Off to BlogHer!

Tomorrow I leave for BlogHer. I know that I'm not a rock star blogger or anything (especially with my sporadic posting lately) so I'll be honest. I'm going to the conference to network and peddle my wares. There's no shame in that.

Of course, I'll be going with this cast on. Unfortunate, except for the fact that I'm totally stuffing it full of cocaine that should get me a tidy profit from all the SAHMs.

(Dear law enforcement: I'm totally kidding. Also I flushed down all of my leftover percocet from my foot surgeries because that's the kind of person I am, even though I could totally sell them on the street for lots of cash.)

BUT, I am milking it for all it's worth, so I called the airport today to let them know that I need a wheelchair, and for the first time in my life, I'm going to get on PRIORITY BOARDING!! And Murray can wheel me in all the way up to the gate! (In other milking it for all it's worth news, I will definitely be using my handicapped status to enhance our Disneyland experience this fall, even though I should be feeling fine, but my temporary handicapped parking sticker says I'll be crippled till November.)

Now, how do I make a cast look good for a conference? I turn it into a go-go boot, that's how. Check it out.


I'm sure to post more full body shots from the conference. I used an old pair of patterned tights to do this. But Murray, who is a husband who has opinions on this sort of thing, encouraged me to buy actual knee-high socks so that everything looked a little nicer. So I did. Right now I'm wearing a stripey pair, but for the conference, I should be wearing a pair that looks similar to the picture.

Probably the hardest thing about this conference will be leaving my 6-month old babe. (Sorry Murray---I will miss you, too, but remember that you have gone on THREE trips without me since we've known each other, so this is my turn.) But just to get me through, you can be sure I'll be watching this video over and over and over again.

(Gulliver doesn't put hard things in his mouth---only soft things. So although he was slightly fussy the other night because of teething, he wouldn't chew on the frozen teething ring we gave him. So we found something else to do with the teething ring...)

Should I be concerned?

My coworker just gave me two packages of a fine, white powder and asked me to deliver them to her brother (whom I've never met).

I joked with her about making me deliver drugs, and then I read the label, which says "A complete line of supplies for wine and beer."

She claims that if you mix this stuff (Tartaric acid) with heavy cream, it makes marscapone.

Of course, her brother will only be able to make the marscapone if I don't find a higher bidder before him. I'll sell at $2000/oz.

This actually reminds me of the time that I found a small bottle with small white pills in it just inside my apartment door. I had no idea what these pills in this unmarked bottle were. First I wondered if my roommate was doing drugs. Then I started going through the list of all of my friends who had been to my apartment that week, and I tried to imagine all of them doing drugs. I'm sorry to say that I even narrowed it down to the two most likely candidates. (Magoo, Rags, if you're reading this, I'm sorry for ever suspecting you of drug use.) And I really felt that I was in a horrible sort of moral dilemma.

Then I found out that it was my landlord's nitroglycerin for his heart condition.

I wouldn't be marrying Murray...

...if contact from random blog stalkers creeped me out.

Yesterday Murray and I went to Zupas. If you've never been there, I highly recommend it. It's great except that the booth-to-table ratio favors tables too heavily. After Murray and I payed for our food, we were filling up our drinks and I noticed a bus boy cleaning a booth. And I decided that I needed to grab the booth immediately, despite the fact that Murray had already brought our food to a table. So I walked towards the booth as quickly as possible, not even taking the time to catch Murray's attention, and trying not to spill my drink (I didn't put a lid on it because I didn't want to waste that time in nabbing the booth).

As I approached the booth, I caught another patron approaching the booth out of my peripheral vision. She had just walked into the restaurant, so I thought she might be one of those horrid, horrid people who save tables before they've even ordered their food. I quickened my pace and slid into the booth moments before she arrived, trying not to make eye contact.

She came closer. That was unexpected. She said, "I hope this doesn't sound creepy, but..."

My mind jumped to two conclusions:

1) "...I was wondering if I could have this booth even though you got here first and I don't even have my food yet." In that case, it would not be "creepy." Just rude and awkward.

2) "...I was wondering if I could share your booth with you." Here I thought she'd talk about some sort of physical condition that would require her to sit at a booth rather than a table. And yes, asking a stranger to share a booth with them would be creepy.

But neither of my conclusions were correct:

"...I think I read your blog. Singing Cicada?"

This was a huge relief. First of all, she was no longer a booth contender. Second of all, I had an anonymous fan!

We chatted for a bit and she explained that she and her husband live in California but she knows about my blog because of a mutual friend, Kit. In fact, she even said that before coming out to Utah, she got caught up on my blog to see what I was up to. How random for her, then, that she'd run into me while she was here. She must feel so, so very lucky for having met me... but come to think of it, she didn't ask me for my autograph at all, which I find more than a little insulting.

Anyway. Murray finally came over with our tray of food and she congratulated us on our upcoming marriage, and I let her know that I can't possibly be creeped out by an anonymous blog reader because I'm marrying one. (Except the other night, I did actually have a nightmare about a murderous blog stalker...)

So here's my shout out to Random Blog Stalker. After a little further thought I've concluded that you must have forgotten to ask me for my autograph because you were so flustered. Here it is in printable format.

The thesaurus says I'm Satan.

I love thesauri. I just love seeing all the different word options. I love language (hence the double major in English and French and the minor in editing, and count the Italian as a bonus). And I really, really love language humor. That's probably one of the greatest things about working with other editors. At my current job, the editors aren't as nerdy as they were at my college job, and I kindof miss that nerdiness, to tell the truth. We assembled quote books of particularly noteworthy quotes. We made fun of others' English usage, underscoring our own superiority.

