is a stone cold FOX!

Get your own damn coffee!

So, I've been feeling kind of crappy as of late. Squishy, even. One of my co-workers suggested that I'm being affected by the Seattle-esque weather. Which makes sense.

I broke down an added a splash of "rocket fuel" (aka, coffee made by one of my co-workers, strong enough to curl your hair and send you hurtling down the hallway at light speed singing along to Jekyll & Hyde. It happened to m- my friend) to my morning hot chocolate. A ghetto mocha, if you will. This is a really big deal, since I've been off coffee and tea since the Lump Scare of '05. I felt AMAZING. It's always been true, and I don't know why I've tried to deny it: caffeine is my narcotic of choice.

Since I have my entire life invested in California real estate, I am going to take a moment and bitch about the weather. I love rain. I do. But if I wanted Seattle weather, I would have bought a house in Seattle. The dogs are slowly losing their furry little minds, and I'm keeping a hawk's eye on the sky looking for a long enough break to take them out to run like crazy. However, the angst-inducing weather has inspired me to listen to a bunch of Gothic musicals at work (Jane Eyre, Jekyll & Hyde, Marie Christine, Phantom of the Opera, etc.).

Some Knit Content

This dreary weather has provided lots of knitting time, and I am working on a wrap/shawl for Tess Yarns which will [hopefully] be done in time for Maryland Sheep & Wool. Which is the first weekend in May. * demented giggle* But, despite being the most reluctant designer who ever lived, I am writing down the wrap as I am knitting/designing it. It's in a rather lovely seafoam green (which I look like death on a biscuit in, but looks great on my sister-in-law) superwash merino which is simply HEAVEN to knit with.

I took my sock samples back from the shop, since we haven't carried the yarn in over a year, and I'm going to up my "FO" numbers by knitting the second sock. But I have recently decided that I HATE the heel that I did on them, so I'm going to do the heel differently on the second sock. Probably. I'll jump off that bridge when I come to it, I suppose.

Elphie keeps trying to foil my attempts at being productive, and I am weak. Every time I sit down to knit, there she is, in my lap, demanding love. Since knitting will wait, and Elphie will age and lose interest in my love, she always wins. I don't have this problem with Niki, since he decides when he wants to be loved, and then climbs up on your lap to get snuggles. This was easier when we had first adopted him and he was 30 lbs. Now he's at 45 lbs. and takes up all of my lap and arms. In the winter months this is great; I have a lap full of warm, fuzzy, love. In the summer months, Niki tends to keep his distance and bask in the A/C.


What's going on my Ark…

In light of this Biblical amount of rain, remember your toothbrush when you're loading up your own ark. Then you can visit mine.

Stapler related injury

Remember how I swore at my stapler last week, for sucking? It struck back at me today. We were working away, la la la, got my rhythm going, and then SNAP! My stapler jammed, recoiled and sprained something in my hand. This is the worst pain that ever did pain me! I'm standing there, in shock (both from the pain and the sheer stupidity of the injury), and I realize exactly what has happened.

My stapler has gotten its' revenge.

Why Self-Defense is a Joke for Petite Women (alt. title: Why Jasmin Should Carry a Gun)

I took a class in college called "Self-Defense for Women". The first day of class, I walk in and there are about 25 women and three men. One guy was this muscle-bound Mexican guy (just COVERED in tattoos)- obviously there to meet chicks. The second was Mr. Martial Arts, in the class to show off his mad skillz to the ladies (I was not impressed that he was trying to show off in a beginner class).

The third was a heartwarmingly geeky guy who looked like he STILL got beat up for his lunch money, even in college. (I LOVED him, but anytime any woman would approach him he would blush, look at his feet, and mumble an answer. Men like this are my KRYPTONITE. I find myself powerless to resist them. My forward nature tends to scare them away, or you know, turn them on. In this case, he maintained his distance.

So, for the first three weeks, all we did was practice screaming things like "FIRE!" and "STOP RIGHT THERE!" and "NO! DON'T COME ANY CLOSER!" (or in my smart-ass case, terrified shrieking of "SHARK!"), since nobody will come and help you if you scream "HELP!" because you may be in the process of being raped, and that is messy business for an innocent bystander. Property damage is what gets upstanding citizens to come and lend a hand.

