I’m the Dot

You see, people are like rats. All they want is cheese. They’ll do anything for The Cheese. The sooner you figure that out, the better off you’ll be.

This is how my Monday started off. The above being one a co-worker’s philosophy on humanity. At first glance, this statement seems to be a tad.. cynical? Rats. Sneaky, scurrying, anxious, just wanting one thing. Get my point? Comparing a person to a rat isn’t exactly uplifting. It’s one step up from calling someone a snake. Snakes (despite the fact that I kind of like them) always remind me of an old neighbor of mine. He and my dad did business together and he was often referred to as a “snake”. There were other expletives used to describe him, but that’s besides the point and needless to say, the business partnership and friendly neighborliness came to a crashing halt. Or slap. Literally. Someone in my family slapped the neighbor in the face one year around Christmas. There may or may not have been a “Merry Effin Christmas” thrown in along side the slap. But I’ve been known to stretch the truth so I could be totally lying right now.

But back to the rats. When my co-worker said this I kind of laughed it off. A laugh I’ve been practicing for a good 20 years or so. Being the strange hippie-child that I was, I learned early on to just laugh at the insensitive remarks my parents and their friends made (mostly to get a reaction out of me). My dad’s friend, Herman, was probably the worst. He would always give me a hard time about being a “bunny hugger” and say horrible things about whales and dolphins dying because of something I did. So when I heard this comparison, the “ha ha.. very funny. This is me staying calm and not barfing all my optimism on you” was right on que. Which is kind of ironic because in reality I don’t think I’m that much of an optimist, but people are always saying that I am. When it comes right down to it, I’m pretty cynical. Or maybe I’m just a realist with a splash of optimism. I’ve always wanted to claim “realist” ever since I heard Kevin Blasingame (read: high school crush) say that he was a realist. It sounded so noble and good. And now if Kevin Blasingame ever Googles himself he’ll be linked to the Dot, and, thus, find out that I had a crush on him. Hi, Kevin Blasingame! Are you still hot?

I kind of forgot about the whole rat thing until I got home later that day. I got out of my car and looked sadly upon my dying grass. I have all these great aspirations for watering my grass on a daily or every other day basis so my grass will look like a little green cloud of goodness, but aspirations don’t mix well with a lack of motivation. I looked over at the Crazy Neighbor’s lawn and it looked lively. Probably because she waters it (and my car) on a regular basis. And that is when the brilliant idea of out-lawning her popped into my head. I would water my grass every day and buy that turf-builder crap just so my lawn would be greener and fluffier than hers.

And then it all made sense… I just needed some cheese to get my lawn greener. Sure, my co-worker is a bit of a Debbie Downer, but he kind of has a point about the whole rats and cheese thing. We all just need a little incentive sometimes. Once this clicked in my brain I started thinking of all the things I would do if I just had The Cheese. Maybe I would garden too. I suddenly started viewing everything as a competition or a way to get The Cheese. And I thought, “Hey, maybe that’s why I haven’t written in, oh, four weeks.” There’s no cheese people! Don’t get me wrong, I’m flattered that on the last post I had 16 comments, but half of them were bitching about my lack of posting, which is also flattering. But seriously… SHOW ME THE CHEESE!!

And then I came down from my Cheese-high when I realized that while a little incentive is nice for things like watering your lawn, I don’t need incentive when it comes to doing things I love (like writing). I just need the energy and creativity. And I’ve been lacking in both of late. So I guess this post is a very long, round-about disclaimer that I’m not going to write if I’m not feeling it.. regardless of The Cheese. Unless we’re talking “Cheese” as in money, or dates with Tyson Beckford (ahem, Renee!). And I do really love cheese, so I will accept any cheese offerings from here on out.

All this talk of cheese… mmm, cheese. So, my little rats, what’s your Cheese?

Remember Vanderbaby? Okay, stupid question. Of course you remember Vanderbaby because aside from being creepycute, I didn’t post for, like, ever after that. FOR-EV-ER. And you all let me know how upset you were about it. In fact, one reader told me that she got a little depressed when she would check The Dot and there would be nothing new. So she stopped visiting The Dot on a daily basis. Sad.

