Thursday, February 02, 2006

As promised...

If you can follow the string of comments found here, you’ll see that I am accepting donations of money, food and power tools in exchange for mentioning your name in my utterly fabuous blog. It’s a totally cool thing to beg for money these days, everybody’s doing it. But I thought I’d go one step further and accept food donations as well. I’ll eat anything, provided it hasn’t become fuzzy or smelly. Ms. Chatty was kind enough to squish a shitload of comestibles (and Jello) into her CDROM drive and it oozed out of mine a few minutes later. Very kind. (The Jello was especially generous, how did you know I prefer the green kind?) And now I have mentioned her here, as promised.

Don’t you feel completely fulfilled and whole now? That’s the kind of service I provide. You, too, can have your name mentioned here, for a modest donation of course.

Wondering about past American Idol winners

It’s my first time watching the show, so I’m not all that familiar with how everything works. Was Kelly Clarkson the first winner of the show ever? I know I could Google this and be done with it in 5 minutes, but then what would I blog about this morning? Why do in 5 minutes what could take me half an hour instead? (You’re thinking, “Half an hour?? Did you, like, lose an arm or something? Or are you just… slow?” Hey! I put a lot of thought into my blog! It may not show, but I do. I have to sort through a lot of crap in my head. PLUS I proofread! If I didn’t do any of that, this thing would be a complete mess.)

Now, what was I saying? Oh yes, past winners. How come Kelly Clarkson is the only one I hear on the radio? What happened to the other winners? They mention “Fantasia” as a previous winner, but I’ve never heard anything about her. What happened anyway? Perhaps the music industry decided they didn’t want an artist named after a weirdo feature-length drug-induced cartoon? Speaking of which, what parent would name their child after an animated movie featuring dancing pink elephants? And if she picked the name for herself as a stage name… WHY??

It just occurred to me that I might have heard some of the other winners on the radio, but didn’t recognize them because I just don’t know their names. Not likely, but possible. Maybe their songwriters were just untalented and horribly generic. Maybe they weren’t all that talented to begin with? I dunno, never watched ‘em.

But Kelly Clarkson made it, and I think that’s cool. I tried not to like her because, well, I don’t know. It’s like we’re supposed to like her because American Idol pronouced her a winner. I don’t like being told what to think. But I hear her on the radio and… I don’t change the channel. I find myself actually… liking her songs!  She really is a good singer, and the songs are kinda catchy. I’m not going to rush out and buy her albums (is there more than one?) but I will tip my hat to talent when I encounter it.

Wednesday, February 01, 2006

What a Spazz

Ever since the day I followed a link to ITalk2Much.com, I’ve become addicted. It’s the funniest shit I’ve ever read in my life! I’ve left dumb comments here and there on a couple of their posts. One thing I keep wondering about is how come some people have icons next to theirs and others (losers like myself) don’t? So today I took it upon myself to ask. I sent quite a spastic email to Ms. Chatty and, considering how tangential and confusing it was, I don’t really expect an answer.

This is what happens when your brain whirls out thoughts at 300 mph while your fingers try to keep up. You’re curious now, aren’t you? How bad could it be? Well it just so happens I’m going to share it with you. Be glad I didn’t send this to you.

Ms. Chatty,
You probably don’t have time for stupid messages from annoying people like myself, but I had a question, obviously. I was kinda wondering why some people had photos next to their comments and some didn’t. The answer has to be somewhere obvious but I’m so new to the world of blogs that I still have that awful new blog smell on me. Sorry about that, I’ll try to shower more.

So anyway, I thought maybe they were registered members of this site. Valid guess, right? So I clicked on the Register link. The registration page is… unbelievably UNsnarky! The Terms of Service even stated “By registering at this site you agree not to post any messages that are obscene, vulgar, slanderous, hateful, threatening, or that violate any laws. We will permanently ban all users who do so.” Now this REALLY confused me. Isn’t obscene, vulgarous slander all we do around here? (That and make up words like “vulgarous”.) Heh, listen to me using the word “we” like I’m a part of all this. Delusional. I’m just so hooked on this site and its brutal, side-splitting honesty. I think I’ve actually gotten used to liquids being snorted out through my nose. Okay that’s gross, stop it.

