It’s Only Tuesday And Already There’ve Been Two Ways In Which I Realize I Am Never Going To Get A Giant Phallic Monolith Named After Me.

NOTE: I started writing this post last week and then spent a week feeling all depressed and apathetic. Hence the very belated posting and the very outdated title. Sorry.

Helloooo Pageviewers! Miss me?

So, this past Sunday (which was actually the Sunday before last, see NOTE above), we watched In Time (Justin Timerberlake, Amanda Seyfried, buncha other young Hollywood types). While a very interesting concept and not a horrible film, sadly I don't feel it was done as well as it could have been. Felt too unexplained.

However, it did start an interesting conversation between me and The Limey, namely: What would you do if you had a superhero conversion, i.e., sudden unlimited time or unlimited knowledge or unlimited strength, etc.?

The Limey said that he'd want unlimited knowledge, as in the movie Limitless and if he did, he'd then use it to help solve humanity's problems.

"Really?" says I with incredulity and a couple of other big words of description.

"Well..." he started.

"A-HA!" says I, with alacrity and other possibly-incorrectly-used big words.

Then he admitted that realistically he’d probably go through a short period of time where he'd "play around with it" first. By the way, his idea of being selfish? "I'd want to win figure out how to win the Lottery and then d some good with the money, like give it to charity."

Karma butt-kisser.

I, on the other hand, had immediately decided that should that happen to me, I would first teach myself teleportation so I could go to 7-11 and get a Slurpee without having to get in the car because I really wanted a Slurpee just at that moment. Next, I would figure out the easiest (read, "laziest") way to diet and exercise.

Then of course I would totally get on the solving the humanity's problems thing, I bet. Such as how to get this neighborhood TO GET ON A GODDAMNED SCHEDULE SO THAT EVERYONE GETS THEIR FREAKING LAWNS DONE ON THE SAME DAY INSTEAD OF ON A ROTATING SCHEDULE SO THAT THERE IS ALWAYS A FUCKING LAWNMOWER AND/OR HEDGER GOING, MAKING GAWDS-AWFUL NOISE AND KICKING UP ALLERGY-INDUCING SHIT FROM 7AM TO 7PM EVERY MOTHERFUCKING SUMMER'S DAY AAAARRRRGH!!!!!!!!!!

Ahem.

You know, I'm thinking it's probably best that I don't have a superhero moment. I admit, I don't think I’m to be trusted. And I should probably also get some ear plugs and allergy pills. And also, I should get a Slurpee machine installed in my home because I am just that lazy. 


How's that for honesty?

Anyway, so the other thing was that yesterday (last Tuesday), President Obama came to town and he was actually going to be on this side of the lake. w00t. In fact they were shutting down one of the bridges from Seattle to the East Side just for the Presidential motorcade, so The Limey and I thought we'd try to find a perch somewhere to see if we could watch the motorcade cross the bridge. Figgered there'd be a lot of police escorting and a long line of cars, so even if we were a half-mile or so away, it'd still be something to see, right?

It probably would have, but as luck would have it, we were to never know. While trying to get to our decided-on vantage point—a park to one side of the floating bridge—we actually got stuck on the bridge that they were closing because they closed it off 10 minutes earlier than announced. The kicker? We were stuck on the on-ramp. SO. LAME.

We decided, what the hell, we'll go hang out at the park anyway. It was a beautiful day, finally, and the park had a pretty nice view of the bridge from there. Also turns out it's the neighborhood where all the tech richies live, e.g., Bill Gates and the like. It's also the neighborhood the POTUS was actually in for his first fundraiser. Which we discovered when we got lost trying to get home and ended up with the first part of the motorcade's police escort driving up on our tails and scaring the living crap outta me. So we pulled over to a gas station where a small group had also gathered, then immediately got blocked-in by more police. So we got out and waited with the other onlookers.

After about 100 motorcycle cops—and that’s not even an exaggeration—drove past, the main part of the motorcade passed within 10 feet of us, including the POTUS, who is hard to see in the photos I took, but whom I clearly saw because I could see his skinny arm doing that presidential wave thingy and DAMN! someone give that man a sammich STAT! With extra cheese!

Mmm…cheese.

Yes, we were THATCLOSE to the country's most powerful man! Except that I could probably break him by sitting on his femur. He really needs, like, a Jewish grandmother, a Latina mama, and an Italian aunt to cook him a meal or two.