Thank heavens Squirrel Boy (a relic of that former group) came to work here, too. It allows me to enjoy language humor once more.

Yesterday I needed to write some romance copy and I was stuck with a few wording options. I checked www.thesaurus.com for a little bit of help. And I enjoyed my findings so much that I sent the different options to Squirrel Boy.

Sometimes the thesaurus really cracks me up. Right now, I'm looking for an alternative for "devotee." [Note: the original word I chose was "reader" but I wanted something that carried a "devotee" sense, but not the word "devotee."]

I found "adherent" in the list so I clicked it to see its synonyms. Can you find the synonyms in this sentence?

For over 15 years, [this book] has helped card-carrying members achieve balance and maximize effectiveness.

For over 15 years, [this book] has helped hangers-on achieve balance and maximize effectiveness.

For over 15 years, [this book] has helped fiends achieve balance and maximize effectiveness.

For over 15 years, [this book] has helped lovers achieve balance and maximize effectiveness.

For over 15 years, [this book] has helped religious persons achieve balance and maximize effectiveness. (Note: the listed antonym for "religious person" is "god.")

Now let's take a moment to think about that last point. According to the thesaurus, the antonym of "religious person" (which describes me) is "god." The antonym of "god" is "Satan." Let's work this out mathematically:

Cicada = Religious Person

Antonym of Religious Person = God

Antonym of God = Satan

Religious Person = Satan

Satan = Cicada

Oh dear. The thesaurus can't be wrong.




(As an added bonus, here is the first paragraph of this entry, thesaurized.)

I find thesauri irresistible. I very soon am fond of bearing in mind all the poles apart utterance selections. I adore verbal communication (therefore the binary chief in English and French and the petty in expurgation, and reckon the Italian as a windfall). And I in actual fact, if truth be told worship tongue funniness. That's in all probability one of the supreme effects about functioning with supplementary editors. At my existing employment, the editors aren't as milk-and-water as they were at my university profession, and I kindof let pass that milk-and-wateriness, to put in the picture the precision. We agglomerated citation compendia of for the most part worth mentioning speech marks. We made sport of others' English management, italicizing our particular pre-eminence.

Sincerity at its Sincerest

Because I am a responsible woman, I did the responsible thing and made an appointment for my pap test. I underwent the whole ordeal a couple of weeks ago and because I have at least the tiniest ounce of propriety, I won't discuss the details of that appointment.

I will, however, share that during my appointment, I had this to look at on the wall in front of me:


(Okay, not really, but there was a picture of a little girl with her eyes wide and her mouth open, which was funnier/even worse than The Scream. And even though I had my camera in the room with me, and I was all alone barely swathed in sheets of paper, I didn't want to take the picture for fear of 1) getting caught and being considered a freak show and 2) catching the reflection of my scantily paper-clad self in the photo.)

During the visit, the NP became concerned that I may have thyroid disease. It runs in my family. She ordered blood work and told me I'd have the results in about two weeks. Yesterday, I received this letter in the mail:


It scares me to think what they would have sent me if my blood test had not, actually, been normal.

Fact vs. Fiction

Tonight at Nat's house, she introduced me to all her friends as, "This is Cicada. She met her boyfriend on the internet." I think that maybe she's trying to get me used to the fact that now that Murray and I are dating-dating, people are going to ask us how we met, and I'm going to have to admit that we met online. Actually, everyone I met tonight really thought it was cool that Murray and I met through my blog. And my grandpa up in Canada, who thinks that computers are of the devil, said, "You know, people don't like to admit that they met on the internet because there's some sort of stigma attached to it. But it's really not much different than my day when we went to dances to meet friends of friends. That's how we met new people to date."

If Grandpa doesn't think it's so bad, why should I?

If Murray doesn't think it's so bad, why should I? (He made this horrible fake-crying face when I told him that the way we met embarrasses me, and it almost broke my heart.)

In fact, I have several successfully-married friends who met online (whoa---not that we're talking about marriage here---we're just talking about the fact that Murray and I are dating, okay?). Should I out you all? Off the top of my head, there's Daltongirl and Daltonboy, Squirrel Boy and Brinestone, and Ambrosia and Bawb. I don't know if three couples counts as "several" but you get what I'm saying.

Still, I'm embarrassed to say, "Murray and I met on the internet." That sounds like internet dating sites (not that there's anything wrong with that...). I'm even embarrassed to say, "Murray and I met through my blog" because that generally leads to "What is your blog address" and maybe I don't want to give my blog address to everyone I talk to about Murray.

I'm going to have to come up with some alternate explanations of how we met. Some can be half truths. Some may be lies. Let me know which is your favorite, and feel free to suggest alternatives.

1. We met through a friend of a friend. (True: He linked to my blog from the blog of a friend of a friend.)

2. Well, we were dating for a while, then we broke up, but we got back together again. (This is El Senor's solution. He said we just have to break up at some point and get back together again. This answer is "deflection" where I wouldn't actually be answering the question, but people wouldn't notice that I wasn't actually answering the question.)

3. We happened to go to the same restaurant one night and started talking while we waited to be seated, and decided to sit together. (True: Although, we arranged online to meet at that restaurant... I'd just omit that detail.)

