jamielee.net 8/17/04

I'm the kind of person that buys something not because I need it, but because it's a really good deal. EBay and I are such a good match because it's a website full of really good deals. For example, I spent $40 on a set of knitting needles. But listen! Normally this set is $45, plus shipping, and I'll never have to buy knitting needles for a project again! That's a good deal! Right now I'm bidding on 11 skeins of recycled silk yarn from Nepal that would normally be $176. The current high bid is $26. Nevermind what I'm going to do with over 2000 yards of recycled silk. The important thing is that I can own it for such a low price.

In other news, I've been ghostwriting this thirteen year old boy's application to be the #1 St. Louis Cardinals fan and I'm going to get paid in sushi.

I've been gone from this blog for a little while and for part of that while, I was in Spain. This was my third trip in four years to the Iberian Peninsula and as always, I had an awesome time and a lot of salty food. Seriously, most of our meals had so much salt that it was actually visible on the food. Not only that, but they don't even put pepper on the table. In fact, they seemed a little miffed when I asked for some on behalf of my mother. Maybe that's because I asked for a bell pepper instead of the kind that comes in a shaker. I don't know. My Spanish is a little oxidized. I mean rusty.

Anyway, one of the highlights of the trip was getting to fly overseas first class. After being chosen for a surprise upgrade, I did my best to blend in by taking photos and hoarding everything they gave me.

Pictured: the lobster amuse-bouche served with butter AND margarine.

By the end of the flight, I had about as much space as I would have had in coach due to all of the blankets and "comfort kits" I had wedged into the seat and the pocket in front of me. And at the end of the flight they gave me a ceramic house filled with liquor, which I enthusiastically accepted. Mo' money, mo' weird free shit.

Speaking of weird shit, I present a peacock eating garbage:


This gorgeous creature was living on the grounds of a fabulous Moorish palace but instead of spending his days wandering the shrub maze or lounging near one of the many fountains waiting for oranges to drop from the trees, he digs through the trash. Follow your bliss, little 'cock. The name for peacock in Spanish, pavo real, is actually one of my favorite language things ever. It translates literally to "royal turkey" which makes some sense when you think about their similarities, but I really wish someone would write a cultural history of how the Spaniards decided on this poultry hierarchy. Was there any discussion, or did everyone just agree that the big, flashy asshole got to be king of the turkeys?

And that was Spain! More or less.

Subjects of E-mails I've Sent Out in the Last Six Months

[Note: I was going through my draft archives and found this from nearly two years ago. So dated. I mean, is anyone even still talking about Knut?]

Death to Quilty
I'm Worried About the Structural Integrity of My Pants
Bitches Don't Know About My Zarathustra
Balloon Guy Brunch
Werewolf Bar Mitzvah
Canst I Not Hath Cheezburger?
Monsoon Porn
Monsoon Porn II: Electric Bugaloo
Love Emergency for the Backshelf Girl
Knut is Oot

A Big Hole in the Ground

Hugh G. Erection has sent you a photo
I'm not joking - you suck.

Manmeat

Gumdrop666 Misses You

Personal Information Clearinghouse

Crazy Is As Crazy Doesn't?

Pants: Can't Live With 'Em, Can't Leave the House Without 'Em

The Straight Talk Express: "I Brake for Poontang"

[Note II: Gumdrop666 was a Xanga parodying a blog of some of Greg's acquaintances. Ugh, so dated. Is anyone even still talking about Jessica Simpson?]

Is it possible to get stress diabetes? Because isn't diabetes what happens when you create a sugar hurricane and your pancreas' disaster response team doesn't have enough insulin sandbags to stop it so your bloodstream floods? Your kidneys are the Superdome and the rest of your body is the rest of America in that it would rather cut off its foot than take disaster preparedness measures like insulin and I'm actually kind of proud of this diabetes as Hurricane Katrina metaphor. I mean, Louisiana even looks like a foot. Anyway, don't quote me on that because my Board Certification in Endocrinology comes from one of those schools where the admissions process involves sending them a drawing of a clown. But my question is: can the same thing happen with stress? If so, I may need to reconsider some of my appointments to the Federal Anxiety Management Agency.