Here's the text-exchange between my sister and myself later that night:

Me: We got lost in Hunts Point on the way home tonight and ended up seeing Obama right up close as he drove by!!  :)  (<-- Yes, I love emoticons. Breaks up the text. And they’re cute. AND I’M A GIRL.)

Sister: Awesome! Did you moon him?

Me: No way! There were literally 100 cops in the motorcade and one was parked 3 feet to my left with The Limey in between us. Didn’t need to get me arrested and him deported!

 Sister: You should have at least titty flashed him, he would have appreciated it.

Me: What’s wrong with you? If I did that, then I wouldn’t’ve been able to see him as he drove by.

 Sister: This is true, your line of sight would have been blocked.

Now that I think about it, I'm thinking that maybe she didn't believe me in the first place.

Then I thought, Tho' my logic 'tis sound, would he have appreciated it? 


     "NOBODY talks like that, even in their heads, Dork."


     "I do, Inner Imp. Ergo, So. Do. You. Take that!"


     "Augh! Curses, methinks!"


     "A-HA! I WIN!!!!!!!!!!11!!omg ponies!!!!"


     "SUCH the Dork."


Back to my rack and the POTUS. 


Anyway, while I've got fairly bodacious ta-tas, then again, the President might be an arm or leg kinda guy—to wit, Michelle Obama. WHOM I WOULD NEVER DO SOMETHING AS STUPID AS TRY TO ENTICE HER MAN 'CUZ I HAVE ZERO DOUBT SHE COULD AND WOULD SHORELY KICK MY ARSE FROM HERE TO SOUTH CENTRAL.

Then I thought, I really, really want a Slurpee.

Then I thought about all that I had thought about in the last 48 hours and came to the conclusion of that is why I’ll never be the President Of The United States. And I’m thinking the world is much better off that way. 

You’re welcome, World. You’re welcome.  //

I Am An Angry Nerd

Today is not a day for funny posts.


Today is a day for showing compassion to and support for our fellows in pain and to mourn a bewildering and inexplicable intrusion on innocence.


I guess everyday should be a day for this, so much bad happens all over the world all the time. But this hit home pretty hard. 


These victims could just as easily have been me or someone I love: I've stood in line for a midnight showing of a movie before, I really want to see this movie, I might have even dressed up for a screening in the past. In fact, seeing "The Dark Knight" is the chosen activity for my husband's and mine's date night this week and yes, we even discussed waiting in line for a midnight showing. 


Because like the victims, I am a fan and I am a sci-fi/fantasy nerd and I am proud to call myself so.


So I send my thoughts and prayers and healing wishes to the victims and their families. I pray for easement of pain and justice for all. 


And my Inner Imp and I both pray for a very small cell with a very large, very angry, comic book-loving cellmate for that sociopath. 


Because NOBODY fucks with my peeps. NOBODY. //

UPDATED: I Swear I’m Not Phoning In This Post—I REALLY Am All Dorky-Excited!! Also, Albanian Hackers Must Have Seriously Low Standards.

So, again, I was looking at my stats page because I am narcissistic and neurotic like that. The Audience page is my favorite because the one thing for which I truly love Teh Interwebs is the ability to connect with people all around the world fairly easily.


Look, you’re reading the musings of the dork whose idea of a fun time during her youth was to peruse the “Pen Pals Wanted” sections of magazines. The thought of making a friend anywhere in the world and via just my words always seemed so awesome-making!


Oh, and FYI, as a kid, I read mostly youth-oriented-type magazines. Thank gawds, or this would be a waaaaay different kinda "blog." If you know what I mean!

     “No, nobody ever knows what you mean. Dork.”

     “O.D. on cranky pills much, Inner Imp?”

     “Um, ‘dork’ was your word choice. Also, you do realize that you are talking to a fictional manifestation of yourself, right?”

     “LA-LA-LA-LA-LA-I-CAN’T-HEAR-YOU!!”

     “Yeah—dork."


I also read a lot of National Geographic, but that’s because for, like 30 years, a good friend of my Dad bought our family a yearly subscription for Christmas. I know, right? What a seriously classy gift! (Mahalo mucho, Miles!) <-- See what I did there? International alliteration. I’m so cosmopolitan. Fukkyeah! 


As it turned out, I did make one lasting pen pal, (Hi Nikki, 31 years and counting!) with a girl from Wales which seemed, like, the most exotic place ever! (Says the girl who, although her father worked for an international airlines for over 30 years and could take the family anywhere in the world for free, never traveled outside of North America until she was in HER. FREAKIN’. THIRTIES (30s). <-- BOOHISS x a google-the-number!)