So, after having people repeatedly running out of the showers (since they could hear screams of "FIRE!"), the teacher decided to teach us some actual self-defense maneuvers. There was one move that stuck in my mind, where the assailant grabs you (the Damsel In Distress) from behind around the throat with both hands. The teacher showed us this neat whippy-around move to remove the hands from your throat so that you can scream and run away to safety.

After class I went STRAIGHT to Andrew's house, aiming to kick his ass with my newfound self-defending skills. Because I'm 5' 1 ½" and he is 6' 3" and badly in need of an ass-whooping, of course.

Instead of doing the smart thing, and just kicking in the door and kicking his ass, I say to him, "Hey, grab me around the throat from behind!"

He does, half-assedly, and I easily do my little move and I'm free. Since I'm brilliant, and eager to test this new trick (since I'm ALWAYS being grabbed from behind by the throat), I say to him, "Now, REALLY, grab me around the throat like you mean it."

So he does.

I try my move. It doesn't work! My life flashes before my eyes while I gasp for enough air to hiss "let… me… go!" and there are light handprint bruises around my foolish little neck. I was furious.

I went into class the next day, spitting mad

"Why didn't this work on my 6'3" boyfriend?" I ask angrily, "I was practicing at home, and I told him to really try, and it DIDN'T WORK!"

What did the teacher say? "It only works if your assailant is your size."

I say, "How many hardened muggers and criminals top out at 5' 1", ma'am?" So I dropped the class, since I obviously can't protect myself unless I'm being attacked by an exceptionally shrimpy kindergartener with the skills this class had armed me with.

So how does a woman protect herself? Pepper spray means he has to be within eight feet of you. And this girl has an itchy trigger finger, since it's not fatal. (Yes, I threatened to pepper spray a guy in class once, but he threatened me and was being stupid. So I pulled out my pepper spray and said, "It's 8 AM and you are pissing me off. You DON'T think I'm going to pepper spray you?")

But if someone is seriously threatening you, pepper spray only makes them angry (according to my all-knowing father). So remember kids, pepper spray is for fun, not self-defense.

So, I casually mentioned to my father that he should take me to the shooting range so that I could learn how to safely operate firearms. He was outwardly enthusiastic, but I could tell that he was entirely uncomfortable with either (a) my inappropriate gender behavior (girls shouldn't shoot guns), or (b) me operating firearms, safely or otherwise.

He blew me off, never took me, never bought me a gun. This is the man who, after a VERY casual comment on my part about perhaps, maybe wanting to start mountain biking, bought me an expensive mountain bike. For my 18th birthday. Which I have yet to ride. In my defense it was dark when I left the house and dark when I got back, and when it wasn't, I was up at Mills, where an expensive bike was a liability. I'll really start riding it. Really!

So anyway, since hand-to-hand combat is out for me, I thought "Maybe I should carry a gun."

It seems like a good idea, but there are problems with carrying a gun. For example, sometimes I can't find my cell phone in my purse. Now, it's a good deal smaller than a gun, but the phone vibrates and glows when I need it. If I had a gun in my purse and I was accosted, it would go like this:

Assailant: "Give me your money, lady! Or I'll kill you!" or "If you scream, I'll kill you."

Me: "Hang on one second…. [digs in purse] Where is it…"

Assailant: "Give me your purse! Stop digging!"

Me: "Screw it." [Hits Assailant with purse, knocking him unconscious. Steals his wallet.]

You see, sticking the gun in my purse wouldn't work. So I would have to wear it. Since I would want my holster to match my belt and shoes, I would have to get one in brown AND one in black. A girl has got to look good defending herself.

Then there is that whole issue of my accident-proneness. I would be shooting some vandal, and I might burn myself on the gun. Or something. Ok, so maybe no gun.

So, after great thought, I have decided to keep carrying anvils in my purse.

