Dick jokes get you nowhere

A triumphant return…?

2010-12-05T10:13:00.008-06:00

Other than this photo of me at the office, nah, not really. But at least it’s a return in some form. Over the past few months, I’ve been trying to convince myself to start this thing up again. But it’s been half a year, and after a while you start feeling like you should reappear with something spectacular. Like the time Papa went to “work on the railroads” and “absolutely not visit his secret family.”

We got some amazing presents that year. But now, this woman named Sheila keeps calling me. She’s a bit of a rambler, so I usually just write my grocery list and mindlessly agree with everything she says. Though, now that I think of it, she does talk about kidneys a lot. I don’t know why, but I’m glad, because it always reminds me to buy beans.

So much has happened since May, but I’ll have to ease into it slowly. (Heh.) A little preview of things I may or may not elaborate on: Mimi gettin’ REAL sassy, Kelly’s discovery of new ways to respond to serious questions with, “I KILL WHITE WOMEN,” my paying off over half of my student loans, and of course, the time my entire apartment flooded with poo water.

Delicious!

Germination

2010-05-19T09:35:00.002-05:00

Remember when this blog was all about how I didn’t know what I was doing with my life, but I DID know that I absolutely should not get knocked up?

Well, apparently it’s come full circle. Yes, I’m pregnant. With employment!

When I first graduated from school, I had a dream that my creativity, coupled with a complete lexicon of dick jokes would lead me to be instantly hired. Well, it didn’t quite turn out that way.

On May 15th, it was officially a year since I received my degree in advertising. And miraculously, on May 14th, I received a job offer. A job within a year of graduation. This was an actual goal that I actually met. I’m a little shocked myself. Now, if only some of those same “mysterious ways” could work on my long-standing desire to become a contortionist. Nah, wait, no I don’t want to do that. I’d really rather have a magic spell that allows me to harness the powers of self-tanner without becoming orange. Or, maybe I’d rather be a man for a day. Just to see what it’s like, geez. A wise man once told me, “DON’T SQUEEZE!” I’d like to find out once and for all if he was just being a baby about it.

On or around Memorial Day, I will officially begin my career as a copywriter. I’m not quite sure how I feel about this now. One positive change it has already inspired: I’ve decided it’s time to put stuff on my walls. Seriously, who doesn’t have anything on their walls? I’ve been here since last October, and it looks like a nun lives here. You know, except without all those crucifixes and dumb curtains they wear as dresses. And also, my browsing history is a clear sign that no one of any very strong faith goes here.

For the record, the title of this post was originally “Remember that time I mistook Stevie Nicks for Euronymous?” Why? Because it’s something that happened while I was thinking of a title. Poor Ms. Nicks. In her defense, there were lots of lights, and it was a photo taken from far away. She just looked really menacing.

A Little Gamey

2010-04-21T06:34:00.001-05:00

If your dog ever catches a cat unawares at 5:37 a.m., and it’s dark out and they seem to be fighting over a brown napkin, and you think, “What is that, a napkin? I guess I shouldn’t be too worried about her putting that in her mouth,” know that you are, in fact a dumb bitch.

Because, dumb bitch, that is no napkin. That is, in fact, a live squirrel.

And of course, you’ve never dealt with your dog mouthing a live squirrel before, so you do what comes naturally—use that long rope around your canine’s neck to shake her head violently until the dying creature is released.

I stared at the squirrel, the dog stared at the cat, and the cat stared at me like, “HEY ASSHOLE. You think you can do something about YOUR FUCKING DOG? She’s kinda ruining my FUCKING GAME.”

I quickly followed the cat’s suggestions once I was liberated from the hypnotic writhing of that doomed rodent.

Despite Mimi’s many achievements, I’ve never seen her prouder. This moment, in her eyes, outdid them all. She practically floated home. I, on the other hand, was a little shaken up.

Thankfully, I had some tender puppy mouth-kisses waiting at home.

Gotta Have My Blisters

2010-04-19T14:19:00.003-05:00

I’ve been feeling a little “off” over the past few days. Not sick, just not functioning at maximum capacity. This morning (1:15 p.m.), I woke up wanting popcorn. So, that's what I had.

If you think about it, it’s not that strange. Lots of cereal is made from corn. But OH NO, it’s not breakfast unless it’s wrapped up in a colorful box and forced onto you by some overly suspicious, under blemished adolescents.

Remember?

Anyway, that’s not the point. The point is, if you want popcorn for breakfast, and you only make it on the stove, make sure you get dressed BEFORE introducing hot oils to your nearby crotch-level surroundings.

We almost had another Fried Egg Incident of ’04 on our hands. Thank god I tucked.

Food Poisoning? (Part 1?)

2010-04-13T09:12:00.004-05:00

Last night, Kelly and I went to Field of Greens for dinner. Actually, we got Field of Greens to go. Mimi (the pooch) had been in the crate all day, and I knew I’d just get so worried about her while I was actually sitting and eating in an actual restaurant that I’d make myself sick.