So yeah, I dig the thought of connecting with people all over the world. Even if you’re just some Albanian hacker trying to get to my fortunes, that’s still kinda-sorta neato. [BWAH-HAHAHA! My fortunes. Note to Albanian hackers—it’s so NOT worth hijacking my identity, you won’t even be able to get credit for a bad joke.]


Here are the areas that Blogger tells me I have pageviewers:

Yes, I know I’ve used this picture before. But it had much less green then and green is the new—OMIGAWDS LOOKY I’M SO POPULAR!!!!!!!!!!!! Ahem.

In all honesty, I really don’t know what “Pageviews by Countries” means in terms of, well, anything significant. I just know that someone in these countries has looked my blog. Well, I think that’s what it mean. So even though this tells me someone has looked at this blog but not necessarily read it, I still feel that I should be a polite hostess and at least give you, my International Pageviewer, something to read, because I think it would be rude to assume you read English. Although chances are, you probably read at least some whilst I am pretty illiterate in everything but. Also, this is more or less where my language hospitality will likely end because sadly, English is the only language I can write in...not even well and just barely, at that. 


But for now, I would like to just say to the...

Russians: Privet!

Canadians: Hi, eh? / Bonjour, eh?

Germans: Guten tag!

United Kingdom-ians: How ya doin’, mate? (Please address disagreements on this to The Limey.)

French: Bonjour!

Irish: Dia dhuit!

Cambodians: Joom reab suor!

South Koreans: Ahnyong!

Dutch (Netherlands): Goeiendag!

And last but not least...

Americans: Hi! / Hey! / Howdy! / Yo! / Aloha! / Howzit? / Alianaiq! / iHola! / 

‘Sup bee-yotches?

Spangles courtesy of my two little nieces, a trip to the craft store, and an f-ton of sugar. I'm such a good auntie. Also, I just realized that I put the apostrophe in "ever'body" in the wrong place. Oops.

Gawds, I love Teh Interwebs.


Again, sorry, but that’s pretty much all the International-language blogging I can do. Unless I do a blog post of just foods and swear words, in which case, I could probably do about 12 other posts.


(I used to work at a language school, where I got free tuition but all I ever learned was the important stuff: foods and swear words. Oh and “Where is the beer?/Where is the toilet?” Of course. So if you ever need to pay someone to create a manual on those topics, I’m your girl. Yes, I’m talking to YOU—LONELY PLANET / FROMMER’S / FODOR’S! You should be so lucky.)


P.S. I call dibs on THAT travel guide, bizzatches! //

UPDATE the First: Just got a hit from Sweden!! So Hej, my Swedish Pageviewer! Där är öl? (I think.)

How A Slurpee Made Me Jackhole Of The Day. Damn Slurpees. They Should Be Called "Sloppees." (You're Welcome, 7-11 Marketing Peeps.)

Number Of People I've Interacted With Today (Other Than The Limey): 1


Number Of People I've Managed To Piss Off Today (Other Than The Limey): 1


So, two of us up here in the Pacific Northwest had a bad  7-11 day today: Me and the Grumpy 7-11 Clerk. 


It started out AWESOME. My local 7-11/bank actually featured a sugar-free Slurpee today -- el yay! But then it all went downhill from there, as the Grumpy 7-11 clerk -- who clearly did not share my enthusiasm for the rare, non-mango-flavored, sugar-free Slurpee -- had to be a jerkface and ruin my Slurptastic mood just because A) I accidentally gave him soggy, Slurpee-covered lottery slips, which clearly indicated that I was an evil, puppy-killing machine because now he had to input the numbers by hand and 2) I then spilled said Slurpee on his counter and stared wildly at the mess, torn between running off to find paper towels to clean it up, and leaving my spot in line thus leaving my lottery tickets -- and Slurpee -- unattended. 


You know, in my defense, I didn't even realize that the lottery slips were covered in Slurpee when I handed them to him. He didn't really say anything about them until he grumbled that he had to input the numbers manually. I offered to redo the slips, but he was all, "Why do you come here? You are an evil puppy-killing machine and I hate you!" <-- Okay, he didn't actually say these words, but he did loudly emote that at me. 


He's a mean jerkface.


Also, I wouldn't have spilled my Slurpee in the first place if I wasn't so pathetically clumsy they didn't make the straws so damn hard to open! Which is how I accidentally elbowed my Slurpee and knocked it over onto his counter. I mean, really? Why the need to hermetically seal the straws in vulcanized plastic? Just because they have spoony ends? Does this make them rare and exotic tools of civilization??