So, um, my point… what was it? Something about member registration and what the heck is it for? Because if it’ll make me cooler then I’m in like Schwinn baby. Er, in like sin? Kin? Ambien? Nevermind. I’ll never be cool.

-The Geeky Dragon Girl

Yes I actually sent this.

My Embarrassing Problem

It isn’t feminine itch, that cleared up last month. (Please realize I’m kidding. It hasn’t actually cleared up. I’m kidding! Confused? Good, let’s move on.) I’ll just spit it out. I have dandruff. I will never speak of this to anyone except my honey… and the entire world too, if in an anonymous format. Like this blog for instance.

Why is this such an embarrassing topic? Because of the stipulations that come with it, and general lack of knowledge. If a person has flakes all over themselves, the first thought that comes to mind is usually something along the lines of, “Wow that person needs to wash his hair more.” It’s like you’re labled as this dirty person, when in actuality it has nothing to do with hygiene. Well, occasionally it does. Some people really are gross.

But for most of the other poor bastards such as myself, it’s more of a scalp PH thing. Not PhD (the top of my head has not, to my knowlege, achieved a higher degree than me) but PH as in acidity. Mix in a little unique body chemistry and you’ve got yourself a blizzard. I run my hands through my hair and I’m a walking snowglobe. I hate it.

I’ve tried washing my hair more. I’ve tried washing it less. I’ve read about certain foods I should avoid to help change your PH balance, like cutting out animal fats and dairy. Cut out my ice cream, yogurt and cheese? Oh hell no! I’d rather be stuck wearing light colors than be deprived of dairy.

Apple cider vinegar was recommended as a “magical” way to eliminate dandruff. I tried it once. It wasn’t magical enough for me. Not only did the smell make me want to vomit, it was cold. Again, I would rather be stuck wearing light colors. That smell really clings to you, yech.

I also tried Nizoral, a dandruff shampoo. I think that might have worked if, well, if I wasn’t me. The instructions say to leave it on for 5 minutes, then rinse it out. Five entire minutes? That’s the length of time it takes me to get into the shower, get clean, and get out! You’re telling me I have to stand around in the shower for five extra minutes? I have no patience for such things! So I think I usually ended up rinsing it out after about one, maybe two minutes tops. *sigh* Maybe I’ll give that stuff another try. It’s better than my other options.

Tuesday, January 31, 2006

Reverse Darwinism

Society isn’t natural. It rewards people who should have killed themselves off long ago. Case in point:

There’s this lady, I don’t remember what her name is, nor do I give a rat’s ass. She buys a 32-foot Winnebago and, on one of her trips, does something completely… so utterly… off-the-charts… I just-  okay. I’m obviously at a loss as to describe the magnitude of her stupidity, so let me just tell you what she did.  She’s driving on the freeway and sets the cruise control on her RV to go at 70 miles an hour… then proceeds to climb into the back and fix herself a sandwich…  ...  ... Yes, I know. It boggles the brain.  Let me say it again, just to be clear.  She sets the cruise control on her Winnebago RV to go 70mph on the freeway, and then leaves the driver’s seat to go fix a sandwich!

But wait, that’s not the best part! Not only does the bitch survive the crash, she sues the manufacturer for “neglecting” to write in their user’s manual that she was not supposed to do this. She sues them. And wins.  She wins the fucking lawsuit.  What. The. Fuck.

First of all, I seriously doubt she even knew where the manual was, let alone read it. Secondly, did she get smacked in the head repeatedly with VHS taped episodes of Knight Rider or something? Since when do cars drive and steer themselves?? It’s Cruise Control, not fucking Auto Pilot!

And what did this… this fucktard (hooray I got to use my new vocabulary word!) get out of all this?  She wins a brand new Winnebago and ...a million dollars. A million fucking dollars awarded to the queen of morons who long ago should have chopped her own head off with a butter knife because the manual didn’t tell her not to.

Maybe I should go back to my home planet.

Powerlessness

Today my sweetheart requested a particular gift for her birthday. It isn’t a crazy expensive item, but it’s a little more than we can afford right now. I can’t say no to her, I just can’t. Whatever she desires, I want to get it for her. I want to make sure she’s happy at all times. It really pained me to say no. The mortgage (shit, that thing is due AGAIN??) and my car payment just about wipes me out, but there’s still the gas bill, the electric bill and all the other fucking blood-suckers out there.