Well, I guess that initial worrying about the worrying was enough to do it. Or, it was the food. Shortly after devouring my soup and sandwich combo, I began to feel sort of sick. Which quickly escalated to a medium-grade terribleness.

I propose we put on our detective hats, consider the facts, and find out together whether I was poisoned. Food poisoned. (Food poisoning? That’s about the EASIEST way to poison someone. But I’m glad I wasn’t stricken with something more inventive. Like, ugh, tampon poisoning. Wait, that exists. THIS WORLD IS GROSS.)

OK, the facts. Sort of.

Kelly got the vegan bbq sandwich with french fries, and I got my semi-new favorite: Wild Field Pockets (or WYLD FIELD POCKYTS, if you like your pita sandwiches with a little more Bill and Ted flair. I do, personally, but I order it on the side.)

I know, you’re thinking—“A Wild Field Pocket. What is that?” My first guess was the vag of a dirty farming woman. While eating one of those may or may not make me sick, the Wild Field Pocket that actually may or may not have made me sick was a whole wheat pita filled with ham and chicken (both soy), shitake mushrooms, crispy tofu, tomato, guacamole, garlic sauce and sprouts.

Now, you’re thinking—“Wait. You’ve eaten that before and you didn’t get sick?” Precisely. This sandwich sounds strange, but is strangely awesome. I don’t usually eat at Field of Greens because it’s expensive and most of the food is based around soy meat products. While I try to keep these foods to a minimum in my diet (since, let’s face it, they’re still processed foods), I really REALLY appreciate them every once in a while.

OK, facts:
*I ate the vegetable barley soup
*I ate a Wild Field Pocket
*I asked for the Wild Field Pockets to be made vegan (in case you’re thinking some mayo slipped in. I doubt it.)
*Kelly didn’t get sick (this is important, because I ate some of his fries. I know, I know, how girly of me to order soup and then snag the boyfriend’s fries. Well, I always eat some of his fries—even when I order my own. It’s not as much a girly thing as it is a bitch gets hungry and bitch love fries thing. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go watch a Lifetime movie while doing Pilates/kegel exercises.)

And one more fact, a fact I have concealed from you, but hinted at for what seems like CENTURIES now. Wild Field Pockets. Wild Field PocketS. That’s right—there were two. One destined for my horrible bowels, one destined for the garbage. Or was it?

Any person in their right mind would have disposed of the second sandwich, assuming it would land them in the same painful position they had been in some mere hours before. But I am not that person.

What can I say? They’re delicious. So, I guess we didn’t need to be detectives after all. If the Wild Field Pocket did it, I’ll let you know in “Food Poisoning? (Part 2).”

Facts:
*I am a nasty bitch.

How to not become a fat hairy loser

2010-04-05T23:03:00.006-05:00

1. Do not get a Super Nintendo Emulator.
My cousin, who is exactly 18 days older than me, is making plans to buy a townhome. I, on the other hand, spend my days making plans to defeat simulated monsters. Why? Iunno. BEATS DOIN’ STUFF. At least I’m not out getting into trouble, Mom. Also, let's try a little less naggy, a little more cookies. Speaking of which…

2. If you must eat cookies/ice cream/potato chips, use a plate/bowl/napkin.
This is one of those food rules that I know but always ignore. Why? CUZ FOOD RULEZ! (Oh. Man.) Here’s the deal: You’re supposed to put a reasonable amount of whatever nutritionally questionable item you’re craving in a reasonably sized serving dish. That’s it. It’s an extra step, I know, but it will save you calories, money, and in many cases, embarrassment. Of course, I prefer to just bring face to bag/carton/container. Like a feedbag. That’s not disgusting, right? At least it helps me avoid that problem I have where I get too excited about what I’m eating and I start missing my mouth-hole. I try not to think of it as a socially crippling handicap, but more as a special talent.

3. If you don’t drink soda, don’t start.
It’s bad for you. There’s nothing good about it. It’s like a sweet, syrupy addiction cobra, coiled and ready to pop out at you whenever salty foods are present. And if you consider my potato chip/french fry/popcorn addiction, that my friend, is one dangerous snake. It’s been almost 24 hours since I had my last fix. The only thing pulling me through is the thought of a better life. That, and all this heroin.

4. Get your hair cut professionally.
My DIY haircuts don’t look bad. Well, the boyfriend might tell you otherwise, but I’m fine with them. It’s all those tiny hair remnants all over the sink, the floor and my poor, poor body that are the problem. If you’ve never experienced the horrible irritation of tiny hairs under your bra straps all day, I pray you never do. It actually makes me a bad person. Seriously. I’m pretty sure itchiness is the real root of all evil. These hairs make me want to get married just so I can beat my wife. Instead, I suppress my urges for spousal abuse and go with the lazier/more realistic approach: Naked emulator time.