The offending Slurpee with exotic-tool-of-civilization-spoony-end. Which I sometimes find works better THE OTHER WAY. (Hear that, Mean Jerkface 7-11 Clerk?!?)

The first time I bought lottery tickets there, I promised him that if I won big, I'd get him something nice. This time, he didn't even wish me good luck, as he usually does. So that, plus today's bad attitude means I get to go back on that promise. Anyway, that promise only applied to that first time, which I did not win, thank you very nothing.


He's going to be SO sorry when I win the jackpot and the dry cleaning guys next door get, like, Ferraris from me and he gets nothing. Except more Slurpee on his counter and that time, it will be the full-sugar kind. 'Cause I am a vengeful Imp. So there.


     "Yay me!" - Inner Imp


Sigh. //

How You Know I Am A TOTAL n00B At This Blogging Thingy. And that Canadians Are Super-Nice But Sometimes, Kinda Dumb. Well, Maybe Just the Ones Who Worked For The Olympics…At Very High Altitudes.

So, I happened to look at the stats page on my blogger thingy because honestly, I had no idea that I had any stats to report—or that any stats existed to begin with—and also I was completely driven by morbid curiosity, all set to be sad that no one is reading this. (And by “no one,” I am most specifically referring to my husband. Yes, YOU, LIMEY. Bad Limey.)

Anyway, so I look and Rockabye Sweet Baby James—I had 117 views! And NOT including my own!!!

w00t! w00t!! w00t!!!

     “’w00t?’ Nerd.”

     “Shuddup, Inner Imp.”

     “…and use! a few more!! exclamation points!!! next time!!!!!!!

     “Did I say shuddup? I meant SHUT THE HELL UP. I'm putting you in a wax-sealed mason jar today. Goodbye.”

What was I saying? Oh yes, w00t.

There’s a pic of where the views are coming from, like so:

You can see how this can be confusing. Especially when viewed on a 4.5-in phone screen. Yes, that’s a large screen—for a PHONE—and yes, I was in the midst of a depressing bout of apathy and couldn’t get myself to a real computer to look this up. I admit it, I can haz pathetic.

Then I got super-de-dupity excited because I thought I had (a) view(s) from Alaska!

Eskimo w00t—FTW!

It didn’t occur to me until muuuuch later that the majority of my views, naturally, are from the USA. Which includes Alaska. Which is why it is highlighted on the map.

Quelle bummer.

Oh well, I’m still going to tell my (only) Alaskan Native story, as it really happened to me (and three of my sisters). It’s funny, because it happened in Canada. Maybe that’s not really a reason to be considered funny, but all things Canadian generally make me giggle.

So, somehow, I got to go to the 2010 Winter Olympics in Vancouver. Not that how that happened is a real mystery—three of my sisters got the tickets and arranged everything—but how I got to be a part of that group is a fortuitous event. I think the original 4^th person had to cancel because of a bad cold, or something that, if I thought about it more, would probably be ironical. (BOOP! Honk.) <-- By the way, 1000 points that don’t matter to whomever gets that reference—EXCEPT YOU, MONICA.

Hello super-cute 2010 Winter Olympic Mascots…plus confusing 4^th-ish mascot-who-is-not-really-a-mascot-so-why-the-hell-do-you-even-exist?? *cough-merchandising-opportunity-cough*

One of the events we had tickets to was a ski-jump event, which actually took place in Whistler, British Columbia, about a 2.5-hour drive away. There were shuttles we could take from Vancouver to get to the event at Whistler Mountain and then from there, to visit the  (gay-friendly) Whistler Village, which I believe was built specifically for the Olympics. 

(Sidenote: First place I ever ate poutine. Yum. What a great day…that I also greatly rue. DAMN YOU DELICIOUS AND REEEEALLY BAD FOR YOU POUTINE!)

So after the event, we took the extra shuttle to check out the Village, ‘cause, really, when the hell else would we ever go there, right? Eeeexunktly. We were told that there were last-call shuttle times, but because of a misunderstanding of, well, where to stand…oh, okay, and an extended trip to the souvenir shop...we barely got the last shuttle back to Whistler Mountain. Once there, we found an empty shuttle line and thought that there were no shuttles left to go back to Vancouver! Oh crap! After frantically trying to find someone who knew anything, a Nice Olympic Guy—all the Olympics peeps were really nice, by the way—pointed out that we were, again, standing at the wrong place for the right shuttle. Thank gawds! But we had to hurry to the correct place because that one really was THE. LAST. shuttle back to Vancouver for the night.