4. We met in the Mac store and our love of Macs brought us together. (False. But we both love Macs.)

5. I saw him on the street and recognized him as a boy from a James Christensen painting who I had always dreamed of meeting. (False. But he's in a James Christensen painting.)

6. I saw him on the street and recognized him as a guy in Saints and Soldiers. (False, but he was an extra in Saints and Soldiers.)

7. We were both abducted by aliens at the same time and met on the mother ship. When we returned to earth, we found each other and our shared horrifying experience really brought us closer together. (True, but claiming to have met on the internet is much less embarrassing.)

A Day at Work

Missing Redras, Part II

Are you still not convinced why I loved living with Redras so much? She's hysterical. Today, I'd like you to read an excerpt from an email she wrote. If she's this funny by email, just imagine how funny she is to have as a roommate.

First you have to know that she asked me about Murray, so I emailed her and joked about the fact that he still could be an internet predator---after going out with him and realizing that he's best described as "sweet," I watched an episode of Law and Order where everyone described the serial killer at "sweet." That doesn't help me to sleep at night.

(Daltongirl met Daltonboy with help from the internet and she reports: "Daltonboy so far has not turned out to be a rapist, serial killer, or predator. Although he did come home half an hour late from work today so I should probably be concerned. His true colors are coming out, and I only had to wait seven years. But those seven years were pretty darn good, so I can't complain.")

Here is Redras's email:

Murray sounds really sweet and funny. Does he live in Provo? How did he find your blog? I just googled "hot mormon chick salt lake" and your blog was not on the first page of search results. So if he IS an internet predator, he is either more creative or more persistent than me. Instead of thinking of him as a "predator", you could think of him as a "pre-dator", or one who "pre-dates", meaning he takes a test drive with someone's blog personality before taking their real personality on a date. Considering how dangerous and chock full of crazies the world is, pre-dating is actually pretty smart. You can add "intelligent" and "cautious" to his list of good qualities.


(I must admit that I am fully aware that now that I've posted "hot mormon chick salt lake" on my blog, my chances of being found by an internet predator have increased.)

Blog Boyfriend vs. Blog Boyfriend

Tonight was the date. You'll likely want to know what I ended up wearing. Well, right before I left work, I decided to go shopping at Gap again. I ended up buying a tuxedo shirt and a pair of jeans. Which is funny because I had planned on wearing a tuxedo shirt and pair of jeans that I already owned. So basically, I just went out and bought a new, different version of what I'd already been planning to wear. I tried to take a picture, but my camera battery ran out as soon as I pushed the button, so I'm afraid you won't see what I looked like on my date. No matter.

Anyway, so let me give you the background story. See, this guy I went on a date with---we'll call him Murray---emailed me a little while ago to say that he'd been reading my blog. We emailed back and forth a little and then decided that we should get together and meet. Of course, I ran the risk of him being a psycho killer (qu'est-ce que c'est?) (fa fa fa fa fa fa fa fa fa fa) from whom I'd have to run run run run run run run away (oh oh oh oh... ai ai ai ai ai). So we arranged a meeting in a public place (Bombay House) and I brought back-ups---Nat and OldEnough. Of course, that was three-on-one for poor Murray, who would have been in real danger had we turned out to be the psycho killers (qu'est-ce que c'est?). But Nat and OldEnough were the obvious choice. You see, they recently met through their blogs, too. So it was like a blog-boyfriend-double-date. (Note: The use of the word "boyfriend" here does not mean a committed relationship, rather it means "person who has dating potential.")

Murray and I met in the waiting area and Nat and OldEnough showed up soon after. When we got to our table, OldEnough pulled out the chair for Nat to sit in, and Murray then said that he had to pull out my chair now, too, because he couldn't not do it after OldEnough did it. Nat mentioned that OldEnough earned points by pulling out the chair. We weren't sure if Murray earned points because he just did it out of peer pressure. But I announced that Murray earned points when he told me I looked nice (of course, he had read all about the date shopping experience). And this led to a points discussion where Nat and I were able to discuss our dates' point statuses in front of them. Murray pitched in that he might lose points for "packing a few extra pounds" but he might gain points for "ability to lose weight" which I didn't acknowledge as funny at the time, but I've got to admit, I'm still laughing about it. In fact, I must mention here that one of the best parts about this double-date was the body matching that went on. Nat and OldEnough were the skinny couple. Murry and I were the ability-to-lose-weight couple. Such a good match.

By the end of the evening, we all knew each other a little better. In fact, OldEnough and Murray even exchanged emails. This could be a really good thing. Or, of course, it could be a really bad thing when Murray and OldEnough decide to run off together and leave Nat and me alone and destitute. After the date, Nat called me to tell me that both she and OldEnough approve of Murray. Approval is very important. OldEnough thought it was cool that Murray prefaced half his sentences with apologies for possibly sounding creepy, or internet-stalkery, or really apologizing for anything. Nat thought it was cool that Murray pointed out that he did actually consider giving me references who I could call to make sure he wasn't a psycho killer. (I think, actually, Nat and OldEnough and I were all at least slightly disappointed to find out that Murray was normal and cool... but like I've said, it's not like the feather-weights would have been much help in defending me anyway.)