What can I say? I’m boring. And lack motivation/inspiration sometimes. But I’m flattered if you’re one who checks my blog daily and is disappointed daily.. that is, disappointed to see there’s not a new post, not disappointed to read my lame stories.

Back to Vanderbaby… Like many of you, I was dying to see what my potential kids would look like. The small problem being that I have no potential partner (obviously, a potential partner is required to make potential babies). So I went for the next best thing and enlisted my favorite celeb crushes. Hey, since The Harm clearly does not put out, a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.

The dream team is as follows:

Hot, right? I know. I picked them well. One would think it impossible to make ugly babies with these men. But apparently, the interweb is giving me a not-so-subtle message that I should not procreate regardless of mate’s hotness.

Because Anderson Cooper
produces this

And Ed Burns
produces this

And Gael Garcia Bernal
produces this

And Taye Diggs
produces this

All of my children have gigantic heads and jacked up teeth. Can you see the under bite on my AC360 Love Child? Shall we talk about the look of constipation on their faces? What is that about? And don’t even get me started on Taye Diggs giving me a double-chinned Santa-child.

I was really hoping for utterly adorable children; children that would make me re-think my disinterest in having real kids. Clearly, I am not meant to have children. I think this officially gets me off the baby-producing hook, don’t you?

(props to the interweb baby-makers)

A few weeks ago I was straightening my hair when I noticed the following tag on the cord:

And thought, “Wow, alien babies straighten their hair?”

Curious about the usage of Earth’s products on other planets I flipped the warning over and saw this:

And thought, “who would put a straightener next to their eye?” Then I saw the second line and I’m still not completely recovered - Canadians can’t use straighteners in their home?? Why, Canada, why?! How do you do your hair? Is stick-straight hair just not accepted in the land of Celine Dion and the Maple Leafs? I hold Canada in such high regard - you guys seems so cool, so free. But no straightening irons?

Now I know there are at least 4 of you Canadians who read this blog (thank you, Google Analytics), so I would like some answers. The rest of you non-Canadians can just hypothesize about why straight hair is outlawed in the home.

My neighbor has one of those gigantic poodles and I want to puke every time I see it. Even when I just see the outline of it’s poofy head through her screen door my gag reflexes get the best of me. I really can’t stand poodles.

My friend, Brandy, had a poodle for awhile and at the moment I can’t for the life of me remember that dog’s name. I want to say it was Candy, but I’m not sure if my brain is going into Dr. Seuss mode or if that was really her name. I’m having a seriously senior moment at 27 and I don’t find this to be acceptable. Brandy, I’m sorry I can’t remember your dog’s real name and the point of all this was that I didn’t hate her like I hate the neighbor’s dog, she didn’t make me want to vomit the way this one does.

Another friend of my, Turds, has a poodle-ish dog called Beyonce. And I only tolerate her because her name is Beyonce and I think that’s funny. She does not make me puke, but I don’t like it when she licks me. I don’t like it when any dog licks me. The BFF’s dog, Tiki, is a lick-aholic. The dog has a serious problem. She probably needs to go to LA (Lickers Anonymous). When she stayed with me a few weeks ago she kept licking the carpet, which was both funny and disgusting because I would yell, “Stop it, carpet-licker,” then simultaneous laugh at thought of Tiki being a lesbian dog and puke because my vacuum doesn’t work very well, so Tiki would end up with a crazy hair ball hanging from her mouth. Ack!

And Tiki is clearly not a lesbian because when I lived with The BFF, Gatsby was a little kitty and loved playing with Tiki. Numerous times we would catch Tiki and Gatsby “in the act” - Gatsby on his back, spread eagle, taking full advantage of Tiki’s licking problem. He’s a manipulative cat, who may also be a sex addict, as he still humps a purple blanket pretty much every night.