More like Pervco

2010-03-12T12:00:00.002-06:00

Every time I go into that Petco off of Shepherd, there is always some smarmy raver burnout trying to hustle my treats. And I’m not talking about the same person, either. There is always one of them. Maybe it’s a job requirement. “Clean aquariums. Check. Feed hamsters. Check. Hassle woman trying to buy doggie chew toys while stealing brief glimpses at her crotch. Check.”

I went in a couple days ago with the new pooch, Mimi. The store was relatively empty. NOTE—Though it’s quiet and relaxed, this is when you need to be most on guard. The lecher will feel free to harass you from aisle to aisle. First you’re thinking, “I can’t make an informed decision about tennis balls when I’m trying to pretend I’m listening to the shit coming out of this guy’s mouth while simultaneously covering all my lady parts with my arms, purse, sweater, etc.” Then it really sinks in that no one else is there. And then you start picturing the worst-case scenario. “It’s my word against yours, lady. Unless your dog is gonna start talking any time soon.” And unfortunately, this isn’t a Busch’s Baked Beans commercial. This is your life. He’ll simply wipe away the DNA and go back to feeding guinea pigs.

So, you can imagine how shocked I was when my trip the other day was actually pleasant. I browsed the leashes and toys for about a half hour without being bothered once. And as I approached the register, it was nice to see another woman in line. She was tall, blonde, slim and pretty. I’m not going to be rude about it, but let’s just say the man at the register was about as opposite from her as you could get. (Normally, there would be no point in bringing that up—it makes me sound like a nasty bitch. But I’m setting a scene here.) Then I stumbled upon the end of this amazing conversation:

Woman: Yeah, I get Cameron Diaz a lot.
Hobbit: (incoherent mumbling)
Woman: OK, thanks. (lifting 50 lb. bag of dog food)
Hobbit: You need any help, or you just gonna huff it?
Woman: I got it.

He was either too discouraged by the Amazonian newscaster-type who preceded me, or he’s not into girls who look like 7 year-old boys from the early ‘80s. The bottom line is, he didn’t even lay an eye on me. Not one wandering eye.

And the icing on my cake? On the way home, my fecally challenged canine decided to let loose right next to the Arby’s drive-thru sign. Just in time for the lunch rush.

It was a very good day.

Dreams are for masochists. Hungry masochists.

2010-03-01T14:16:00.010-06:00

The last thing an AeroGarden sees.

A couple of months ago, I had this great idea to start a window garden. I was really serious about this. I could picture it—fresh herbs for all of my delicious vegan creations, plus the knowledge that I could keep plants alive. I found myself compulsively searching for cute planters and researching the best lighting for my future babies/edibles. Luckily, I was inadvertently shaken from my hippie frenzy by my sister, Sarah, who gave me an AeroGarden for Christmas.

Oh, have you not been acquainted? According to the website, AeroGarden is “a revolutionary indoor garden appliance, self-contained, automatic and 100% success guaranteed.” Despite the sentence fragment, I knew a challenge when I read one. That’s right, I figured, “This shit too good to be true. I drunk. I kill things. Make me wife I love you good.” OK, I didn’t really think that. I just sorta said it. To a stranger. Look, the point is I’m not good at keeping plants alive, because it’s hard enough just waking up in the morning and making your bed and brushing your teeth and who remembers to put on deodorant every single day? I’ll let the smell answer this one.

I’ve been using the AeroGarden since the beginning of January. I wish I had batteries in my camera to show you the results. I’ll put it this way—I just named my little gizmo by taking an online quiz entitled “Which colossal death robot are you?” and answering all the questions with “it” in mind. The results: Bender. And, by the looks of my plants, you’d think I put beer in Bender. But no, sadly, that’s solely the work of filtered water, “nutrient tablets” and a suspected slight retardation.

Any other woman would either call it quits or start over again. But me? I still have Bender up there on the fridge, right where he’s always been, little shriveled herb pods in place. Why?

a) It conserves space. I can’t have some little death trinket crowding my counter. That’s where I keep other, useful devices that slowly kill things (see ME).
b) It gives my constant rotation of Santitas tortilla chips company.
c) It proudly showcases the fact that I can’t even grow plants in a fucking “100% success guaranteed” plant nursing robot.

What I’m trying to say is, if you want pesto, bring your own goddamn basil. Better yet, bring your own goddamn pesto. This story made me angry.

NOTE: Sarah, it was a very thoughtful gift. But I can’t change what I am—a monster.

Your opinion is wrong

2010-02-11T21:34:00.002-06:00

I’m so not ashamed to admit it—I love Michael McDonald. Look at him. There’s something about that beard that says, “Come hither, Ruth. Search for candy in me like I’m a hairy piñata.”

And I guess while I’m shaking his face down, he could sing some of that blue-eyed soul straight into my face. You know, what they say—it isn't truly a song from the heart unless you can smell the McRib and bourbon on his breath.

I’m actually not familiar with much of his work. So, I went to amazon.com to learn more. While listening to the meatiest 10 seconds of each of his greatest hits, I couldn’t help but imagine the type of person who would actually rock out to Michael McDonald. I bet a lot of men have tried to lure their estranged wives back into rocky marriages with those songs.