“I’ll just radio ahead and let them know you’re on your way,” said the Nice Olympic Guy. (Yes, that’s a direct translation from the original Canadian, which the Nice Olympic Guy spoke. Because we were in Canada, obviously.)

So off we run to catch the correct shuttle. We finally get there—look, YOU try running in approximately 27 layers of clothing because WE'RE IN CANADA DURING THE WINTER—and there’s yet another Nice Olympic Guy holding open the shuttle door and waving us in.

“Thanks!” we huff-puff at him (in Canadian, of course. We are pretty fluent.)

“No worries, eh.” <-- Okay, he might not have said “eh.” Then again, we were in Canada, so there’s a pretty good chance that he did.

Door closes behind us, we find seats, still red and huff-puffing because we’re at a high altitude. (Also, I was totally out of shape. Two of my sisters were smokers, so that’s their excuse. The last one was breast-feeding, although not at that moment.) 

Before the shuttle actually leaves, though, the Nice Olympic Guy gets on the announcement-thingy to tell all the passengers that we are the last shuttle heading back to Vancouver so if you are trying to get to Whistler Village, you should get off now as we are about to depart. Then he ends with, “But before we get going, we’d like to first welcome our Alaskan friends on our shuttle!”

My sister and I look at each other, all excitable-like, and mouth, “Eskimos!” because I...don’t know what we were expecting, maybe that they’d have a pet seal, like in the cartoons...? (Did I mention we were at a very high altitude?) We eagerly look around, trying to be the first to spot the portable igloo.

And that’s when we realized that Nice Olympic Guy is looking and pointing at us!

Apparently, the Nice Olympic Guy who radioed ahead to hold the shuttle for us, told the Other Nice Olympic Guy to wait for four Eskimos. (He might have said “Alaskan Natives” instead of the less-acceptable, general “Eskimos” but I can only assume...so I will.)

We didn’t know what to do! He had been so nice to us, holding the door open and everything. So we kinda waved half-heartedly and weakly smiled. But then one of us—and while it could’ve been me, I have to state that I don’t remember with absolute certainty...so it’s probably safe to assume it was me—blurted out, “But—but—we’re Japanese!”

Aw, poor Nice Olympic Guy! He was mortified. As if he had accidentally called us African-American and only to find out that we were really Latinos from the Dominican Republic. Actually, that doesn’t make sense either. But you get the idea.

In all fairness to the Nice Olympic Guys, this is what we looked like that day:

I’m the short one.

Ha-ha! I kid. Seriously, this was us that day:

No, these aren’t bandits, these are my sisters with their eyes and noses very badly masked-out for their anonymity. Ish. I mean, hell, you already know they’re my sisters and we really do all kinda look alike. BECAUSE WE’RE SISTERS. Or maybe they really are non-Asian bandits!! Anyway, yes, we all have straight, black hair. Yes, we all had somewhat-darkish tans from living in Southern California. Yes, I had my hair in two braids under that fabulously stylish Winnie-the-Pooh, pom-pom’d touque. And yes, I called it a touque. I’m SO Canadian.

If I’m being super honest—and I am—I guess you kinda can’t blame the Nice Olympic Guys for confusing us with actual Alaskan Natives (my apologies to the peoples of the Alaskan Nations).

But not to these Alaskan “Natives.” I mean, who the hell put this up on the Interwebs?? This is hardly accurate—FISH NEED TO BE UNDER WATER TO SWIM. (Someone’s a dumbass…)

In reality, I do get asked all the time if I’m Native American (my apologies to the Native Nations). Or Philipino. Or Chinese. Or Thai. (My apologies to all Asians, everywhere.) Apparently I look everything BUT Japanese. Or there are a lot of really dumb people out there. Or there could be just the one really dumb person. I’m not sure, all them white people look alike to me.

In homage…sort of...to the upcoming Olympics, here’s a final, gratuitous shot of me and the Olympic Cauldron...sort of...from the 2010 Winter Olympics.

ON FIRE with Olympic Fever! And a sucker for stoopid tourist photo ops.

Bet you'll have great dreams tonight. You're welcome. 

P.S. Thanks for being so nice, eh, Canada! And soorry aboot all the confusion. //

It’s Kinda Awesome In My Head. As Long As You Don’t Have A Strong Need For Order And Sense. Or Room For Your Hatbox.