I think it may be time for a fresh generation of crossword writers. Every clue is either a dead person, an obsolete catch phrase, or the title of a silent movie punning on an obscure catch phrase and starring a dead person.

The other day I had occasion to write to Liz about the U of C's astronomy journal. But in the process of writing to her I had to stop myself before I typed "astrology journal." Which got me thinking about how awesome it would be if the U of C had an astrology journal.

"Expect a Kafkaesque morning as your Hum class ignores your insightful commentary on Plato's Apology. It will be as if you never said anything."

"Today is an opportune day for bathing."

"It's business as unusual today as an awkward encounter in the Cobb Coffee Shop will force you to interact with other human beings."

"Today is a good day to reconnect with your body by eating your own umbilical cord."*

"Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, but don't let anyone on your dorm floor copy your trebuchet design."**

"Mercury's connection with Mars will be a boon for your finances, allowing you to stop eating raw onions and sour cream for dinner."*

*Incidents I've personally witnessed.

**Also, a trebuchet is NOT a catapault. Don't make the same mistake I did unless you want to be publicly berated by a man named Gerbil.

I watched Star Wars for the first time this weekend and I did it for the only reason that anyone who has gone 24 years without watching it does: my boyfriend made me. I enjoyed it, even though I think Luke is a twat. Let's just say that I'm solidly Team Vader.

Ordering a new coffee machine for our office has been one of the most frustrating experiences of my life. I have no real explanation for why this is, but my paranoid theory is that the coffee company hopes that the tedium of the process will drive you to caffeinate yourself into a stupor so that you can silence the voice in your head pointing out that whatever was wrong with the old coffee maker wasn't worse than this. "Brew 12 Cups With Your Own Tears!" is what it should say on the side of the box, when it finally arrives at your door.

Having no knowledge of coffee or coffee machines, I tackled this task as thoroughly as I could. Do I want white or black? How many cups is enough cups? Can I order a cappucino machine without my bosses noticing? Why would I do that if I don't drink cappucino? Are coffee pods to coffee filters what Blu-Ray is to DVD? I reached the breaking point when the coffee machines began to look like Le Corbusier homes.

Am I going to need a special filter for the modernism?

Finally, I just picked something and ordered and two weeks later it arrived. I understood why it had taken two weeks once I opened the box. The actual machine was sandwiched in between four different pieces of styrofoam and enough plastic bags to suffocate Juan Valdez's donkey. I had to wrestle with the box like an otter banging an oyster on the rocks. 20 minutes later, I determined that there was, in fact, something of value inside. Well, of value to someone else. I don't even drink coffee.

When I first started working I was really excited about the commuting time because I thought to myself, "That will be an hour and a half to two hours of dedicated reading time five days a week. I will be able to read book after book and enrich myself with knowledge!"

Ha and ha. That was before I discovered Vortex on my iPod. Maybe you haven't heard of it. It's only the most awesome game ever.

It's like Brick Breaker but instead of being in a pile the bricks are in rings and you use the circular touch pad to move the bat around. I can't stress enough how revolutionary the ring arena is. It opens up a multitude of new ways for you to be skilled at breaking blocks. Here is an illustration:















There are also bonuses that have cool tools like multi-bat and multi-ball and guns. Guns! You can tell me that guns don't kill bricks, people kill bricks, but it is still a most fearsome tool.

The other day I was on level 26, the highest level I've achieved to date, with only one life when I broke open a brick that had a gun tool inside. I literally thought to myself, "All right. Don't be a hero. Move slowly over and get the gun but keep the ball safe."

I'm slightly troubled by the fact that my inner dialogue speaks about the game with an intensity that should be reserved solely for hostage situations.

As a woman, I'm always interested in reading about the seduction techniques recommended to men for use on myself and others of the female persuasion. So when the wikihow article entitled "How to Touch a Girl" popped up on my Google homepage, I took advantage of the opportunity to stay up to date on what I'm supposed to like and find attractive.

Right off the bat, the author establishes his authority in this area by choosing this photo to illustrate the article:

Before we get into the "real" advice, I'll give you a free piece here: women who bring machine guns to romantic outings may be extremely sensitive about their personal space. If you're worried about being rejected, don't try to seduce a woman who can literally shoot you down.