Proof that I Spend Too Much Time in an Office

I noticed that staples out of a regular staple have little bumps on the back. Documents out of the photocopier that it staples are flat. One only notices this when you have two piles; one lays perfectly flat and the other one has a hugely raised corner.

I'm sure that the reason for this is that I don't have the vast strength of a thousand pound machine. Imagine that. At 5' 1 ½" and I don't have super-strength. So unfair. And the staples mock me.

What do you do with a B.A. in English?

You go through 2 bad jobs, land an okay job, but you don't live out your dream of being an editor for St. Martin's press because you chose marriage and family instead of a dream job in New York.

You buy a townhouse that is dark all the time next door to chainsmoking rednecks, and since it's California, you have a house and no fun. Because there is no money left for fun when you're a single income family in California. And your single income is earned by a woman with a B.A. in English.

I have two pairs of jeans that are wearing out at the inseam, by the crotch. My favorite two pairs of jeans (same style). I haven't bought yarn since Stitches. I've been finishing projects like crazy.

There are a lot of good things, so I shouldn't be unhappy, but when you feel lousy, all you can see is what your life could have been if you'd made better choices.

There is nothing like a nerd...

I'll admit; I have a serious nerd fetish. My first crush was Doogie Howser, M.D., and as far as TV crushes have ALWAYS been the nerdy type.

I love painfully smart men. Men so smart that they are socially inept. I find it charming.

When I was in high school, I would scope out the local drum corp boys (the Santa Clara Vanguard, if you're in the mood for the uber-band geeky type). My mother is of the opinion that I over fished that pond, since I had 3 successive boyfriends in a row from SCV… Does that make me a groupie? I don't care. Nerds are where it is AT!

I find their enthusiasm/ obsessing over something refreshing; it's great that they're interested in something, and they don't care if everyone knows it. Many of them have low self-esteem, but a clear idea of their personal identity.

At some point, they resign themselves to being nerds and become more comfortable in their skin. These are the guys who decided to be in choir, band and plays in high school. No matter how much teasing and taunting, they did what they wanted to do and had a great time doing it. They were smart; choir and plays are where the chicks are, and if you've seen American Pie, you know how those band girls are. [MOM: I was a nice girl in band. Additionally, I did not march flute. Those flute girls are sissies and whores.]

I'll take both the Reluctant Nerd and the Self-Aware Nerd. I don't want to make them over, I want to revel in their charming nerd-ness. This is why I enjoyed the Vicki Lewis Thompson "Nerd" series. These nerds were my friends, co-workers, and the men I actively lust after. (Passively lust after? It's a thin line.)

Which leads to my opinion on Beauty & the Geek. I liked that there were some genuine nerds getting some airtime. I did not like the "makeover" side of it for them. They didn't need to look like they were in a boy band; they won over all the superficial bimbos they were teamed with by being themselves. All of the throwaway popular culture stuff that they were expected to "learn" and embrace won't be remembered in a year. To be honest, the only popular culture knowledge I have is from reading magazines while I'm waiting for my hairdresser.

Smart men are where it's at. Joss Whedon put it very succinctly when he had Willow's character state the truest truism ever, "I'm not ashamed, It's the computer age, nerds are in."

New Hair!

I woke up yesterday and realized that my hair was too long. It was on the verge of being frumpy. At a decent hour, I called her, telling her that I was desperate to get my hair cut.

She scheduled me in for 9:00 AM today, so I went in. We chatted, and I said that I wanted the same cut as last time; just about chin length with long layers in the front.

Going to the hairdresser is a full-service thing for me; any beautification that is in need of doing gets done in one trip. So, first and foremost, she managed to find a face on me after removing all the excess eyebrows. I love how she shapes my eyebrows, because they still look natural without that whole weird-shaped-bushy issue. Too bad I'm too lazy to perform eyebrow maintenance more regularly. This means seeing Suzy is a MUST for me. Otherwise, my face disappears under my eyebrows. It's a Persian thing.

So, my hair gets washed, we chat about how things are going, we talk about my parents, and then we go to The Chair.