And now for a break from the waaay-f-ed up…

So, in my imagination, I am an awesome race-car driver. Like, Formula 1 (F1)-Jackie-Stewart-and-Stirling-Moss-awesome. When I drive around tight bends and hairpin turns, I often say – out loud – things such as, “Vrrroom! Vrroom!” and “Don’t cut the chicane!” and “If I knew how to drive a manual, I’d totally be down-shifting right now!”

Unfortunately (for my racing life), I drive a Nissan Altima. An old one. Don’t get me wrong, The Deathmobile has been a very great car and gotten me through a lot of crap and accidents that weren’t my fault. (And perhaps a dented bumper incident that maybe was my fault. Maybe.) But how cool would I be if I got to drive some of the fastest vehicles on the planet for a living? Answer: Totally frackin’ cool.

So cool that it wouldn’t expose my absolute nerdiness for using the word “frackin’.”

     “Huh. You’re a dork.”

    “Shuddup, Inner Imp, am NOT. You pile of poodoo.”

     “Don’t call me poop.”

     “I didn’t. Poodoo is bantha fodder. That’s a fancy word for FOOD, dumbass. But it does smell awful.”

     “Yeah…I totally rest my case. DORK.”

     “Grrr…”

Anyway, so my entire racing career is in my head. (FOR NOW—MWAH-HAHAHAHA!!! *cough!* *choke!* *burp.*)

That sucks because it’s awful crowded in my head, but it’s also cool ‘cause in my head I AM THE MOST KICK-ASS DRIVER ON EARTH! And I look unbelieveably amazing in a race helmet. And a Gumpert Apollo.

Believe it or not, when I take this bad boy off, THERE IS NO HELMET HEAD. How fucktastic is it to be me?? At least, to be me in my head-world. Also, it looks like something is trying to escape my chest in this picture. I think it might be my heart. Or an alien. Or the guy to whom that hairy white arm and watch belong.

All this to say—presenting #3 on the list of My Top 5 Irrational Fears:

#3: Should The Day Come That I DO Become A Race Car Driver, That I Will SUCK At It.

Yes, you read that correctly. I actually spend long minutes worrying that should one of my greatest dreams come true, that I get to race against the likes of Lewis Hamilton, Jensen Button and Sebastian Vettel (currently, although I would totally love to race against Jackie Stewart in his day--he had sideburns that would've made Elvis cry), that I will embarrass myself and get laughed off the track and be made to wave stupid flags and pass out shots of complimentary vodka with the driver goupies in the VIP tents.

Wouldn’t I make, like, the totally awesomest Asian race driver?? Not only would it be easy to make an anime out of me, I would be completely scary and badass on the track, but when I win, I’d climb out and be all shy and cover my mouth when I giggle sweetly and say things like, “Beddy good tracku. It like springu-time under my butt-u.” [<-- This was a possibly racist caption. Dunno for sure, I’m too Asian to tell.]

  

Never mind the fact that in this imaginary world—hell, even in the real world!—having a woman F1 driver would be a crazy-amazing breakthrough first, no matter how badly she sucked. The (obviously) critical point being that I wouldn’t be able to handle it if I sucked track marbles!

I guess, if one were to apply this fear reeeeeaaally broadly, it could be a metaphor for the fear everyone meets when faced with any kind of challenge. But really, that’s just being kind to the short kid with no upper-body strength who can make it only halfway up the the first hanging chin-up. Which would also be me. 

Man, that’s cold.

Still, even though I honestly fear and worry about this – I really, really, really do, I even get minor heart palpitations – I still don't think it would stop me from trying. I mean, given the chance, OHELLSYEAH!!! would I jump all over that. Heck, I'd be willing to test drive a Bugatti on the Nürburgring. Or a Ferrari down a country lane. Maybe a tricked-out Honda Civic up PCH? Yes! Anybody wanna go-kart with me? C'mon, y'all! What, scared of little ol' Asian me?


WELL YOU SHOULD BE 'CUZ I WILL TAKE YOU ALL DOWN MUTHAFUKKAHS!!! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!


Ahem. I mean, anyone up for a rousing sportswomanlike round or two? Why are you backing away? Helloo...? //

...And The Crazy Kept Rolling In...From...Every...Siiiiiide...

So, I got a free Cinnabon today. I haven’t had one of those in, seriously, like ten years. Mebbe even longer. I felt kinda bad ‘cause I know that each one has approximately enough calories to feed a small village in Laos for a week, but it was free and honestly, it just smelled so damn goooood.

