Have you ever watched those infomercials?

You know the ones that are trying to sell you the bigger and better version of something you have been doing simply your whole life?

 

Like, remember when that spaghetti pot came out?

The one with the lid that has holes in it and clamps to the pot, so you can drain your spaghetti with no muss and no fuss?

 

There’s an ad out now that features some plexi-glass box type thing with a blade on the top of it. You apparently slam the lid down on whatever you want to chop and/or dice and there you have it! A plexi-glass box full of chopped whatever!

 

Have you ever noticed in these commercials that whenever they show someone doing things the old way, they always show some mentally deficient reject chopping off her own finger or spilling boiling hot water all over herself?

 

All of a sudden, cutting your own potatoes is “dangerous”, and draining your own spaghetti is probably the most hazardous thing you could do in your home, because you are a retard and you need this new product to help you.

 

I often think that if I looked like that lady on the commercial, if I was so physically impeded that I could not cut a potato without having to call 911, I may actually consider purchasing these products.

As it is, I think the old fashioned way is just fine.

 

I guess the people who invented these contraptions need to make some money off their idea, but in reality they probably already sold out for a free pen and a mouse pad or something. Whatever company picked up Pee Wee’s Breakfast Machine now wants to sell it to every TV watching zombie moron out there with a credit card.

 

Everyone already knows my policy on TV.

I don’t watch it.

 

Once in a while I get trapped into staring at this piece of equipment, like in the cafeteria at work. For some reason, someone decided that they needed a TV in every corner of this room. No matter which way I turn my head I wind up staring at it, as hard as I try not to. It’s hypnotic, damn it!

(That is why I don’t watch it!)

 

I guess I’m weird.

I don’t have any kind of passion for the latest devices.

I have a cell phone and I DO have a brand new computer (Thanks to my mom and her man!), but I don’t have a digital camera or an Ipod or a spaghetti pot that drains itself or a fancy potato cutting box …

 

I have a professor who tells us to ask ourselves, when writing a paper, “What does this contribute to knowledge?”

 

Well, I can’t help asking what these THINGS contribute to life.

If, indeed, we are all as uncoordinated as the women they portray in these commercials (…and I can’t help but wonder what actress would reduce herself to such a role…) I guess these things would be wonderful and life saving …

 

But if we were all that bad I don’t think our species ever would have evolved to where we are.

 

I dunno --- circular thinking, I guess.

 

Ok – I have to go risk my life draining some ziti.

 

 

You know that phrase “Step on a crack, Break your mother’s back”?

That phrase has been haunting my existence since childhood.

 

Here’s the thing: I never step on cracks.

I mean, I try not to be a weirdo about it, but I really make a conscious effort to not step on them.

People walking with me wouldn’t know that I am doing it, but I know.

Cobblestones can cause a near panic attack, if I let them.

 

Then I start to wonder, what about all the times I was not paying attention, or I was, say, engrossed in a conversation while walking?

At those times, I could potentially be standing right on a crack. My poor mother might be writhing on a floor somewhere in agony because of my poor timing and foot placement.

 

And the funny thing about it all is that my mother actually has back issues.

I can’t help but feel a little guilty about that.

 

I’ve gone about seeking the origins of this phrase, by the way, and have found many different stories. None of them are worth posting.

 

Feel free to do independent research.

 

In other news:

 

It has been the strangest December that I can remember (hey, that rhymes).

New England is a crazy place.

 

In one week we had a sunny 70 degree day on Monday, Tuesday it was in the 30’s and it snowed, Wednesday was in the 60’s, Thursday was 19 degrees with a windchill of about 2, Friday was in the 20’s, and Saturday was in the 50’s.

 

I can’t take it anymore.

I feel schizophrenic.

 

Jacket, Sweatshirt, Tank Top, Winter coat, Jacket, Tank Top, Sweatshirt, Jacket, Winter coat …

Should I wear a scarf?

Where are my gloves?

Oh – I don’t need gloves? Do I need a sweater?

How bout a shirt?

Should I wear pants today?

Anyone?

Help me?

 

On that day when it was 19 degrees out, I saw all the bums suddenly appear at the tables in South Station. It got me thinking, it must suck to be a bum in New England.

 

If I was a bum, I would try to organize the bums into a yearly migration.

 

I bet bums aren’t easily organized, though. I suppose if they were more ambitious than they are, they wouldn’t be bums.

 

“Gumption” is not a word normally associated with the guy standing at a train station with a pathetic handmade sign and a cup half full of change.

 

I think the bums should form some kind of traveling group, and head south for the winter.

I mean, it’s just ridiculous here.

I honestly don’t understand why anyone who finds themselves homeless would stay here.

The minute I was completely destitute beyond redemption, I would start walking my ass to a warmer climate.

May as well be a bum with a sun tan.

 

We’d be able to predict climate changes based on their behavior.

You could glance out the car window at the traveling bum brigade and say, “The bums are heading south early this year. Gonna be a cold winter, Ayah.”

 

“The bums are travelin’ fast. Looks like a Nor’Easter’s a-comin’.”

 

“The bums migrate in a V. That one’s their leader.”

 

“That bum’s stepping on a crack …”

 

You know …

 

I don't know if you know this, but if you use the word "I" in a college English paper, it is mandatory that the professor cut off your hands and kick you in the stomach.

Do you have any idea how difficult that is for me, the constant blogger?
Using "one" or "we" just doesn't feel the same.
I love to project myself right in there and babble about what I think and feel, as if the reader really gives a shit.

I realized today that I am just not cut out to be a scholar, what with all that tedious research and monotonous translating and so on and what not. A professor of mine was talking about that stuff today, and I got exhausted just listening to him. All I could think was, “BORING!”