The Chair was a place of much contention for me as a child. You see, Suzy has been cutting my hair since I was at least six years old. She cut it exactly how my mother wanted it done, rather than the way I wanted it done. This is how I kept a fairly classic hairstyle throughout the 80's , and didn't get my initials shaved into the side of my head like my best friend Ryan.

I shaved my head at the beginning and end of 7th grade (waaaay before it was cool), then took control of my hair when I hit high school. From then on, it has been my way, and I've been happy ever since.

Suzy is a great hairdresser; I have never walked out looking anything but smashing. I often forget this when I'm in the chair.

So, my hair is in the middle of being cut, and I think, "OH MY GOD! IT'S TOO SHORT!"

Too short isn't really a big issue if you have straight hair. But for those of us with rebellious curly hair with a mind of it's own, it's a huge problem. You get into this weird, frizzy, afro-y place, and it's just not cute. Then I panic that I'm going to look like a Beatle, but weirder. Or just a long-haired boy badly in need of grooming- with breasts. I'm agonizing over how long it's going to take, whether I am going to need to wear some sort of hat to hide my shame…

…and it's perfect. It's magically EXACTLY the length I had hoped for and the style is fantastic. We're going to get pictures (because I can never do my hair the same way she does it), and I'll try to get a picture with it curly. If I get to it.

Something I noticed...

McDonalds has started putting the nutrition information on the wrappers of the food, as well as a little icon of Ronald McDonald jumping or skipping (basically, being active) and text that encourages people to get off of their butts and move.

Now, let me give you my fast food background. When I dated Zak, I ate at McDonalds almost everyday. If it wasn't McDonalds, then it was Jack in the Box, Taco Bell, Wendy's, whatever. I'm not saying that in that 2 ½ years all that I ate was fast food with him, but it was about 90% of the food we ate in each other's company.

Having said that, when I was dating him, I was grossly underweight at 90-95 lbs. (less when I was stressed out), so this whole "fast food makes you fat" thing wasn't working for me. I was working a desk job 30-40 hours a week, and going to college full time. The year and a half while I was in high school dating Zak, I was working 15-20 hours a week, and was super-involved in marching band, choir, and whatever else I could fit. Although I should have ballooned the instant I graduated high school, or in the year afterwards when I maintained la vida teenager, I just didn't.

Maybe it was my teen metabolism, maybe it was because being super-active (physically), especially while I was in marching band. As soon as I stopped dating Zak, I swore off fast food for about a year. Now I eat at fast food places 4-12 times a year, which won't make me horribly sick or fat. Here's where I find the lawsuits/ change in packaging painfully stupid.

Everyone knows that fast food is bad for you. Just like smoking. Maybe there should be a Surgeon General's warning on everything in a fast food restaurant, like on cigarettes. I'll even give two options, like the Surgeon General does for cigarettes:

[THESE ARE NOT ACTUAL SURGEON GENERAL'S WARNINGS. I AM NOT THE SURGEON GENERAL. BUT THEY ARE A VERY GOOD IDEA, AND QUITE ARTICULATE IF YOU ASK ME.]


SURGEON GENERAL'S WARNING: Eating fast food has been proven to cause obesity, heightened blood pressure, and elevated cholesterol levels.

OR

SURGEON GENERAL'S WARNING: Fast food contains high sodium levels, fat, and processed sugars.


Now, I understand that personal responsibility is not encouraged in mainstream American culture. This is why there are legal defenses for EVERYTHING. I'm not an extremist; I think in some cases these defenses are necessary, but Twinkie defenses are an absurd abuse of the legal system. Everyone gets a little crazy when their blood sugar plummets low enough. Some of us are even dramatic enough to shake and faint after yelling at people. (All the Hypoglycemics in the room please stand up, please stand up. [Okay, I know I'm not cool enough to quote Eminem on my blog, but it's better than me trying to pull off "Hypoglycemics, holla!"] )

What is even less excusable is someone deciding to breed and "not having time" to prepare real, nutritious food for their whelp and feeding them fast food more than once a month. Why have children if you don't take care to raise them properly? This is where the veritable list of excuses arises: high costs of living, etc. There is always time and there are things that you certainly can live without if you choose to have a child.