That being said, here's a little trick you can try to test the waters as you're helping her put on her flak jacket:

If you're both about to leave and she needs to put on a coat, hold it out for her like a gentleman so that she can slip her arms into the sleeves. [...] If she responds positively and you notice that her hair is between her jacket and her back, pull it out for her carefully—pull the ends out without pulling the hair away from her scalp in any way. This is a good time to tell her that she has beautiful hair, or that it smells wonderful. Chicks really love that kind of stuff.

After you do the hair thing, tie her shoes for her and tell her she has cute feet or that they smell wonderful. Chicks eat that shit up. If she responds positively to that, start examining her face and hair for things to remove:

It's not uncommon to see a loose eyelash on someone's face, especially the cheek
area. If you see one, tell her, "Hold still; you have an eyelash on your face. Let me get it off." Some people will put an eyelash on their fingertip and make a wish before blowing it away; if you think she's the type to enjoy this, then show her the eyelash on your finger and ask her to make a wish and blow it away. If you see something in her hair (a piece of lint, a little branch, a ball of dust), do the same: ask her to stay still, and gently pull it out (but don't make a wish on it!).

If a man started picking things out of my hair on a date, I would insist on blowing whatever he found (lint, branches, dust?) off his finger and making a wish. You don't get to scour my scalp looking for excuses to touch me if I don't get the opportunity to wish that I'd never agreed to go out with you.

Since most women try to remove any large objects or detritus from their hair before a date, the author recommends that you take matters into your own hands:

You might want to take her somewhere that you know she'll probably get something in her hair (like a dusty attic or a part of the woods with low trees).

I'll never forget the first time a boy made me crawl through shrubbery. He said the leaves and twigs stuck in my hair looked just like a halo. I really love that kind of stuff.

Since not everyone has access to a forest or dusty attic, I came up with a few more great date spots:

• An abandoned rock quarry: They're dusty, and no one can hear the screaming.


• A laundromat: Pull a giant hunk of lint from a dryer and pretend it was in her hair.


• An oil spill: Imagine how adorable your lady will look as you hose the crude petroleum off her like a baby seal.


• A pile of asbestos: Playfully shove her into it and if she responds positively, wrestle with her a little. After your romp she'll have enough carcinogenic fibers in her hair to give you an excuse to touch her for hours. PLUS: If things go well and she gets leukemia, you'll have "A Walk to Remember" scenario on your hands. Very romantic. The downside of this is that the chemo will cause her to lose her hair and you'll have fewer contrived reasons to touch her.

Armed with this wisdom, I don't see how young men can go wrong. But if things get tough, remember: never be nervous or barf! But if you have to barf, do it on your date. Cleanup will provide a convenient opportunity to stroke her.

I had reason to be on the Red Eye website today (WARNING: Not safe for epileptics or people who can read) and came across another delightful news story about Joe the Plumber. After clicking on the headline, Joe the Plumber endorses McCain, says that a vote for Obama 'is a vote for death of Israel', I found the following:

"When a McCain supporter asked him if he believed 'a vote for Obama is a vote for the death of Israel,' Wurzelbacher replied, 'I'll go ahead and agree with you on that.'"

Sure, why the hell not? Whatever you say, dear. Real mavericks don't just vote against their own economic self-interest -- they also make totally irrational and unfounded statements on foreign policy. Joe the Plumber: Ignorance We Can Believe In.

Hello, dumplings! Don't worry, I didn't forget about this site. I couldn't possibly. If I don't update for awhile, my mother calls me to make sure that I'm not lying dead on the floor of my bachelorette pad, computer mouse clutched in my hand as I died trying to blog for help. (Christmas is coming up, Mom, and I think you and I both would sleep better at night if you put a pet that can dial 911 in my stocking this year.)

I turned 24 this week and it was AWESOME. My friends and family were calling and writing and I felt so special and loved, but not at all awkward like you do when a group of people sing "Happy Birthday" to you. I think being the target of the birthday song may be the worst thing in the world. Yes, it's cute in theory, but in practice it's like having a laser ray of focused attention searing through your forehead and straight into the embarassment section of the brain.

Did you know that restaurants used to give women menus without prices if they were dining with men? Just learned that today.