Anyway, I'm sure that you're all dying to know Murray's point status by the end of the night. Here it is:

Being on time: 1
Dressing nicely (great jeans and a nice, striped button-up shirt): 1
Commenting on my appearance: 1
Not forcing an awkward hug on me: 5
Being easy to talk to and fitting in well: 2
Making a racist comment: -2 (that's actually an inside joke---we have those already; he didn't make any racist comments---I just had to put in a negative)
Knowing how to use PhotoShop: 10 (because the program is cryptic to me, anyone who knows how to use it is a genius)
Having two G5s with two 23-inch monitors at work: 10 (dead sexy)
Knowing what to do at Utah Lake if you're a man who wants to have sex with a man: -10
Not offering to take me bowling after dinner: 20
Deferring to my food judgment and ordering the same thing as me: 1
Allowing me to order the Peshwari Nan: 2
Not forcing another awkward hug on me at the end of the evening: 5

There are plenty of other things that earned him points, but Nat keeps Google Talking me to ask if I've finished the post. Okay, really, my creativity has run out. Suffice it to say that he ended with positive points. I don't know how OldEnough fared in the end, but I wish him the same success. Of course, I'm still keeping my fingers crossed that Murray and OldEnough don't take a trip together to Utah Lake.

I Lost Two Pounds on the Daltongirl Miracle Diet. Ask Me How.

By following these easy steps, you too can lose two pounds of pure body fat on the Daltongirl Miracle Diet.

DAY ONE
Go over to Daltongirl's house. Eat her food and touch her baby chickens.

DAY TWO
Fast for 24 hours. Or, you know, 20 if you're a wuss.

By midday you should receive an email from Daltongirl to ask if you're puking like she is. If you're not, that's okay. The diet is not working yet.

Break your fast by eating three large pieces of El Senor's cardamom bundt cake, made with sour cream that expired two months ago.

DAY THREE
Go about your daily routine. Notice the queasy feeling in your stomach. This is the diet starting to work.

Take the edge off the queasiness by eating a large, spicy salad. If that doesn't work, top it off with several cinnamon gummy bears.

Return home; you may even choose to leave work or your regular routine an hour early. Once home, if you choose a shot of Pepto Bismol instead of the last piece of El Senor's cardamom bundt cake, the diet is working.

Nap for three hours.

If you still don't want that piece of cardamom bundt cake, you're on the right track.

Watch an hour of television.

Go to the bathroom.

Vomit. Repeat three times.

DAY FOUR
Writhe and moan in your bed. Eat nothing.

DAY FIVE
Weigh yourself. You should have lost at least two pounds.




This diet is also doctor-certified. Or almost-doctor certified. Because it was certified by Rogers Rice, almost-PhD. Please review her findings in an exclusive google talk interview:

Dr. Rice: So tell me about this miracle diet.

Cicada: It's GREAT. I ate at my friend Daltongirl's house on Saturday. And then she called on Sunday to see if I was puking b/c she was puking all night. I wasn't. But I puked MONDAY night. So I think instead of food poisoning me, she just gave me some bug.

Dr. Rice: Awesome. Puking will help you melt off the pounds for sure.

Cicada: But hey---it got rid of those two pesky pounds I've really been wanting to get rid of.

Dr. Rice: Sadly, its just water weight.

Cicada: No. No it's not. It's fat. Pure fat. I'm sure of it.

Dr. Rice: I believe, Cicada.

Cicada: Don't burst my two-pound bubble, Dr. Rice.

Dr. Rice: You puked up your own fat.

Cicada: If throwing up weren't a key to weight loss, bulimics wouldn't have such success.

Dr. Rice: I can't argue with that logic Cicada.

Cicada: And YOU're the one who's getting a PhD. Ha. Just call me Dr. Cicada.

Dr. Rice: Done and done

Careful Texting

It's come to my attention that I need to be really, really careful when it comes to texting with my relatively new phone. Predictive text used to be so straight forward! To write "me," I'd press 63 and get "of," which I'd then have to switch to "me."

My new phone is slightly smarter, though. I'm not sure how it works, but it either remembers the last version of "63" that I keyed in, or it remembers which version of "63" I use most often. Either way, it's clear that I text other people about me more than I texts others of other things.

(As an aside, I may say that predictive text became popular while I was on my mission. After my mission, I was talking on the phone with my Italian trainer, who was complaining about predictive text being stupid and pointless. "It never has the words I need," she said. "Like fascists. It doesn't even know the word fascists." I asked her what kind of text messages she was sending that required the word fascists...)

Now it's becoming clear to me what kind of text messages I send. I start keying in 26627 and sooner than you can say comas, the word "boobs" appears.

And it doesn't end there. I key in 46 and before I get "in," the word "ho" appears on my screen. Earlier today, I wasn't paying close attention to what I was texting about hemming pants and (wisely) read the message before sending it: "In my mission sisters were forbidden to sex for the elders."

While the above message was absolutely true (and I believe applicable to all missions) I really meant to say that the sisters were forbidden to sew for the elders.

So to all of you whom I text, please forgive me if I send you lewd messages. I really don't mean to tell you about my comas or my sew skills.

My boyfriend's back and you're gonna be in trouble...

As everyone knows, my boyfriend Jack Bauer is back from China. We had a Sunday and a Monday date this week, but we've decided to cut it back to just Mondays for the next few months. You know, he's a very busy man, so I've got to give him his space. In honor of 24's return to television, I'd like to share with you 24 observations from Sunday and Monday evenings:

1. VIEWER DISCRETION IS ADVISED. No, for reals though.

2. I know that Jack is having a hard time adjusting from being tortured in a Chinese prison where he didn't speak for 20 months because it took him a full hour and twenty minutes to get a gun. An hour and twenty minutes, people!! Jack's obviously a little sluggish.