I'm not saying that poor people shouldn't have children, I'm just saying that proper planning (both family planning and meal planning) can prevent childhood obesity. And teen pregnancy. And Bird Flu.

Ok, maybe not Bird Flu. But who knows; maybe it can. * Raises eyebrow suspiciously *

I eat fast food, too. Just less than most people. It's the fries, man! Salty, potato-ey, goodness!

On a less socio-political note, we're seeing Gypsy tonight. Strippers + Musical theater = AWESOME!!! It's high-culture meets low-culture!

Thought of the day:

My labelmaker looks like an original Star Trek phaser. How cool is that? So, I set it to KILL! and then I make labels. Qapla!

I dream in color

I dream in color. My dreams are always vivid, whether they're really fun or absolutely terrifying.

I had this awful dream that we were transporting this woman to a battered women's shelter, and there were like 10 cars driving there (so that we could lose her husband on the road, she could switch cars, etc). But the van I was driving died. So I had to pedal to get this huge van to move, and I could see her husband in the rear view mirror. So I am pedaling (like a bicycle) to get her to the rendezvous point (a bubble tea restaurant in Oakland), where I sit with the Saturday knitting group and have a leisurely tea.

As the husband was walking in to intercept us, I wake with a start. To find Niki sleeping LENGTHWISE in my spot, head on my pillow and EVERYTHING. And then he yawns in my face with butt-breath. Blech.

So, I cuddle up to Andrew, hear my radio turn on (because the buzzer startles me and gives my morning a harsh start), and think to myself, "Just 5 more minutes…"

I overslept. By about an hour. So much for what I thought was 5 minutes.

Anyway, I was only 20 minutes late to work. Explain how I could manage to get myself out the door in 7 minutes when it normally takes five times that long.

In other news:

My [allegedly] paternal grandmother is having alleged cardiac problems. There is true and reasonable doubt on both counts. Here is why:

(a) My aunt and uncle joke that they found my father in a shoebox on the front stoop. They treat him like it, too.

(b) He doesn't look like ANYONE in his family. No resemblance AT ALL. Sam and I look like him, but he is the odd one out. If I get around to it I'll scan the "family" photo that we all took when we went to Iran in 1991. Sam, Dad, and I all stick out. And nobody looks like us.

I also doubt that she is actually having cardiac issues NOT ONLY because I am admittedly an evil bitch, but also because my grandmother is a hypochondriac for attention. If one person is sick and getting attention, so too is my grandmother. Insensitive of me to say so? Yes. True? Also yes.

I LOVE MY JOB! (Part 1,000,000)

A parade (15) hot firemen just strolled by my office. If they start dancing and taking off their clothes, I may never leave here. Ever. I am magnanimous enough to volunteer some stripper music (the stuff from the Full Monty will do, right?), if they're in a dancing mood.

Thought of the day…

There isn't a word in English for a man whom a married woman is having an affair with. I propose "Manstress". In Spanish, the term is "Sancho." Vote "yes" on "Manstress".

Inanimate objects are out to get me

Today was an unusually quiet day. This isn't necessarily a bad thing, this means I get to catch up on all of the administrative stuff that isn't time-sensitive. Like filing. Hole-punching. Making photocopies. Dealing with the e-mail system to make the search functions all that they can be.

So, needless to say, I can do all of these tasks without utilizing 100% of my brain. This leaves me to daydream, make lists in my head, plan my weekend, whatever. Oh yeah, and sing.

Yes, I sing in my office because I CAN! I sing softly, because the walls are so thin that if I were to fart, you could smell it in the offices next to me. This does not mean that I farted in my office and then ran next door to see if I could smell it, I am using hyperbole. [Mom: I NEVER fart. I am the PERFECT example of what a lady should be. You have not failed as a mother.]

So, while I'm alphabetizing stuff for easier filing, which is a necessity at this point. If you saw how much filing I have to do, you would cry. I am 5' 1 1/2", and the filing I have to do, if I were to stack it all on top of another is ALMOST as tall as I am. Good thing I'm not that tall, right? (Just for the record, there is enough work to keep me working 20 hours of overtime a week, MINIMUM. But I LOVE my job!)