Can you make that claim? Didn’t think so, Loggins.

It's hard being me

2010-02-09T01:28:00.002-06:00

Hello friends. Oh, did you think I was speaking to you, Reader? No, I was actually talking to this array of half-eaten junk foods scattered across my desk area. And just for the record, by “desk area” I mean that table with my computer on it that sits in my closet. That’s right, my desk is in a closet.

It’s actually a great use of space, I just thought it sounded pathetic. Because, friends and foods, I am feeling rather pathetic today.

And also, just for the record, the junk foods aren’t half-eaten. In fact, they aren’t even foods. It’s just packaging now. Stop hugging it, Ruth—it doesn’t have a soul anymore.

What I’m trying to say is if you really loved me you’d come brush my teeth.

Also, I’m very tired of wiping.

They get it from the media

2010-01-28T21:20:00.005-06:00

I sucked it up and finally got Netflix. If you are wondering whether it’s a good deal or not, trust me, it is. Especially if you’re like me, and you don’t have a TV but have a computer with Internet access.

Last time I went to Hollywood Video, the very sassy (and presumably very miserable) clerk embarrassed me in front of my cool friend by announcing to the entire store that I had late fees on Candyman and Crossroads. That’s the day I stopped renting movies. That’s also the day I learned that no one believes you when you say, “No, I swear it was the one with Ralph Macchio!” (If you haven’t seen it, it’s really good. Crossroads. But turn it in on time.)

Over these past few days, I’ve rediscovered how much I love documentaries. It’s funny to watch movies about real life while you ignore your own. Anyhow, I recently watched one about a burlesque dance class. In the movie, it follows a group of ten women as they attend weekly classes and slowly develop their stage characters and routines. It got me thinking about burlesque. I could do that.

And I think it would be good for me. I feel very gawky most of the time. I’m proud to be a funny girl, but let’s face it—we don’t get funny without needing to be. Somewhere along the line, I learned that when I was uncertain or uncomfortable, I could always depend on my humor. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve realized that I sometimes hide behind my goofiness because I’m afraid that, in some ways, I don’t quite measure up. That I don’t quite fit into the idea of what a woman should be. Something I learned about burlesque is that it embraces all kinds of women. As the instructor said in the movie, “There is no average burlesque dancer.”

I thought about developing a routine that was relevant to me as a person, something that really embodies what is Ruth. I haven’t come up with a stage name yet, but here are the particulars I’ve already worked out about my performance:
1. It must be funny.
2. It is burlesque, so I must end up in the semi-nude.
3. It has to be sexy.
4. I love to eat, so there’s got to be some food in there.

Here’s what I’m thinking so far: somehow I will slowly eat strategically placed foods off of my body (preferably something non-poached) to reveal the stunning nakedness underneath.

What I’m trying to say is, will you help me adhere potato chips to strings of pearls?

Material Ruth

2010-01-22T23:49:00.000-06:00

I have never been much of a spendthrift. And based on current trends, it seems the older I get, the more frugal I become. At a very young age, I fully embraced the notion that it’s just stuff. You’re excited about it, you buy it, you use it until you’re bored and then it only gets in the way. And that was just my first wife. (“Ruth, you’re SOOOO bad!”)

But, at the same time, it seems fun to want things. Why should I contemplate the emptiness of existence when I can attempt to define my person through uncomfortable yet stylish lady fashion? Yeah, I’m sold.
So, I’ve been working up a list of shit I don’t need but can aspire to want when I realize that life is meaningless.

*New guitar-I have a guitar, and I hardly play it at all. But I was toying around with Kelly’s newest telecaster, and now I want one. Why? Because you can use the tone knob to make cat noises. I want to do that forever. I want to be the telecaster meowing specialist. That’s it. Plus, I would be that girl with the cool guitar who can’t play it at all. I think that’s hilarious. Women.

*Projector-I have been attempting to decorate my apartment since I moved in last October. The place is furnished reasonably well, but my walls are white and naked. Just like their momma. Maybe I’m afraid to contribute to the collection of nail holes left by previous tenants, or maybe I’m just afraid I have horrible taste. Either way, a projector would be perfect for my living room. And since Kelly and I spend a lot of time watching TV shows and movies, it seems like we would get plenty of use out of it. I will probably never get one of these. They are very expensive and I have school loans, a savings plan and an insatiable desire for pricey vegan candies. Sorry porno, I’ll just have to watch you at normal resolution.

*Fancy panties-Recently, I’ve been getting this urge to replace all of my underwear with fancy, pretty things. My current collection is seeming a little frumpy. I mean, don’t get me wrong, they don’t go up to my chin or anything. They’re just underwear. Plain, cotton, non-yeast inducing underwear.