None of this is new. And I’m sure most of you have no pity for my situation, because it’s the same situation that the majority of Americans find themselves in. But here’s the thing—nothing frustrates an Aries girl like myself more than the feeling that she can do nothing. It’s this excruciating sense of absolute powerlessness in the face of no options. I stared at my bank balance, did the math, and came up with nothing. Nothing. I could do nothing. The thought reverberated through my skull like a church bell. Frustration filled me to the point of overflowing… and the tears fell. I was mortified, crying over not being able to buy the gift. Why was I being so stupid and emotional? It’s not like we lost the house, or even my car.

My honey assured me that it was fine, we didn’t need to get it. It can wait until later when things were better for us. She reminded me that she would love me no matter what. And I knew that already. That’s not what had crushed my spirit in that small moment. It was just everything banding together into this overwhelming weight.

I decided to go walk off the depression (and pick up some yogurt too). I listened to some music while I walked. A song came on from BT called “Simply Being Loved Is More Than Enough”. The walk helped me get past my emotional state, and the song helped put things into perspective.

By the time I got back, I was all better. And I had yogurt. I was ready for the world once again. Bring it on.

Memory Like a Sieve

I meant to post something about this earlier, but I forgot… and forgot again… and again. I’ve mentioned before that my brain churns out thoughts at 300 miles an hour. That might make me seem like a genius. Unfortunately I can handle only two to three of them at a time. Usually two. That means I have several brilliant thoughts a day, but I only act on a fraction of them (if any at all… of the brilliant ones anyway. The non-brilliant ones tend to crowd them out.) It’s sad.

At home when I try to act upon more than one at a time, here’s what will usually happen. (Note, the following example contains no brilliant thoughts because, well, I can’t remember what they were.) I’ll be watching TV and decide I need a glass of water. I’ll get up, go to the kitchen and notice that the garbage if full. So I’ll take it outside. While out there I’ll notice how bright it is and wonder what time it is. I’ll look at my watch and find out that I didn’t put it on that morning. Better put that watch on. On my way to my room I’ll think of a couple other things, like “Is my blog putting people to sleep?” and “I really need to wash my car.” When I get to my room I’ll have a Beavis and Butthead moment. “Uhh… huh huh huh… what did I come in here for?” I have about a 50/50 chance of remembering my watch, higher if the watch is visible on the nightstand. Afterwards I’ll go back to the kitchen and see the big bag of M&Ms we bought last week. I’ll cut it open and, upon throwing the piece of plastic away, notice I forgot to replace the garbage bag. I’ll replace the bag and bring my M&Ms back to the TV room, finally sitting down again. It’s then that I realize I never got that glass of water I originally got up for.

It’s worse when I start doing other things after I fill up a glass of water. Because later on I have to backtrack to figure out where the hell I left it! I need more RAM to better process all these thoughts flying around. Where can I get an upgrade?

Monday, January 30, 2006

Blogs aren't interesting unless you bitch about something

In case you’re a person who enjoys wallowing in someone else’s self pity, here’s something for you. I figured some people are probably falling asleep with my running commentary about my boring-ass life. Well here’s something I want to bitch about.

Remember that birthday sleepover I mentioned? When I went to get ice cream I took my sweety’s car (is that spelled sweety or sweetie?? I can’t decide.) I start it up and drive four feet when I notice a light on her dashboard that I’ve never seen before. It’s an angry yellow exclamation point surrounded by a weird U shape… with, um, spikes on it, or something. I didn’t know what the hell that was! Damn esoteric little icons. I had to stop the car and go digging into the glove compartment for the manual. I managed to find it in the manual—turns out it’s the tire pressure alarm. Tire pressure alarm? How come my car doesn’t have one of those? And why can’t they just make the damn thing SAY “Check tire pressure” or “Check tires”. Hell even just the word “Tires” would’ve made more sense to me than this angry little exclamation point with the funky shape around it (which is supposed to look like a tire but looks more like some kind of S&M device… Uh, not that I’d know anything about that… um, heh.)

So I guess the tires need air? I got out and looked at the tires. All of them. They looked fine. One looked like it might be a tiny bit low. I decided to go get the ice cream anyway. The car feels fine despite the potholes everywhere. I picked up the ice cream and got back in the car. There’s the angry light again, glaring at me, screaming, “The frickin tires need air you lazy dolt!” See it’s a polite car. It could have said, “The fucking tires need air you fucking lard-ass!” But it didn’t. Still, it bothered me.