     “FUKKIT. JUST EAT IT.”

     “Okay, okay, I will, stoopid Inner Imp, but I’m going to blame you if—OHMIGAWDS WHAT IS THIS HEAVENLY SUBSTANCE I AM CHEWING ON?!?”

Originally, I had texted my sister offering to share it with her, but then it started raining, and, as I honestly and forthrightly told her, while I do love her enough to share my Cinnabon, I happen to hate rain more than I love her. Although only by a really, really small margin. (By the way, she said she forgave me and that her ass thanked me for my honesty.) I took that first delectable, sinful, ass-expanding bite and immediately food-gasmed.

Which is the lead-in story to #2 of My Top 5 Irrational Fears: How Do I Know For Sure That I’m Not Gay??

Um, back to the story.

Okay, so I just foodgasmed. Of course I texted my sister thus, and I quote:

—“O.M.G. I haven’t had a Cinnabon in literally years and they are FUCKING AWESOME!!!”

Followed by:

—“And yes, I just ate out the middle ‘cause I am a porn-like Cinnabon whore!!”

My sister was understandably confused, by the way. And she’s, like, super-de-dupity smart. She’s an attorney. The good kind.

So you see my dilemma, RIGHT?

No? Okay, well, look: I’m happily (more or less..heh) married, have dated only men, have fantasized only about men (and chocolate, let’s be honest), have only ever been attracted to men (Nick Rhodes of Duran Duran counts...?), and I find the huge quantities of nekkid boobage in A Game of Thrones to be tedious. Granted, when asked once if I could “do it” with any woman in the world, who would it be, I immediately answered “Madonna” (pre-Ray of Light, of course). But otherwise…not that I have really noticed.

And then I send a text like the one above. And I find Botticelli nudes not just beautiful but also kinda sexy. I really dig the song, “I Kissed A Girl” and I think Katy Perry is adorable. Aaaand sometimes I think: “If someone asked me who I’d do it with now, I’d totally change my answer to Angelina Jolie ‘cause she’s got those lips and I bet she knows how to get fah-rea-kyyy!”

So, in a rather large nutshell: I don’t know for sure that I am definitely not gay because I don’t know for sure what it’s like to definitely be gay! Ergo, I cannot rationally and definitely rule out that I am not gay.

Not that I would be bummed if I was gay—I’ve had to deal with man-bullcrappery often enough to have joked out loud that I wish I were. No, my real fear—and here’s where the crazy-pants go on super-fly tight—I do worry that on the chance that I might be gay, then I am not be living my authentic self. It bothers me that I may secretly and unbeknownst to me be in the closet. Crappity! How can I not know that about myself? 

Also, I am running out of ways to emphasize words in this blog.

Then I worry that I should focus even more on LGBT rights, as opposed to more on feminist issues, that I’m not doing enough for my potential “gay brothers and sisters and all in-betweeners.” <-- Not an actual saying that is deserving of quotes. I just made that up. But it sounds nice and catchy and kinda relevant, no?  :)

Then I wonder if I should talk to The Limey about this.

     “Haha, weirdo—if you’re really so worried, maybe you should talk to The Limey about this.”

     “And show my husband exactly how much crazy he married? Shuddup you sabotaging Inner Imp! Quit being such a douchebag. No more Cinnabon for you.”

Sidenote: Although, in all fairness, The Limey has probably heard worse from me before. Yet I’m pretty sure he’s still married to me. I’m starting to suspect it’s because he actually loves me…but likely probably he loves his green card more. ‘Cause England is such the horrible place to live, what with the free health care and ancient architecture and deep culture and close proximity to the rest of Europe. Who wants that? Blech. Plus we have better food and lots more of it. LOTS. And we have Taco Bell and other Mexican food that is actually yummy, even though he doesn't like Mexican food 'cause he got really bad food poisoning from one of his first Mexican meals here in the U.S., but whatevs. iViva el taco cart!

So, back to me possibly maybe being gay.

You know, in the interest of finally laying to rest this question once and for all, I wish there was a way I could really know what it’s like to be gay. Only without the part where I would have to make out with another woman ‘cause that’s just kind of a yukky thought. Or sexing one up. Um, eww. To quote Stephen Fry: "After I was born, I looked back and thought, 'Right. Last time I'm going in one of those.'"

Hee. Stephen Fry is funny. I love him. Oh crap—MAYBE I'M ACTUALLY A GAY MAN! Dangit, now I really need to have a talk with my husband. Bugger. Aw, see? It could be! Poop.