But, I really should spruce up my stock of underthings. First off, let’s face it, I’m not getting any less flabby. I’m not saying I’m fat, but I am surprisingly squishy. Kelly can attest to this. So, shouldn't I be wearing lovely things while I'm still relatively lovely?
Second, scandalous panties make you feel good. No matter what you do throughout the day, you feel the positive energy emanating from your loins region. So I say, slap on those cheeky boy shorts and do your taxes. And if you get audited, make sure you wear them then, too.
Thirdly, they just look nice. And they could be the only saving grace in a freak pantsing accident.

P.S. There is no such thing as a pantsing "accident". I will never forget.

Portfolio-in' son of a bitch

2010-01-18T16:54:00.001-06:00

I’m starting my portfolio again for the last time. It’s job o’clock, my friends. I can’t make coffee forever. Hell, I can hardly make coffee now. As always, thinking about developing a book is overwhelming, but knowing there’s a job out there for me, somewhere, keeps me motivated. Besides, the sooner I begin my career, the sooner I can grow to hate it and the sooner I can start doing standup.

That’s how it works, right?

I just need to make sure I get all of my major illnesses out of the way while I have health insurance. Though I hear standing in line for an HCHD Gold Card is a great way to make connections in the comedy biz.

Baby steps, Ruth. Baby steps.

In defense of Kelly

2010-01-10T01:09:00.001-06:00

Those levers are just very sensitive. I have what many (yes, many) would consider a gentle touch. Still, somehow, I ended up with $10 worth of chocolate covered almonds. This is serious. They’re playing with people’s lives and asses.
LIVES AND ASSES.
I keep thinking I should write a letter or something, but then I get distracted by candy.

Either way, just to set the record straight, it wasn’t Kelly’s fault.

P.S. Thank god Christmas is over.

Seriously

2010-01-04T11:40:00.001-06:00

I farted myself awake last night.

This never would've happened in 2009.

Does a body good

2009-12-28T10:12:00.000-06:00

I’m feeling much better now. There’s still weird stuff pouring out of my face, but at least it hurts less to be alive.
My recent health improvement has inspired a burst of productivity, which will undoubtedly make me sick again. But today, I shall bask in the glory of all the things I’ve done. Let’s talk about it.

*Laundry—One time, I thought someone had hidden a fully loaded hot dog with extra onions somewhere in my room. I searched for it everywhere—even the air ducts. But like all great stories, in the end I realized that what I’d been searching for had been right in front of me all along. And by that, I mean it was me. I smelled like a rotting hot dog. The moral of this story is mostly that you should bathe regularly. But the other moral is that once you bathe, you need clean clothes to wear. And that, my friends, is why you have to do laundry.

*Bank—I can’t think of anyone who loves a fat roll of cash more than I do. Oh wait, no, there is someone else. Thieves. So I go to the bank and put my cash in there so it’s safe in the internet. That’s where I see all the numbers I made with my energy and work. I am accruing interest in the form of lollipops. Or those are just free at the bank. Either way, don’t lick your computer, crazy!

*Oil change—Sure, it’s nice to have dates in your car. But once it’s over, and you’re both experiencing those awkward shame feelings, you want to be able to crack the windows, get a breeze going and take your prince or princess to the nearest Whataburger for some big-ass milkshakes. And the only thing that is more powerful than your desire for cold, viscous deliciousness is oil. Or the lack thereof. That’s why you’ve gotta get the ol’ engine filled up and checked out every once in a while. Which I did today. And if you’re wondering, yes, I just asked you out.

That (She) was (is) so sick, dude!

2009-12-21T01:02:00.000-06:00

You don’t let a musician spit in your mouth for a year and a half without catching something. I learned that today. Well, technically I’m still learning that. I know, because my tonsils are about to pop out of my skin and it hurts to type this.
And it never hurt before, doctor.

Went to a lovely chicken nugget party last night to celebrate the birth of one Mr. P, hosted by the be-sequined Ms. W. Yes, that’s what I said, a chicken nugget party. The “WHAT:” portion of the invitation read:
“A celebration of the perfect food. Bring your choice of sauces and nuggets.”
And believe me, they were brought.
I had a good time, despite the initial dread feelings I experienced upon discovering my new bosses in Ms. W's kitchen. I’m pretty sure only one of them is really my boss, but seriously, they own me. All of them.
Anyway, I did what any strong, independent, career-minded woman would do: I put myself DOWN! Can I get an amen, sisters? I think I said something along the lines of, “Wow, you get to see how awkward I am at work AND in a social setting!”
I later proved this by allowing my ex-boyfriend’s girlfriend to put a temporary tattoo on my face—in the mustache region. But it ended up looking bitchin', so I didn't worry about it.
Of all the responses to the tattoo, my favorite belonged to Matt. He simply said, "You look like Raúl Juliá." And you know what you do when someone says that? You fuckin' say thank you and continue being a bad ass.

I have no problem being honest about my weirdness. Why lie about social anxiety? It’s going to reveal itself in one way or another. Unfortunately for me, mine rears its ugly head in the form of rashes. I literally get so nervous sometimes that I GET RASHES. Chest rashes. That is about the creepiest place on the top half of your body you can get a rash.