3. Jack didn't get much red meat in prison, which actually made killing his first terrorist by biting him in the neck, vampire-style, a tasty, tasty kill.

4. The blood reactivated Jack's vocal chords. No more whispering after biting the guy to death.

5. Some families get up and are all ready for school and work by 6:00 in the morning. Some neighbors are up and ready to beat up or kill prospective-terrorist-neighbors before 7:00 a.m. Some people are really, really morning people. I'm not.

6. The American government does not negotiate with terrorists. Except sometimes they do, you know, like when the terrorist threats are really, really bad. And then they meet terrorist demands because maybe the terrorists will be trustworthy. But then, you know, Los Angeles gets nuked. Maybe the American government should go back to its policy of not negotiating with terrorists.

7. If the American government had arranged for Jack's release about an hour earlier, he would have been sufficiently rehabilitated to stop the nuking of Los Angeles.

8. Speaking of Jack's rehabilitation, I learned that a man can recover from an amazing amount in just four hours. Well, if that man is Jack. Jack was able to speak again, resocialize himself, regain his killer instinct, correctly assess the state of terrorist affairs in America, and get up to full running and killing speed after his Chinese imprisonment and after being tortured briefly. On the other hand, Ahmed (he's going to kill me because I don't know how to spell his name, but gosh-darnit, I know how to pronounce it!) was unable to recover from mere glass being stuck in his leg. Come on. Jack had his nerve bundle tweaked, and he had some horrid, horrid stick thing shivved into him.

9. Speaking of torture, jabbing a pen into a man's shoulder will not make him give up his terrorist secrets. Sliding a knife underneath his knee cap will.

10. VIEWER DISCRETION IS ADVISED. Did you think we were kidding?

11. It's really easy to walk into any person's house and find clothes that are such a perfect fit that even while you're not quite "with it" after your Chinese imprisonment and stuff, everyone watching you is thinking, Dang, he looks good.

12. The American government does not negotiate or work with terrorists. Especially not ones who have been terrorists for the past 20 years. Well, except when they are deciding to renounce terrorism and become a legitimate political force now. Then the American government will work with them. It helps if they're tall, dark, and handsome. It also helps if they're really basically pleasant chaps.

13. I really want a Toyota. I can't quite figure out why...

14. I really like Nextel. I can't figure out why...

15. The product placement in 24 provides some much-needed comedic relief. The only thing better would be the actors actually doing the commercials for these products during the breaks. I can see Hassad (Assad?) saying, "Buy Toyota! The ex-terrorist-turned-legitimate-political-entity car of choice!"

16. You should really sacrifice your family members whenever possible. If the wounded terrorist neighbor kid tells you to deliver a package for him or he'll kill your family, let him kill your family for heaven's sakes...

17. ...or call 911 because the cool thing is that they'll put you right on the phone with Jack Bauer. But do that right away because if you wait too long to do that, Jack Bauer won't be able to save the city from the nuclear bomb.

18. In a previous season, the producers discovered that the viewers liked it when Jack Bauer shows his weakness and cries. They cashed in on that pretty early on this season. Poor Jack Bauer. Poor, poor Jack Bauer. If I were him, I'd consider death pretty welcome, too.

19. Girlfriends don't tend to really stick around after you intentionally disappear for a couple of years, reappear for one day (24 hours to be precise), and then go to Chinese prison for another 20 months. Well, girlfriends like Audrey. Girlfriends like me? They're always there for Jack.

20. You shouldn't assume that all persons of Middle Eastern descent are terrorists. Only, on the whole, you'd be safer if you did. Except in the case where the bus driver wouldn't let on the Middle Eastern man who just wanted to get to work. In that case, the Middle Eastern man was safer because he was discriminated against and the bus driver got blown up. By an Asian suicide bomber. Ironic, really. Still, it's a good thing it wasn't Whitey and that it was, in the end, a visible minority. It makes me feel so much safer when the white guys are not the terrorists.

21. Except who's going to be the CTU mole this year? We've had one every year without fail, and it's usually Whitey. Why did I ever trust you, Whitey? Why?

22. When Jack said not to let Kim know he was back, I was kindof glad. And by kindof glad, I mean really, really glad.

23. Even though Jack says he can't do it, he can do it. Poor, poor Jack. He has to do it because no one else can. The world needs Jack Bauer.

24. Did we mention that VIEWER DISCRETION IS ADVISED AND THE FOLLOWING PROGRAM MAY CONTAIN CONTENT THAT WILL MAKE YOUR EYES BLEED.

Fat and Lazy

El Senor thinks that I'm a fat, lazy slob. He objects to how much I eat and he objects to how much time I spend watching the television and he also objects to the amount of time I spend on the computer. And what bugs me the most is that he chooses to communicate this to me passive-aggressively.

When we moved into this place, he told me that it was my responsibility to provide TiVo for the condo. Well, I found out that TiVo wasn't an option because we don't have a telephone line in the condo, but I did some research and found out all about Comcast's DVR. So I made the phone calls and yesterday the Comcast technician came over and set us all up. Digital cable. DVR. Comcast on Demand. It's all pretty sweet. So last night, I sat on our brand new couch (so long, futon!) and programmed in all the programs that I want the DVR to record repeatedly. Most notably was Cast Away, which I've been wanting to watch again for years, but always seem to forget when picking out a movie. It was airing tonight with limited commercial breaks (which means fewer times that I would have to fast forward the commercials) and I had everything set up to record it.