Fine, fine, I’ll take the damn thing to a gas station and check the air. I rummaged around for a tire pressure gauge. There isn’t one. Sweety, I love you with all my heart, but didn’t I give you one to put in there? It probably got thrown away with the other “useless gadgets”. Fine, I’ll just put a little bit of air into all the tires and hope they don’t blow up in my face. I know it will take a huge amount of pressure for this to happen, but I’m one of those people who are afraid to blow balloons up too much for fear of the loud noise they make when they explode.

I dig out a quarter and go to the machine. It’s 50 cents. Fifty freaking cents for air? Didn’t these things used to be free? Then they started charging a quarter for it. Now it’s doubled. Wah wah wah so I dig out another quarter and put air in all four tires, kept on pumping until the time ran out and the generator stopped. That should do it.

I got back in the car and started it up. Blink. There it is, the same yellow angry icon on the dashboard. What, did I put in too much air? WHAT?? Be specific you piece of *;$`&#@  *-!@#$^#^$  =@##+*$@!!!! (I had to resort to random character bleeps because I’m not as creative a cusser as many of you are. I learned the word “fucktard” recently and rather like it. I hope to use it someday.)

I gave up and drove back to the party with my ice cream. Hmm, I’m hungry now. Ice cream sounds good.

What a lovely Sunday

It’s not often I use the word “lovely”. I associate it with words like “dah-ling”. For example, “Dah-ling what a lovely pah-ty, do share a spot of tea with me, I am simply pah-ched after shagging your husband.” See what I mean?

However I’m not afraid to admit when I’ve had a lovely day. Yesterday was such a day. Spent most of it lounging and cuddling with my sweetheart while we watched episodes of Lost and The L Word on DVD. Well, we did have a dumb little spat about this again, but it was resolved fairly quickly and we went back to the nuzzling like lovesick teenagers.

It’s nice when you have nothing that you have to do. Well we did laundry, but it pretty much does itself after you throw it in the washer. Oh shit, I think we left it in the dryer all night. Probably wrinkled beyond belief now. Um, anyway! She got to playing with my hair. I usually keep it pretty short (a lazy person’s haircut) but it’s getting pretty shaggy these days. Need another haircut, like now. She gathered my bangs together and made some kind of a ponytail. Only I wouldn’t call it a pony tail. Not sure what to call it really. She said it was a little mushroom. I felt it with my hands and said it probably looked like a little nuclear cloud on my head. Curious, I scampered to the mirror to survey her handiwork. I came back and told her that that it actually looked more like a water fountain. Here, you be the judge:

Sunday, January 29, 2006

Why Dragons?

You’ve probably noticed a certain fascination I have with dragons. I tend to idolize people or things that embody the qualities that I admire. To help you understand why I chose dragons, here’s a little thing I wrote about 8 or 9 years ago when I first learned HTML. (I have since taken down that web page it was a fine example of an amateur’s first page.)

Love Thy Dragon

Whether in the realm of reality or imagination, dragons are nothing short of fascinating. These wonderful creatures are the embodiment of majesty, wisdom, and raw power. They fear nothing.

They come in all sizes, shapes, colors and temperaments. Their diversity reflects ours. The dragon is beautiful, and we must do our best to educate the ignorant ones who would vanquish them.

They are creatures of legend, often misunderstood. We fear what we don’t understand. We must open our eyes and see the dragons that live among us. We must open our hearts and learn to love them. And finally we must open our minds, because we have so much to learn.

I’ve seen this passage show up on various other sites without crediting me. So if you see it one day, it’s mine dammit!

One thing I forgot to mention is they can fly! I’d love to fly, and I don’t mean airplanes. Flying dreams are my favorite. I also wouldn’t mind being able to lift cars over my head like they were made of styrofoam. So basically I’d like to be Supergirl. But in the meantime I’ll settle for Geeky Dragon Girl with her meager powers of sarcasm, imaginary dialog and general computer geekery.

Saturday, January 28, 2006

What am I, 14 again?