Well he did until Cha Cha pooped on it. Cha Cha’s real name is Zsa Zsa, but I feel that Cha Cha is more fun. Cha Cha and her (butt ugly) sister Sassy stayed with The Brother (who was staying with me for awhile) and I a few weeks back. I was in Arizona celebrating the 4th of July and an outdoor wedding (my family is a whole lotta crazy, in case you haven’t picked up on that) when Sassy and Cha Cha were dropped off. They are both little dogs and upon returning home I found them leashed to the patio. I first went to free Sassy, as she was closer to me and she totally snapped at me. This dog is smaller than Gatsby (I know, that’s not saying much), but her snarl was enough to make me wonder if maybe she had rabies. Any time I would get near her she would show her teeth and growl.

She finally let me close enough to her to un-hook her leash, but she didn’t warm up to me until The Brother came home that night. During their stay, Cha Cha managed to pee on most of the unstained areas of the carpet, poop in my room twice, and escape from the backyard; Sassy just got a case of the itchies and scratched herself so much her hair started to fall off and one of her gigantic nipples started to bleed.

I think I will stay away from dog-sitting for awhile. And gigantic poodles.

Apparently many of you don’t know what The Plank is.. here is an instructional video. I don’t know what I enjoy more - the warnings at the beginning or how the poor woman has to hold that dumb pose with her butt in the air.
Happy Planking!

Embedded Video

I really should start a new category just for my strange gym encounters - like McSteamy or Olivia Newton-John. Especially because this post is the mackdaddy of all gym stories (sidenote: did I really just say “mackdaddy”? And is that really one word?).

A couple weeks ago The BFF & I went to the gym like we do everyday for at least 2 hours because we are machines that defy the lazy turds of the world. Well, we try to go as often as we can and don’t last much longer than an hour unless you include breaks to discuss how to change the world. Usually the gym is a boring place (unless someone falls off a treadmill or passes out in an exercise class), but this day was destined to collide with greatness.

We started out with the usual warm up, then moved into the big exercise room to do some weight-lifting and the bastard Plank - I hate the Plank. After the first round of Planking, The BFF turns to me and whispers, “Hey, is that Aragon?”

For a second I thought maybe she wasn’t getting enough oxygen and would soon be saying she sees Frodo and his little Hobbit friends. Giving her the benefit of the doubt, I looked around the empty room and spotted a man stretching. As soon as I saw him, I knew what she was talking about - a man who looked strangely like Viggo Mortensen was doing some crazy I’m-so-buff stretches and looked up just in time to see The BFF & I staring at him. Awesome.

Something you should know about The BFF is she is clueless when it comes to pop culture. Granted, I don’t have television so I can’t bash on her too much, but I think she has a serious problem. She had a myspace account for awhile, but couldn’t hack it on the world wide web so she dumped her account. And while she can sing along to most songs on the radio, she never knows the artist or song title. By default I am her source to understanding the pop culture world, thus she thinks I’m either a genius or have way too much time on my hands. All this to say, she could not remember Viggo’s name.

After she called him “Aragon” she asked what his real name was and I told her it was Viggo. And for the rest of our workout/spying session she would call him by one of his character names, then ask what his real name was again.

Viggo eventually leaves the room and (ironically) The BFF and I finish our planking and weight lifting right around the same time. Naturally, we move into the next room.. where Viggo just happens to be. We weren’t totally sure it was him, so we had to keep checking him out looking at him. A few (times 100) awkward just-caught-you-staring-at-me exchanges later, we quasi give up and move on to cardio. But secretly keep spying by watching him in the mirror. Wow, I am making us sound like total stalkers. It was for a good cause though - we were trying to figure out his true identity.

Intermittently, The BFF would turn to me and say, “Do you really think it’s Hidalgo? What’s his real name again?” And I would say his name is Viggo and I wasn’t sure because he looked much smaller than I would think, but apparently Tom Cruise is a little man and he looks normal size on the big screen. Which reminds me - rumor has it George Bush is a very tall man, but he always seems very small to me. Maybe that is because I already think he looks like a garden gnome.

I finally tell The BFF that she should ask Viggo if it’s really him. We go back and forth with daring and double daring and finally I say, “If you ask him, I’ll buy you Wings N’ Things or Outback for dinner.” She agrees and obsesses about what exactly she is going to say for the duration of our workout.

Just as we’re about to finish up, we see Viggo going into the men’s locker room. With both of our hopes crushed (mine of not knowing if it was truly Viggo, The BFF’s of not getting a meal - her husband doesn’t feed her), we resign ourselves to never know.