So what happens? Well, I drive home from work today, all excited about watching Cast Away and I walk into the house and notice a couple of odd things. First of all, there's no more TV and DVR in the living room. El Senor disconnected them and put them on the floor of my bedroom. You may not know this, but a disconnected DVR will not actually record Cast Away. It won't record Without a Trace. And I doubt that it will keep the recordings of Design on a Dime and The Daily Show with Jon Stewart and The Colbert Report that were already recorded on it.

My computer was not in the living room where I usually leave it. It was in El Senor's room. It's not like he was using it, either. He was just keeping it away from me. He has his own freaking computer.

If you think that's bad, though, just wait to find out what comes next. He put the couch (which he knows is too heavy for me to move by myself) in the kitchen. It takes up all the room of the kitchen, so I have no access to the refrigerator, cupboards, dishes, pantry---anything. He's cut off all access to food.

He also put the dining room table and chairs in my bedroom, like just to rub salt in an open wound: "Ha. You can't eat food, and you can't even sit at the dining room table and think about eating food."

My room is now crowded with furniture and a useless television and DVR. Of course I stole my computer back when he wasn't paying attention, but seriously! I am starting to think that maybe living with him wasn't such a good idea.



Oh, so you want his side of the story?? Like that's important? Well, according to him, it's necessary to move everything out of the living room and dining room in order to install his hardwood floor this weekend. Of all the lame, transparent excuses. I suggest that a cheaper solution next time will just be to confront me about my television, computer, and eating habits instead of inventing reasons to block my access to my vices.



This is a picture of the floor that he's "installing."



This is a picture of my bedroom that he's shoved things into.



This is a picture of the impossible kitchen. What I wouldn't give for a nice warm cup of hot chocolate right now... Did I mention that to further deprive me of comfort, he left the doors open all day long today? Hmph.

Time Management

Today something I saw at the office that caught my attention and caused me to rise from blog death.

The student employees work in an open area where there are four long desks with about eight or ten work stations each. There are no dividers and no privacy (that's not a problem because unlike last year, there is actually space now, and it's convenient for socializing with coworkers). What that means is that when someone is doing something out of the ordinary, everyone knows about it. Today I heard a buzzing noise and turned around to witness a coworker shaving his face with an electric razor. He was staring intently at the computer, using the mouse with one hand and shaving his face with the other.

It made me think that I've obviously been misusing my time. I have compiled a list of things that I have foolishly been doing on my own time that can now be brought into the office.

Brushing teeth: No longer will I waste time brushing my teeth at home! With very little preparation (a rinse cup and a spit cup) I can now brush my teeth at my desk!

Blow-drying hair: When sockets abound at work, why waste my own electricity and precious personal time making my hair look perfect? Instead, I can bring my hair dryer to work, plug it in, and blast away for a few minutes while I read correct grammar on the computer screen.

Waxing legs: I have never done this, but now that I have four paid hours every day to attend to my personal hygiene, I may as well start. Think of all the work I can get done while I wait for the wax to harden sufficiently!

Pedicure/manicure: Again, what better time to attend to this than when I'm already planning to stay in the same spot for four hours? At the beginning of my shift, I can do my toes, then work on my fingernails. For the rest of the time, as long as I'm careful typing, I can the enamel dry perfectly.

Bleaching my mustache: This is something I've only ever done once, morally supporting a friend who realized that she needed it after seeing this picture. But now, why not do it again?

I believe that the personal care possibilities are endless. And in the spirit of office unity and camaraderie, when someone asks, "Pass the epilator, please," I will reply, "With pleasure."

Cicada in a Bikini!

ANNOUNCEMENT:

Long ago, I promised to post a picture of me in a bikini. I cannot deliver on this promise because I have never worn a bikini in my entire life. But I have worn one-piecers, and I do have a picture of me in a one-piece suit that I am ready to post and in honor of the fact that I still feel the need to justify the fact that I can do without the Canary Islands, I will post it. Just to stick it to Nemesis. Just so that you are aware and ready to look at it tonight, it will post at approximately 7:00 p.m., if I am anywhere near a computer at that time.

Prepare to be titillated.

Making Out Can Kill

I hate to share the humiliating and intimate details of my friends' lives on the Internet, but... Oh, who am I kidding? I love it! Let me tell you a really funny story about MOTD, or Making Out Transmitted Diseases. Or at least one.

So I have a friend. We'll call her Urine Girl, because that's how I introduce her whenever I talk to my parents about her. ("You know... that girl who drank urine.") I met her over the Christmas break and immediately knew that she and I were destined to be friends. One thing that was noticeable about her over the Christmas break was that she had a rather large open sore on the top of her nose. She explained in the presence of our girl friends that she got it while making out. The guy she had been making out with was scruffy, and his scruff scratched the top of her nose. We're still not sure how, though we pestered her for details on how the top of one's nose could be so seriously scraped during a makeout. One girl cried, "You were kissing upside down, weren't you?! You were kissing upside down!" Still UG was sparing with the details.

When my parents asked her what she did to her nose, she explained that she had scraped it. My mom asked, "Scraped it having fun?" and the rest of us snickered while we watched UG try to come up with a response to that.

What I found out only a couple days ago was that the huge open sore on her nose had a staph infection, which explained why it was enormous and why it wasn't healing. Needless to say, it was good that the condition was diagnosed when they could still do something about it, rather than watch her die of a flesh-eating bacteria, contracted while making out.