In the future, I’d like to control it with mediation and weekly acupuncture. In the mean time, crew neck t-shirts are my uniform.

Rough night

2009-12-17T01:34:00.000-06:00

Why can’t life be easy? Why can’t people be simple? Why can’t everyone just be racially ambiguous and come out of a gold bag and wear adorable hats all the time?

Because I guess they just can’t. And people eventually grow up, take their hats off and, if they look closely enough, realize that all this time they had been sleeping on a dog blanket on the kitchen floor. (Seriously, what's going on there?)

Don’t feel bad, little one. We’ve all been distracted by gold before.

Fuck Teeth

2009-12-15T00:24:00.000-06:00

Kelly makes it rain.

Whenever I have a hankering for candy, I usually buy it in small amounts from the bulk foods section at Kroger’s. It allows me to sample the wares and, since there’s only a little stash, the practice helps me to nibble instead of chomp. Well, last night, Kelly happened to be with me and decided to assist in bagging my selections. This meant I held the plastic bag at the bottom of the dispenser and Kelly operated the lever. I was a little nervous about giving him the reigns over how much candy I would be buying, but I decided to trust his gauge of my confectionary needs. Also, he hates supermarkets for the most part, so it’s hard for me to discourage him when he wants to explore the joys of grocery shopping.

It only cost me $22.47.

Yes, I should’ve stopped the nonsense after the $12 worth of dark chocolate covered almonds. But I really wanted some of those glazed pecans. Just not all of them.
Who am I kidding? Of course I wanted all of them. And now most of them are inside me.

I need to go brush my teeth. With a toothbrush. Not with mashed up candy on a series of q-tips. I’m an adult?

I'll have two falafels and a side of DAT ASS:Part 1

2009-12-09T19:01:00.000-06:00

Look, I don’t really have a thing for Jeff Buckley, but I can see how some people might. Sure he’s all brooding and dreamy and perpetually youthful (on account of the death at 30), but he’s just not my cup of man-tea. But you know what I’ll take two cups of, please? Falafels. So, what do these two seemingly unrelated subjects have to do with one another? Everything.

A friend of mine, who we’ll just call Nasti Cakes*, is one of those very people who took a shining to ol’ Mr. Buckley. As a result, she never fails to point out men with that certain “Buckley air” about them. Recently, Nasti has made some pretty serious claims about a Jeff-esque stud manning the counter at the Falafel Factory downtown. Despite my neutral to lukewarm feelings about J.B., I’ve never been to the Falafel Factory and have wanted to try it out.

With the lure of greasy chickpea goodness and at least one alleged sweet ass, I’ve made it my mission to uncover the truth.

Ms. Cakes and I were supposed to go today, but I picked up a shift at work instead. While Brasil does serve falafels and it does have a steady flow of good-looking men throughout the day, it’s just not the same. This isn’t about just any falafel and it isn’t about just any man. It’s about a hard working factory man—a Falafel Factory man, to be exact—blessed and cursed by the glorious face of a doomed songsmith.

Alls I know’s he better make my food good.

Will the grub be scrumptious? Will the man-meat make my tahini tingle, or will he leave my sandwich dry as a desert?
Find out in Part 2.

*Nasti’s true identity has been concealed because she does, in fact, have a boyfriend. And let’s face it—nobody wants to find out their girlfriend is in love with a dead guy. Especially not over the internet.

How I disappeared and other updates

2009-12-04T01:34:00.000-06:00

I have done nothing over the past week. I finished training in at Brasil last Friday and I worked my first official shift this past Wednesday evening. It was actually a lot of fun. I think I work better at night. Maybe it’s the vibe. Or perhaps the unnatural lighting is more effective at concealing my pit stains. It’s a toss up, really.

I feel like I haven’t written in such a long time. I mean, I feel like I haven’t written anything in a long time. You know why? The one and only season of My So-Called Life is on hulu. Nineteen forty-minute blocks of sexy teen-angst, coming straight through my computer, directly from heaven. Or wherever Jordan Catalano ended up.

One season, and then it was done. Like a flash of charmingly greasy, flannelled lightning. What a great show. But the truth is that it would’ve ended up sucking if it hadn’t been cancelled. I know, because Jordan just started caring way too much toward the end of the series, which didn’t fit with his character at all. It seemed a little forced, which made me seem a little baffled and disappointed. Because I was. Look, I know that a show’s success or failure shouldn’t be completely based around my ability to reach climax when fantasizing about a specific character, but still, I started going limp around episode 15. And seriously, I can sense when the lines are short at the bank with this thing.

Also, based on history, Claire Danes would’ve ended up leaving to do movies. I guess I could’ve brought that up sooner, but I didn’t think you wanted to go the obvious route. Lame.