I also don't like removing myself from the writing as if I had nothing to do with it. I feel that everything I do needs an injection of Anchra into it.

It just makes everything so much more fun.

That whole scholastic life is for behind-the-scenes chumps.
It seems that no one would appreciate a particularly biting sarcastic retort in such a life, or a really well timed "F*ck off" remark.

My personality would go completely unappreciated.

I don't think Grad school is for me.
Up until now I had been tossing the idea around, but I think I finally realized that it may be a waste of my time.
What am I going to do?
Teach?
Ha!
I'd end up smacking those little bastards around and getting sued and fired or something. I have no tolerance for crap.

Besides, I don't know if you know this, but I have a horrible fear of public speaking.
Did you know that more people list public speaking as their number one fear than list death?

For me, it is just a big, sweaty, stammering nightmare.

I don't think it is something I would like to do every single day of my life by way of making it a career.
I'm all for tackling your fears, sure!

I’ve tackled that fear, and found that it still makes me want to cry like an overweight thirteen year old girl, and then sucker punch someone out of frustration and fear.

No.
I don't think teaching is for me, as much as I love to impart my wisdom upon anyone who will listen and foist my views on anyone lucky enough to sit still for 15 minutes in my presence.

I think possibly writing silly shit and posting it online for the world to see may be more my style.

I wonder if some day I might find a useful outlet for my sarcasm and ranty tendencies. I really do think it is my forte.

I’m open to suggestions.

 

Have you ever coughed so hard that it made you throw up?

 

I once had a friend who laughed so hard that he projectile vomited his Chicken Alfredo all over TGIF’s parking lot … but that’s a story for a different day.

 

People keep wondering where I’ve been and why I have not posted a blog entry since early November.

Well, I’m not going to go into all the gory details …

Ok, scratch that.

I am.

 

It all started with a stomach bug. I don’t know exactly what happened with that one. I keep calling it a ‘flu’, but it really happened so all of a sudden it was like someone had laced my food with some sort of poison.

Some sort of terrible, terrible poison.

Maybe I had a touch of the Salmonella. Who the hell knows! But it was awful.

So, that kept me out of commission for about a week. It took just about two weeks for me to recover from that completely, at which point, feeling well enough to have some fun, I went away for the weekend with The Girls.

 

Come Monday morning I had the laryngitis.

I think it may have been a combination of things that caused that particular malady. I think it may have been the excessive smoking and ridiculous non-stop laughing. Not to mention the Train Wreck Drunk night we all participated in during which I lost a contact and an earring, among other things.

 

I must note that none of the other girls suffered the laryngitis.

Just me.

 

I literally could not speak a word.

I kept telling them on Sunday, “You have to stop being funny. I can’t laugh anymore. My throat is red raw and bleeding.”

Did they stop?

No.

No they didn’t.

 

I wasn’t even aware that I could not speak until I picked up the phone to call J on Monday. It was then that we both realized that I was not joking about my throat being red, raw and bleeding.

 

I wasn’t sick, mind you; I just could not speak a word.

Trying to get an entire sentence out was exhausting.

“Hi. How are you?” Was cause for an immediate nap.

 

Tuesday I called my boss to try to warn her about my situation.

I work at a call center, after all.

She told me to come in anyway.

She told me I could do paper work.

 

I then ended up on the phones for over an hour.

It was absolutely ludicrous.

I actually felt bad for the people calling in.

 

By the time I got my voice back, the laryngitis had turned into a dry hacking cough which escalated to a full blown cold that eventually turned into ‘bronchitis’.

 

I went around for about 2 weeks hacking and coughing and wheezing.

It was when I coughed so hard that I threw up in the sink, that I realized that I may have to seek medical help.

 

The last time I coughed so hard that it made me throw up I was lying in a bed, naked and vulnerable, and I unexpectedly threw up in my hands.

Pleasant.

 

I may be a procrastinating idiot, but I do learn from experience.

I hate taking drugs of any kind, but there are situations that necessitate medical intervention.

I'm no Christian Scientist. Bring on the meds!

 

By the time I got myself to a doctor I was a mess. I knew I was a mess. He knew I was a mess. We both knew I had pneumonia, and we both knew I needed antibiotics STAT.

(I also had a sinus infection)

 

Do you ever get annoyed at how difficult it is to procure antibiotics in this country? It’s easier to get heroin than it is to get antibiotics.

If I was hooked on the Oxy I could get it in 15 minutes.

Marijuana? Please! LESS than 15 minutes!

But antibiotics can’t be found on the street.

At least not my street.

That’s not what the pushers are pushing.

 

So I finally had a prescription in my hot little hand and I mustered the strength to get to a pharmacy and fill the thing.

 

Yay!

 

A day later I was almost fine. I felt like a human being again. I finally cleaned my house and I did all the filing at work. I finally thought to myself, ‘Hm. Maybe I should do some school work.’

 

People have been getting pissed off and impatient with me because I have only occasionally showed up for school and work over the past few weeks.

 

One of the horrors I faced was when I skipped classes on a Wednesday so I could sleep and then going in on Friday to find that I had a test in both classes that day.

Surprise surprise!

If I had any energy at all I may have had an anxiety attack.

The situation being what it was, however, I merely sighed and took the tests thinking, 'Alright already with all this.'

 

Anyway, I finally feel like I can write again and function and eat meals and go to school and do homework and maybe even go to work.

(Well, I mean, I don’t have to be sick to want to skip work. Working is for chumps.)

 

So that’s my story.

 

Fear not Blogarinos! I’m back in action!