The Longest Forty-Three Minutes of My Life

For a while, El Senor and I have been meaning to go to a spin class together at the gym. Today we finally had the chance to go. Now, I haven't been working out the past couple weeks. I've been spending my time focusing on other areas of my life, like homework and... you know... homework. We got to the 45-minute class two minutes late, but were able to find two bikes together, right beside the instructor. For everyone who's never been to a spin class, let me describe the environment. The room is small and triangular with black walls. The only lighting comes from a traffic light at the front of the class. Music is pumping as hard as it would in a club. In fact, I imagine the whole thing is a club atmosphere (I've never been to a club) only with stationary bikes. Now let me detail the next 43 minutes.

43: Got on bike, adjusted bike with El Senor's help. Started pedaling.

42: Was instructed to exert myself at about a level 7 exertion. Exerted myself at what I thought was a level 7 exertion.

41: Was instructed to sprint. Started sprinting.

40-38: Was instructed to sit back and pedal at a level 8. Pedaled at a level 8. Started to feel funny.

37: Started to feel burning in my lungs and chest. Felt more funny. Leaned far over bike handlebars.

36: Started to feel seriously ill. Stopped pedaling so fast, seriously reduced the resistance on my bike.

35-30: Thought about the public embarrassment to physical discomfort ratio. I was feeling sick enough that I didn't care that everyone in the room could see I wasn't following the workout anymore. But I wasn't sick enough to walk out of the room. Put my head down on my arms on the handlebars.

29: Said yes when the instructor asked me if I was okay.

28: Wondered if when I passed out, my head would hit El Senor's bike or the girl next to me's bike before it hit the ground.

27-26: Wondered if I'd have an epileptic seizure once I hit the ground.

25: Tasted strange taste in my mouth. Wondered if it was a taste of death.

24-23: Listened to El Senor say, "Don't over-exert yourself." Laughed because I didn't know whether he was being sincere or sarcastic. Listened to El Senor say, "No, I'm serious." Reflected on the fact that for the last howevermany minutes, I'd been pedaling extremely slowly at zero resistance.

22: Wondered if after my skull fracture and seizure, I would survive long enough to make it to the hospital.

21: Wondered if Viper would come and visit me in the hospital in the moments before my death.

20: Thought about how my entire set of lungs and esophagus were still on fire.

19: Thought that maybe I was starting to feel slightly better, despite the burning organs mentioned above.

18: Thought about the public embarrassment to physical discomfort ratio. I was feeling better, and was more aware of the fact that anyone in the class could see that I wasn't working out at all. Started pedaling faster.

17-13: Smelled burned matches. The instructor said that whatever the smell was, it smelled like food. But it didn't smell like food. It smelled like burned matches. Wondered if the rest of the gym were on fire, would we notice in our room with the music turned up so loud. Wondered about emergency evacuation. Wondered if there were a fire blocking the door, would I run through the fire to escape, or would I stay in the tiny triangular room and die?

12: Stopped pedaling faster. Wasn't feeling as sick anymore, but still wasn't feeling up to any degree of exertion.

11-9: Thought about my homework.

8: Heard instructor announce that there were only eight more minutes. Rejoiced.

7: Realized that the fire in my lungs was out now. Still didn't really pedal faster. Wondered if I'd ever give spin a chance again.

6-2: Thought about the Oscars last night and how I disagreed with everyone's criticism of Jon Stewart's performance. I thought he was fantastic.

1: Realized I'd have something to blog about.

I am a big, fat, sick hypocrite.

I know that I just posted a brilliant post an hour or so ago, but what I have to say now needs to be said. I know that my most true and loyal friends will comment both on this post and my other post today, in order to show their love and support of me.

I have been sick all week. I started coughing and getting a sore throat on Tuesday. It's been getting progressively worse. Puckish Mitya told me to go to the health clinic tomorrow, which I will do, but I needed something today to help me out, since I've already consumed all of my disgusting Hall lozenges. So I decided to sin.

I threw on my only sweatshirt and a pair of jeans and took The Boy's car to Smith's. As I was pulling in, I was surprised at how full the parking lot was. I will admit it. I did actually think to myself something along the lines of, "So the only people who'll be here today are non-members and sinners." But that is a very personal and self-righteous thought that normally I would never share with anyone but today I must share so that you can understand the absolute shame I then felt.

I looked down and noticed my sweatshirt. As it turns out, the only sweatshirt I own is a BYU sweatshirt. Crapcrapcrapcrapcrapcrapcrap. Leave it to me to shop on the sabbath in a BYU sweatshirt. I could have blended in the crowd, but no. I chose to wear a BYU sweatshirt.

So I went straight to the pharmacy to grab cough syrup so that when I went to get the chicken noodle soup, people would at least see (if they looked closely enough, which, let's be honest, no one saw anything other than the BYU sweatshirt) that I had medicine in hand.

At the very least, I'm sure that I made all those who were shopping in suits or skirts feel somewhat validated. Just as they, fellow sinners, made me feel validated.

(As an addition to this post, I'll let you know how I chose my cough syrup. I was torn between the generic Koger brand or the Robitussen brand, which had alcohol in it. I thought that as long as I was sinning on the sabbath, I may as well go for the alcohol. But the alcoholic one didn't seem to really address my symptoms. So I chose the one that said, "temporarily relieves cough due to minor throat and bronchial irritation; helps loosen phlegm (mucus) and thin bronchial secretions to make coughs more productive" because the part about making coughs more productive actually made me laugh out loud in the medicine section. Which called more attention to myself. And my BYU sweatshirt.)