Let me tell you about Thanksgiving. It went surprisingly well. Please believe me, there were many ways this night could have gone terribly awry. How? OK, let’s start with the obvious, since you apparently love that. My grandmother and grandfather hadn’t spoken in over three decades and last Thursday they found themselves in the same house. It went well, though. They didn’t make out, or even hold a conversation for that matter, but it made me wonder why they hadn’t done this sooner. I’d say it would’ve made my first marriage a lot less awkward, but who am I kidding, they still hate foreigners. (That was a lie for comedic purposes. My grandparents love everyone. Everyone.)

Oh, just for the record, my mom made some of the most delicious foods I’ve had in a long time. You should be jealous. You’re probably just too sick of Thanksgiving leftovers to realize it.

The internet is distracting

2009-11-26T03:21:00.001-06:00

Yesterday, I spent a shamefully long amount of time searching for "gluteal implants" on google images. Why? I don't know. It's not important. What is important is that I learned something about cosmetic surgery websites: nudity is fine, nay expected. Also, your nude images don't need to pertain to an actual procedure. Take this little photo, for instance:

What does this tell me about gluteal implants? For one thing, the little sweetie attached to this rump is probably a model, not a patient. Also, why the different picture sizes? Is it so you can see what your sweet ass would look like up close and far away?

I need to get this post off of my screen or I'll never get anything done.

Wait. I get free coffee AND money? Look out, 'cause someone's about to get kissed.

2009-11-23T18:30:00.000-06:00

I opened up shop with Jo, which was really nice. There’s something about getting up before dawn that can either make you want to rip someone’s ears off or draw you closer to them. Thankfully, the latter was true. I need these crazy things to hear. And to justify annual mad spending sprees at Claire’s Accessories.

Didn’t start crumbling from lack of sleep until after I got home, which is always nice. Slept for about four hours, but decided I should get up and start moving around so I’ll sleep tonight.

Because it all starts again tomorrow.

Off to the drug store now. Finally getting some dye to rid myself of these awful blonde remnants. Sure, the blonde did soften my features a little bit, but now it’s grown out and it’s been chopped a couple of times and I don’t know…my tips are looking a little frosted. I’d rather look severe than severely stupid.

Forecast for start at new job: slightly sluggish

2009-11-23T02:18:00.000-06:00

Foods ingested in attempt to sedate self:

*soup

*chocolate covered almonds

*popcorn

*more popcorn

*cereal with soymilk

*popcorn (in bed. That’s fucking serious.)

Media consumed in attempt to sedate self:

*3/4 of movie 10 Things I Hate About You (see previous post)

*3/4 of This American Life episode #115: First Day (this was not a good idea. I have a lot of anxiety, so the best strategy would’ve been to listen to something that, well, had nothing to do with the first day of anything. Ruth, you really are a dumb, nasty bitch.)

*entire episode of Mad Men (“New Amsterdam,” season 1)

*1 ½ chapters from The Crimson Petal and the White (thanks again for the early Christmas gift, Julai. You live in a magical, sexy snow globe. Thanks for letting me join you today.)

Sleep time:

*0 units

Ruth, are you 15?

2009-11-22T19:30:00.000-06:00

Today, I planned on walking around Montrose for hours. I didn’t want to go any place in particular, just wanted to enjoy the weather and get a little exercise. Unfortunately, walking around Montrose for hours is one of those things people plan to do, but rarely act on. Instead, I cut my hair, cleaned the house, ate cereal and watched hulu. It wasn’t as dull as it sounds, though. Actually, somewhere between the first and third episodes of Community, I fell madly in love with Joel McHale.

Don’t get me wrong, he’s a good-looking man, and I’ve always had a low-grade boner for him. But I think the romantic storyline made me see him differently. AND he took his shirt off and he’s kinda hot with TWO Ts (HOTT). I’m no doctor, but my conclusion is that surprising hotness is more effective than expected hotness. Which is good for me because, you know, I look like a young boy.

When you fall in love in real life you get tunnel vision. You don’t think about anyone else. The one you’re rubbing on now is the one you’ll rub on forever. But since I just fell in love with a celebrity, it made me think about my other star hubbies. It made me think about my first: Heath.

10 Things I Hate About You. Really, Ruth? Yes. But did you see his hair? Yes, yes, YES! I don’t care if his hair was stringy-curly and his face looked kinda crazy at times, he was Australian and great and he looked tall AND he sang that song to her on the soccer field.

Speaking of songs, I wrote one for him. Yes, I actually wrote a song for him. There were a lot of inside jokes to it, so let me explain. In order to meet and fall in love with Heath, I had the idea that I would become a famous celebrity photographer. I had the shoot all planned out, too. It would just be him, in boxer briefs, drinking milk out of a carton. Yeah.

Then I thought, “Ruth, what are the odds of you actually becoming a celebrity photographer?” So I devised something only slightly creepier. My plan was to find out where he lived (creepy), buy a cat (creepy), go to his house (creepy), throw the cat at his door with enough force to make sure it was immobilized (creepy), then wait by the phone as he would no doubt find the near-dead cat and call the telephone number clearly written on the cat’s collar. I never thought of naming the cat, but now I think I would have called him “Cupid.” You know, if he survived.