Anyway, I'm singing the alphabet song, because I am so lame that I can't place the letters without it. Like, I know "U" comes before "Z" but what are the letters right before and after?

I bet you're singing the song, too. We've all been indoctrinated since preschool to sing this song. So enjoy it; I do.

So, I get up to go and wash my hands before I go home for lunch and I turn on the water. I find out that it is SCALDING hot (!) as I put my hand in it. My hand did a terrific impression of a lobster, post-boil, and turned an angry shade of red. From being under the water for a fraction of a second. Ow!

Ok, fast forward to late afternoon. I go to my friend, the photocopier. We've spent hours and hours and hours together. We are the closest of friends. He works hard for me, I refill his paper. It's a mutually satisfying relationship. So, today's job for Mr. Photocopier (we have a working, professional relationship) was a bunch of short copies; all 3 pages, stapled. Not hard, right?

About three quarters of the way though, my stapler runs out of staples. (I have to staple the originals, since the feeder won't staple them when they're done being copied.) I reach for the magical supply cabinet of goodness, and find these wierd, bent-in-the-middle staples. I reload my stapler, staple one original, and then - I'm shooting blanks! There are staples IN the stapler, but none of them are coming out!

I look at my treacherous stapler, and begin to swear softly under my breath [Mom: I NEVER swear. Ever.] I take the staples out of the stapler, and while I am putting the staples away, ready to call it a day at 5:45, I see the BRIGHT RED box of "standard" staples. I put them in the previously treacherous stapler, and he begins working just fine again. It turns out that I am the stupid one, not the stapler. Damn! [Mom: read "Gracious, me!"]

So, I drive home, and my Tivo isn't working. How does one live without Tivo? I shudder at the thought. I call Tivo tech support, and we fix the problem in less than 15 minutes. What was the problem?

I turn on the TV to catch up on some Law & Order, and there is a yellow screen, with cartoon pieces of paper blowing in the wind. But paused. It was all very abstract and post-modern. But alas, nothing was paused and none of the Tivo functions were, well, functioning.

The solution? Unplug the Tivo. Wait 60 seconds. Plug the Tivo back in. Problem solved.

At least my shower wasn't evil. It was just the right temperature (aaahh...), and my laptop seems to be operating normally.

Ok, time to eat and watch Criminal Minds.

I don't write poetry

I like to read. I like to write (poorly, as you can find for yourself throughout the archives of this oh-so fine blog), but for the life of me, I can't write poetry.

I was blog-surfing and found tomes (virtual tomes) of angsty teen poetry. I missed that one; I was more into singing angsty Broadway in the shower. Still am. Part of me just wonders why I don't really delight in writing poetry.

The sad thing? I don't particularly enjoy most poetry. I've heard a few verses here and there, but give me witty repartee between well-developed characters anyday. The writing on the early seasons of West Wing have this feel. Extra Jasmin points [to be awarded a special prize... eventually] for multiple musical theater references.

Instead, my "talent" (if you could call it that) is re-writing words to showtunes to make them suit... well, whatever. A glass of port adds to my "lyrical genius" [my own words, dripping with sarcasm].

I love deconstruction. Deconstruction of texts, movies, TV shows. It's so much fun. But not poetry. Except for limericks, which are the BEST!

A Sidenote:

Why is good fanfiction so hard to find? I mean, I could write it myself (and have in the past), but I just don't want to. Not when I'm in a reading mood.

Also, watching Hugh Jackman get beat in a belching contest (on the Kids' Choice Awards) with Justin Timberlake is shaming. I can't believe that scrawny little twerp beat him in a belching contest. A display of manhood, if you will.

I think it was rigged. There is no WAY that Hugh could have been out-belched by a little kid. Just so you know, I was utterly devastated when they announced the winner.

Not that I need to justify myself, but I watched the Kids' Choice awards SOLELY because Jack Black was hosting. I didn't realize that so many adult celebs were on it.

For my fans:

Tonight I will be performing from "Little Shop of Horrors" in my most frequent venue. Seating is limited, so run- don't walk, to a shower enclosure near you.