After our cardio, I tell The BFF that I need to wash my hands (the gym is a dirty, dirty place) and we head to the ladies room. Apparently after I walk in, Viggo is walking out of the men’s room and he and The BFF nearly walk into each other. Rather than taking her cue to ask Hidalgo/Aragon if it was really him, she freezes and stares at him until he notices her creepiness. Their eyes lock awkwardly and The BFF just gives Viggo a goofy grin and both walk their separate ways.

Now we will never know if it was really him or not. Does anyone know if he is shooting a movie in San Diego? I’m pretty sure that even if he was 1) he would not have a membership to 24-Hour Fitness, and 2) of all the 24HF’s I’m 90% sure he would have opted for a much nicer facility rather than working out at the podunk La Mesa one.

For some strange reason I attribute most of my formative moments to my 4th and 5th grade years. It was during these years that I disproved the theory of time travel, disputed the theory of evolution, and debated many a political topics.

I (via my mother) was a proud member of the World Wildlife Fund and would threaten to punch any imbecile who mistook the “WWF” on the side of my tote bag for anything associated with Hulk Hogan.

I’m pretty sure that it was during these years my poor conservative parents began to question (as my Aunt Melanie often had and still does) my relation to the family. Their little apple turned into a hippie and pranced far from the proverbial tree.

I’m sure my mom cried herself to sleep at night knowing that I did not inherit her love for shopping. And my dad still weeps like a little girl because I never wanted to go hunting with him, and because we tend to disagree on political issues (Dad, I don’t believe the way to solve our problems is to ‘just kill ‘em all’). And both looked on in confusion when I would say that all I wanted for my birthday or Christmas was for them to donate money to a charity.

But The Parentals did have some lasting influence on certain areas - like making fun of everyone (thanks, Dad) or being somewhat of a social butterfly (my mom will, and does, talk to anyone). And they past down all kind of strange idiosyncrasies. I realized last night as I was driving home that thanks to my dad I have hard time saying the name of a particular Eastern state.

My family took a trip back East to visit my mom’s side of crazy Italians.. I mean, family. I’m sure the trip was lovely, but all I really remember was coming back to California and having a hard time telling people about where I had been. Leading up to the trip, my dear, sweet father kept referring to Massachusetts in a less than flattering way.

Upon my return to school, teachers and friends would ask me where I went on vacation. Knowing what I had heard over and over again was the wrong pronunciation, I was suddenly mute. In my head I could see how to spell the word, but anytime I would start to say it out loud I knew pretty quickly I was saying the wrong thing. Despite any amount of practicing, when asked where I vacationed all that would come out (with much struggle and embarrassment) was “Massoftwoshits”.

It doesn’t get much better than a kid cussing on accident in front of authority figures. Thanks, Dad.

(the following is an email from my good friend and loyal reader, Megan. You will soon see that Megan and her husband are super cute; however, their baby is, uh…, well, at least it’s not as creepy as Lola and Rod’s kiddo.)

Your post yesterday had me ROLLING…you should have put a warning before the link to Lola’s site because I nearly spit out my soda when I clicked on it. OMG. So of course I went to the website and made my own hypothetical baby. If you want to start saving to help us with adoption that would be awesome. Otherwise the world might be subjected to little Vanderbaby, the first infant to be born with a FIVE O CLOCK SHADOW. And red hair, for some inexplicable reason.

(and after I asked her if I could pleasepleaseplease post Vanderbaby on the Dot)

don’t know how I feel about you exploiting my hypothetical child for laughs on the interweb. But…ok, I guess you can. I feel like it might be tempting fate, though…if I ever DO have a baby and he actually looks anything like that, I’m going to be so embarrassed. Promise you will still be nice to him.

By the way, next to the baby’s 5 o’clock shadow my favorite part is the frame itself. I just looked at the pic again and noticed that it says “BE JEALOUS.” Yes. Be jealous that my child will need to shave his face before he has teeth or fine motor skills.

And now, I give you … VANDERBABY!!!