It was pretty much fail-safe, unless Heath was allergic to cats. Or just a bad person, which I considered as a possibility. But this scenario required me to launch a living creature at a door, so I don’t think I was too worried about morality.

AlsohewasonthecoverofVanityFairandhispantswerereallylowandyoucouldtotallyseehispubes! Here’s the song:

“Aussie Guy”

Boxer briefs, drinking from the milk jug, rowr

I think I could look at your picture for an hour

Right now you’re 21, and probably pretty wild

But, I’ve designated you to be the father of my child

Chorus:

Aussie guy

I don’t care if you get fat

Aussie guy

I hope you’re not allergic to my cat

Aussie guy

I’ll just have to wait

Aussie guy

You’re my perfect mate

Mom thinks you’re nasty

But I don’t care

Even if I can see your pubic hair

And I hope you like a girl

With moderate-sized thighs

Who can help you get used to the toilets

Flushing counter-clockwise

(Chorus)

So, Joel, now you know. I have a past. Oh, and a boyfriend.

Say, do you like polenta?

So I got myself a job

2009-11-19T11:01:00.000-06:00

Well, let's be clear about this. It's a café job. But still, it's a job. And it's within walking distance. Some people might even say it's the perfect little gig to have while finishing a portfolio. Some people hope those people aren't idiots.

What if all I really want out of life is a good position at a nice café? Does that mean I should strive to own a café? Or does it mean I can sling coffee for the rest of my life and be happy? I just don't know. The service industry is not a job for the aged. It can be done, but I'd rather avoid it if possible.

Robin says I have a shelf life. Well, not just me, all creatives. I know he's right, but you could say the same about any job. Sure, there's something different about advertising--you get to a certain point and the gap is just too wide to connect with specific audiences. But there's always something lurking, waiting to cut you off at the knees. The only difference is that it's usually bitterness, apathy or my enemy (see Human Baby).

He's right, though. Unlike the possibility of becoming callous, uncaring or disgustingly fertile, losing your voice in this field seems like more of an inevitability.

I learned a lot from our guest, mostly thanks to Diego for thinking of some great questions to ask that, surprisingly, involved neither penises nor diarrhea. But what did I really take away from Robin's visit? In my mind, and I think he would approve of this, the best way for me to stay relevant in the biz would be to continue dating very young girls.

Job interview in less than 30 minutes

2009-11-19T09:35:00.001-06:00

And there's a man in my bed.

Laundry day

2009-11-18T15:38:00.000-06:00

I don’t understand why girls get all cranky about getting their periods. Sure, it’s a little unpleasant at times. But you know what’s more unpleasant? Breastfeeding.

I’m facing a lot of uncertainties right now, but there is one thing I’m sure of: babies mean the death of career opportunities. And not even multiple babies—you could have just one and it could ruin you. At this point in my life, I’m not going to be engaging in any activities that involve stretching and tearing unless they help me get a job. (Seriously. Call me.)

Speaking of boogery slop, I made polenta today for the first time. My mom’s is better of course, but it wasn’t bad for a first try. Kelly (the boyfriend) tried some, so I know it wasn’t toxic, but he didn’t have a lot, so I know it wasn’t stellar. That’s OK. I see some polenta perfecting in the future.

Since this is a blog, it should probably have a theme. And these little entries should talk about more than just my thoughts on glorified blood clots and the best way to prepare congealed cornmeal.

I’m working on it.

So I got myself a blog

2009-11-18T00:07:00.000-06:00

I guess that implies that I have something to say. Maybe I do. I’ll start with my current situation. I’m a 25 year-old recent advertising graduate who just moved out of her grandmother’s house into her first apartment. Unemployed, of course. I enjoy composting, sewing crap that no one can use and imagining that the snoring I hear through the walls is actually sex-related grunting. It isn’t.

I’m taking a portfolio class right now. Instead of working on this blog, I should be working on spec ads for my book. But if I’m going to procrastinate, at least I’m writing.

This is my second round with Matts Portfolio Class. I’ve learned a lot about executing ads, layout, using the Adobe Creative Suite, but it has left me with more questions than answers. I know I’m creative, and I know I’m relatively intelligent, but is it possible that copywriting just isn't for me? (At first I wrote, "...but is copywriting right for me?" but I had to change it because it was way too Carrie Bradshaw. I'm ashamed to know that, but for the record, they had a very successful product placement storyline for Absolut Vodka in that show. That's the thing. Women don't care about each other. They just want to talk about dicks and drink vodka. Trust me, you don't have to be a fabulous New York girlfriend to get the brunt of this. You could just be, say, someone's daughter...)

I need a good dose of brilliance. And if I can’t find it here in advertising, then I’ll just have to find it somewhere else. Don’t worry, Grannie, there’s no brilliance in street-walking. Just gonorrhea.