I just got back from a birthday sleepover. What am I, 14 again? We watched movies all night, crashed there, and then watched movies all day. I feel like such the slug. The only time I saw daylight was when I volunteered to go pick up some ice cream. What’s a day of sloth and sluggishness without ice cream?

The funny thing is I kept thinking, “I havn’t written anything in my blog today!” I actually tried to this morning. I woke up before everyone else and booted up their computer. That thing had so many security settings turned on in their browser I couldn’t even log into Blogger. It was quite annoying. Probably something to do with cookies being blocked. So rather than messing with their setup, I decided to deprive you all of my witty and generally pointless postings until now. Instead I checked their computer for spyware and found two of them. So much for their uptight security.

Anyway, now I’m full of pizza and ice cream, sitting in front of the computer. I feel like I need to go jog 10 miles to make up for the gluttony and malaise. Only I hate jogging. Makes me wheeze. I am an asthmatic geek, how typical. Maybe I’ll go stare at the treadmill awhile and imagine myself on it for 10 miles instead. Nevermind, Big Pest and Little Brat and staring at me and trying to use their doggie mind tricks to get me to take them around the block. I think it’s working.

Friday, January 27, 2006

Meet the Furballs

On occasion I’ve mentioned my little happy yappers. It’s time you met them. I had a little chat with them and they told me they would prefer to keep their names anonymous. They are, after all, very cute and would develop stalkers of some kind if someone could Google their names… according to them. Whatever. You’re furballs, what do you know? Ouch. Please stop that squeaky barking.

Okay, so there are two of them. The bigger one is named T- ...What? Oh for crying out loud, fine! Let’s call him BIG FAT PEST! ...Will you shut up? No not you, I’m talking to the dog. Okay, he’s not fat. Let’s call him Big Pest. His smaller, more hyperactive friend is named… nevermind. We’ll call her Little Brat.

Big Pest enjoys long, moonlit walks around the block, cuddling and begging for whatever’s on your plate. At 12 pounds he’s a little big and kinda muscular for a chihuahua. He’s a sweet, mellow boy, until he thinks a stranger is invading his turf. Then he turns into a bristling, loud guard dog. I call this photo his “I’m Too Sexy for Your Camera” pose.

Little Brat is only 6 pounds and very fast. She prizes staying warm very much, but will venture out from under the blanket in winter to steal bones and chewies from Big Pest, go for a walk, or bark madly at any random noise believed to be an intruder. Other dogs make her go absolutely nuts—she will not hesitate to pick a fight with a Doberman (since she thinks she is one). She is slightly neurotic and has obsessive compulsive licking behavior.

So now you’ve met my furry little children. Are they annoying? Yes. Do I love ‘em? Absolutely!

The pressure is on

Ever since discovering The Bitches, I’ve been checking out their site every day, and not because I’m expecting them to have reviewed my blog already (too soon for that). They’re just so wickedly snarky all the time, I can’t decide if I’m in awe or just jealous because I’m not that fearless. In other words, they are freaking hilarious! Especially this one (skip down to #3), it had me giggling like a 12 year old girl for days.

Anyway, I know I really have to wean myself off this Blogger template. I’ve taken the first step and designed a title banner thingy. You likey? Last night I started coding a brand new template from scratch. I like the colors on this one, so I’ll probably stick with them, but hopefully it’ll be different enough to look like my own creation. I’m on a mission and the pressure is on!

I just reminded myself of that 80’s song “The Heat is On”. Who was that, Glen Fry? Frye? Whatever. The saxophones just won’t stop playing in my head! “The heat is on!” (Well, not really, my house has no heat, remember?)

Thursday, January 26, 2006

What's that on my desk?

Uh oh, it's Elmo

I heard on the radio this morning that they’ve come up with a new talking Elmo book. As if that alone wasn’t enough to scare me, there seems to be a bit of controversy around this one. On pressing one of the buttons, he’s supposed to be saying “Uh oh, it’s time to go!” (Does it also pee on cue?) However when you play it, it sounds like “Uh oh, it’s time to die!” I didn’t think that could be possible, the two words don’t even rhyme. But then they played it over the radio, and sure enough you hear the tinny little demon voice gleefully informing you that it’s time to die. I was laughing so hard, you have to hear this! (Links to a video clip. Actual clip plays after a commercial. Sorry, it was the only one I could find.)