Getting Political

I'm a Democrat. I think. The problem is that I just never think about it.

In an effort to become more politically conscious, I'm currently watching the State of the Union address (at DP's suggestion). What I'm learning is that this crowd is easier than a Utah crowd. I think that Bush has had about four standing ovations after four minutes.

Five!

Any political thoughts you would like to add? Please. Discuss. So that I can adopt your opinions.

Six!

Seven!

(Man, I'd seriously love to hire me a crowd like this.)

Eight!

Nine!

Ten!

Eleven!

Twelve!

Thirteen!

Fourteen!

Fifteen! (Except this time, no one seemed really enthusiastic about it.)

Sixteen... another lethargic one.

Seventeen!

Seventeen and a half!

Seventeen and... the same half! (What's with the other half?)

Oh... there goes the other half...

I think we're basically up to nineteen now.

Twenty.

Twenty-one!

(and a quarter)

Twenty-two!

Twenty-three!

Twenty-four!

Twenty-five!

Twenty-six!

Twenty-seven!

And so on and so on (which means that I fell asleep, but in my defense, I'm really, really tired.)

Darwin Awards Candidate

Tonight was my ward talent show. It was a fairly typical ward talent show with fairly typical ward talents. You had the guys who play guitar and sing. You had the girl who plays piano and sings. You had dancers. You had comedians. You had weird, melodramatic people sharing personal poetry about how truly desperate they are. But tonight, we almost witnessed natural selection in action.

One guy's talent, as listed in the ward directory, was "Explosions?" There are two things you need to know before I go on with this story:

1) We were in the auditorium of the Tanner building, which has a carpeted stage.

2) I was sitting in the front row with one other person.

So two guys wearing blue lab coats walked onto the stage, rolling carts full of tubes and containers and sciencey-looking stuff. And a bobble-head doll that they got from our ward Christmas white elephant gift exchange.

First, our main presenter (we'll call him Mr. Lucy) poured a mysterious liquid into a container, promising a great reaction once he threw in a match. Mr. Lucy threw in several matches. No reaction. Mr. Lucy decided to move on to his next demonstration. He took a container of liquid oxygen and started pouring it all over the top of one of the carts (the carts had high lips so they could hold liquid). He even spilled some liquid oxygen on the floor. Someone yelled out in concern for the carpet but Mr. Lucy reminded us, "It's oxygen. It's not going to hurt the carpet."

Mr. Lucy lit a match and threw it on top of the cart. No reaction. It was too late; the liquid oxygen had all evaporated.

Mr. Lucy pulled out his next demonstration. He put two pieces of cotton on top of the cart. One was normal---he threw a match onto it. The fire singed the cotton slightly. He said that the other piece of cotton had been otherwise altered (soaked in something, maybe?) and he threw a match onto it. The cotton turned into a huge, bright, and short-lived fire ball that burned a hole in my retinas. I couldn't see anything in front of my for a few seconds. I have to admit, it was cool, but I was wondering how much I really wanted to be on the front row at this point. The girl who I was sitting beside was the organizer of the activity. She leaned over and said, "This can't be allowed! But he said that he'd get permission from the building to do this..."

His next two demonstrations were setting balloons full of gas on fire. Again, short bursts of bright fire accompanied by loud popping noises.

Then he set up his equipment for his final and most dramatic demonstration. He had two clay pots over the head of the bobble-head doll. He said that he'd destroy the bobble-head doll. He had a mixture of two substances---I think they were iron oxide (rust) and aluminum (any chemistry people can correct me here---El Senor, it's late, so that's why I'm not calling you, but help me out here). He explained that adding heat would turn these substances into molten iron. So he poured the powders into one of the clay pots and stuck in a fuse. Then, using a blow torch, he lit the fuse.

What happened next could be described as a rain of fire. The substance caught fire and started shooting flames all over the stage. Once these little airborn pieces of flaming molten iron hit the ground, they caught the carpet on fire. Soon, the dozens of little fires started on the carpet burned out, and the audience was left gasping (for air because the entire auditorium was filled with stench and smoke). The molten iron had melted through the clay pots but had done surprisingly little damage to the bobble-head.

At this point, the girl beside me stood up and announced that this talent was over. The bishop, I noticed, had also stood up at this point. I just sat, calculating how far the closest molten iron drop had landed to me. It was only a couple feet. Then I sat back and wondered what a little molten iron drop would do if it landed on my head. Or my face. Or my eye. For the next fifteen minutes, I kept on blowing away ashes that were continually falling all around me.

I had the opportunity to go up on stage after the talent show to look at the damage. Everywhere that the molten iron had touched, the carpet was burned through to the floor. It looked like drops of acid had been spilled all over the stage (all the way down to the carpet of the first row) except for the drops of metal that were fused to the floor at the bottom of each hole. Mr. Lucy came up on stage, fully aware of how much trouble he was going to be in. He explained that first the bishop would be called, because this happened at a ward event. Next, he'd be called in and asked to explain himself in front of the chemistry department. Who knows what then? I feel bad for him---I really do. What he did was incredibly stupid but it will end up costing him a lot more than he ever expected (how much does it cost to recarpet an entire auditorium?).

Maybe I'll write him a poem so that he can do something a little less dangerous at his next talent show.