Uh, I did warn you that this My Top 5 Irrational Fears, right? Oh good. //

EDIT: I feel like I should clarify that my actual fear is not whether or not I am gay. No, my actual fear is really the uncertainty of being uncertain because there is no possible way to be certain. With any degree of certainty. Kinda like being able to state with absolute proof if there really is a God or a Heaven or if unicorns EVER existed or if there can ever be a truly tasty low-calorie chocolate. Actually, I'm pretty certain that last thing is a myth. //

Brain, Brain, Go Away, Come Again Some Other Day...Preferably When You're Not So Full of Weird End-Of-Days Crap.

I don't know why -- well, probably because it's been gloomy and gray and rainy for the last week, I bet, but I'm not a professional -- but my brain has been obsessing with a list. Specifically, My Top 5 Irrational Fears. Not valid fears, such as moray eels and clowns, but totally unlikely-to-(but-maybe-kinda-could-)happen fears. For example:


#1: The Apocalypse And Its Effect On My Pantry
Not, like, a Biblical apocalypse, but more like one where society completely breaks down beyond the point of WTF?!?-ness. As in the movie "The Road," which someone like me really should NOT have watched, even though it was a free screening -- with popcorn! -- and, objectively, an excellent movie that was ridiculously overlooked by the Academy.


Anyway, it's not the actual Apocalypse I fear, 'cause, you know, if it happens, I have a plan. (And that plan is to get to my sister Jill, who is like a combo of Bob Villa and MacGyver, and who also is totally stocked with a kick-ass pile of useful disaster-relief supplies that she won at a charity auction. The same one in which I bid for an entertainment pack, i.e., movie tickets and a gift card to Olive Garden. Which I lost. Lame charity auction.) 


No, I'm not worried about the loss of services that comes Apocalypses (Apocalypsi?). It's the loss of stuff and how that lack of said stuff apparently makes humans nucking futs. And cannibalistic.


     "But that's not totally crazy, Leslie!"


     "What's that you say, irrational Inner Imp? Go ahead, I'm listening."


This is why -- and herein lies the deliciously-meaty-as-the-thigh-of-a-hockey-player crazy part -- I refuse to throw away the canned goods in the back of my pantry. For reals.


Periodically, I'll go to clean out my cupboards, like a normal person. Anything that's way-expired and in a perishable package gets tossed, no problem. But when it comes to a canned good -- or, honestly, anything well-and-hermetically-sealed -- I. JUST. CAN'T. DO. IT. I can't make myself throw it out! I'll hold it over the trash can, all poised and ready, like I am sane, but then my brain automatically goes to, "But what if the Apocalypse happens? THINK OF THE CHILDREN! AND HOW GRATEFUL THEY WILL BE FOR THESE SEVEN-YEAR-OLD DICED GREEN CHILES!!!" and then I guiltily put them waaay back in the back of the cupboard. "Guiltily" because I can still hear the tiny but sane part of me that's saying, "Really. Really?!?" and "waaay in the back" because realistically, when the Apocalypse does hit, it's probably wise to eat the fresher stuff first and save the rest for when one is really desperate.


Luckily, I don't buy a lot of canned goods that I don't used fairly quickly, but I can't honestly say that there is not more than one tinned food item in there that is well beyond it's expiration date. As in years. Not days or months. Years. Also, I wish I could say that I am joking, that this is all for comical effect. But, as real as the RAIN OUTSIDE THAT WON'T FUCKING GO AWAY ALREADY, it is not.

Looks like a normal pantry, right?

A selection from the "Post-Apocalypse" section. The front part of it. DON'T JUDGE.

My rational brain is embarrassed...and in a sleeper-hold by my irrational brain.

"Time for dinner, Post-Apocalyptic children! Don't complain, it's better than eating grody, old, leftover Aunt Sally."
(My apologies to anyone's Aunt Sally who is actually delicious.)

You know what? Having admitted this, I feel so much better now. Maybe I'll go toss-out that can of aloe vera leaves (still not joking) that I believe I bought shortly after my wedding. Which may or may not have been over 5 years ago. Crazy, right? I mean, who buys canned aloe vera leaves?!? 

     "Yeah, those aren't for eating, those are for medicinal purposes, right?"

     "Hmm. Medicinal you say, Inner Imp? Well that might come in handy after the Apocalypse. Maybe I'll just push that into the way-waaay back..."

Sigh.

I'd better save the other four Irrational Fears for later. Right now, I have an Imp to give a good talkin' to...//