I decided to add a new category, “Daily Reads”, because there are tons of brilliant bloggers out there and as I uncover their whereabouts in cyberspace, I think it’s fitting to share my new obsessions with you. Plus, I can’t figure out the dumb blogroll (trust me, I’ve tried everything, spare me your “how to” emails).

Lola is the one who got me started in this whole blogging frenzy and apparently she got sick of her old site and started another one. Now, Lola’s new site is very cute and her writing is still as charming as ever. BUT! I miss the original Pie for the following reasons:

1. The stories were a little longer on the old Pie
2. Comments, Lola, comments. You can’t comment on her new page.

And when today’s post is this, you know everyone who sees that picture has something to say. For example, after navigating through my “daily reads” and clicking on Lola Pie Redux, my response went something like this:

“Ugh! Gross!”

And I would have left the following comment:
Lola. I love you. Please don’t procreate and have creepy babies like the one pictured. That kid is freaky and will surely turn into a serial killer. I will help pay for your birth control and even start saving for adoption. I’ll even give you Gatsby if it will keep you from birthing that yucky baby with a creepy smile.

The thing is, I know a lot of you miss the old Pie. You miss the comments, the long stories, the cute picture of Lola blowing bubbles. We need to do something! Maybe if we get enough votes, we can get Lola to go back to the original Pie. All those in favor say, “Georgie!”

(or “please don’t have creepy babies”)

Viva la revolucion!

Friday evening was my friend Michelle’s 30th birthday party and she had the best theme ever - “the other side of perfect”. The point was to come and celebrate just as you are - imperfect. I knew I was going to like this theme, but I didn’t realize how much until I was on my way to the party.

I was running late - the party started at 7:10 and I didn’t leave my house until then, but then I realized it’s not cool to be on time and the party was about accepting imperfections. So I just turned up the music and accepted my uncool, random self. It was then that I realized I could have totally shown up in pajamas and I almost turned around, but gas is so damn expensive that I decided it wasn’t worth it. Besides, one of my imperfections is approval-seeking and I wanted to be seen as cute and put together.

And that whole “looking cute/put together” fell apart as soon as I got to the house and realized there is no A/C and it’s hot like Hades (read: I was dripping sweat). I finally cooled down after grabbing a paper plate and fanning myself like an old Southern woman. All I needed was a big hat and some sweet tea.

Being the fabulous person she is, Michelle took me around and introduced me to everyone. I love Michelle for many reasons, but one thing I really appreciate is her diversity. The house wasn’t filled with 20-30 somethings - there were women there from all different walks of life and ages. Sadly, there was no way I was going to remember everyone’s name in the first place, and then Tami (a bookclub friend) and her husband (Julian) came and I knew I would be talking to them all night so I may have checked out of trying to memorize names. Another imperfection: staying in my comfort zone.

But my comfort zone is so lovely and manageable (imperfection: control freak). Tami is super fun and interesting to talk to and Julian, who I hadn’t met until the party, is so damn funny. He’s from New Zealand, which triggers memories of the Flight of the Conchords and, therefore, gives him automatic funny points. Plus, I find myself thinking that most foreigners are hilarious. For example, towards the end of the party Tami and I were hovering over the food, and Tami asks Julian if he wants something to eat. He says, “I’ll just have a carrot so I can see on the drive home.” And I lost it. I thought that was really funny and clever, but then I tried to picture a fellow American saying it and it didn’t seem funny. Imperfection: Obvious bias towards foreign people.

And I had this realization during the party that I need to marry a foreigner because then my life would be a nonstop comedy show (Imperfection: Slightly delusional). Or I could just keep coming to parties like this one. Or maybe I just need to hang out with Tami and Julian more. At one point in our conversation Tami and I kept saying the word “diarrhea” loudly. I don’t really remember why, but it totally fit in the context of our conversation, which got funnier when we realized how loudly we were saying it (other people were turning around). Imperfection: Completely immature because poop is always funny.

At least I have company in my immaturity. And friends who, regardless of all my imperfections (we barely scratched the surface with this post, people), still accept and love me. Or they just feel bad for me, but I choose to believe the former. In the tradition of accepting imperfections, I vote for you to share some of your imperfections that you want to accept.