Ghosts and Douches

The Travel Channel has a show called Ghost Adventures, or as I like to call it Ghosts and Douches. Three twenty-something frat boys go to know "haunted" buildings and shut themselves in overnight. They walk around with an assortment of ghost-detecting equipment and cameras. The usual mumbo jumbo of inaudible voice recordings and strange electrical readings follows, with a conspicuous absence of actual proof of supernatural activities. Needless to say, I love watching this show.

Tonight, I was flipping through channels on the TV and found a Ghosts and Douches marathon. I was reminded again how much I enjoy the ridiculousness of the show, and I had to share. The best parts of the show are the unscripted things the guys say, and below are some of the best moments, provided for your enjoyment...

"Dude, did you hear that?!"

"Is anyone in here with me?"

"I swear to god my calf kind of burns right now, bro." "Bro, that's not good."

"Did someone die in here? Is this a good spot?"

"Once we go in here, this is like the gates of hell!"

"I thought one of the guys behind me had slapped me on the behind, and I turned around and no one was there."

"Just be calm. Take a deep breath!"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!"

"If history can talk, I'm listening to this book speak to me, right now."

And, to take us home, my very favorite moment:

"Are you touching me right now Raymond?"

Ghosts and Douches is my favorite.

Crazy Cat Lady State of Mind

When you think of a crazy cat lady, what comes to mind? An older woman with curlers in her hair and eighteen cats in her house? A recluse who never comes outside except to go to the store to buy more cat food? Someone who lets their cats run their lives to the point that everything else is falling apart? Yeah, that’s pretty much what I used to think, too, until I realized I AM a crazy cat lady.

Let me say right up front that I’m a contributing member of society. I maintain dress and grooming standards, I hold down a job that has a moderate amount of responsibility, I have a healthy relationship with a member of the opposite sex, and we own a house that isn’t a glorified kitty litter box. Despite all these things, I’m just a few cats away from becoming a full-blown crazy cat lady.

It all started a couple of months ago when (as a compromise to avoid getting a dog) we got an adorable little black kitten. We named her Thud. I have always liked cats, even though they make me sneeze, so I knew that I’d be fond of our new pet. I didn’t expect just how besotted I’d become, and I really didn’t foresee how quickly I’d succumb to her fuzzy-faced charms.

Only a few days after she joined us, I found myself putting up with all sorts of things, just to avoid disturbing the cat. I was sleeping on the edge of the bed so as not to push her around, I was getting up at the crack of dawn on a Saturday to feed her, I was reorganizing several rooms in the house in an effort to help the cat feel happy and secure in her new home. One day as I was trolling cat pages on the internet – something I never did before we got Thud – I realized I’d taken a sudden turn into crazy cat lady territory. 

Sure, I don’t have a whole passel of cats, I just have one. And the cat hasn’t taken over the whole house. And I DEFINITELY wouldn’t put up with a cat who can’t figure out the litter box. But these issues are all periphery. If you think of crazy cat lady as being a state of mind, I am totally there; I love the cat and talk in baby-talk to her, I take dozens of pictures of her and show those pictures to long-suffering friends, I buy her the nice food because she likes it and then eat ramen for dinner myself. 

Honestly, it’s a little bit scary how quickly I went from not even wanting a pet to being completely under the thumb (paw?) of a diminutive seven-pound critter. It’s a good thing I do have that relationship with my boyfriend I mentioned. He just might be the biggest factor keeping me from getting four or ten more kittens and embracing my new-found identity.

Teenage Ignorance is Entertaining

One of the things I enjoy most about going out to eat with my girlfriends is mocking the "special" teenagers who make up a large part of the wait staff. I'm not talking about nice restaurants or fancy establishments, these kids are working at fair-to-middling chain restaurants. I almost feel sorry for them because their service industry jobs expose them to the general public before their social skills are developed to a normal extent. On second thought, I don't feel sorry, they provide too much amusement.

Tonight I had a particularly awesome encounter with a teenage waiter. He was already struggling a little bit before we had even had time to interact with him in a serious way -- he tried to bring us the checks for a near-by table before we got our drinks and then totally forgot to bring us the bread basket.

The full extent of his specialness came out when we were ready to start boxing up left-overs. First of all, he couldn't take a single step in the process without running it by me first: Do you want a box? Do you want me to put it in the box for you? Should I put this in a bag? Do you want me to tie the bag? Yes, he asked if he could tie the top of the bag for me.

The best part, though, came when we were ready to pay. My wallet has the "Keep Calm and Carry On" poster on the front of it. The waiter saw that and went into convulsions of joy. Apparently, I'm cool and I have his approval because of my awesome wallet choices (I can die happy now!). He then started to ask me about all the different permutations on the Keep Calm and *blank* On theme, letting me know that it all started with something or the other -- I couldn't understand him, he was mumbling. I looked at him for a minute, trying to process his indistinct mutterings, and then I told him that the original poster originated with British propaganda in WWII. He mumbled something else, I really wasn't interested enough to listen, and he went on his little way.

As we were leaving, my friend said that her favorite thing about going places with me is that I'm the type of person who will treat snot-nosed teenagers to a blank stare, and then inform them that they are mistaken, and this particular bit of pop culture actually originated in WWII, etc. etc. So, the moral of the story is that I'm a bit of an ass, but my friends like me this way, so it all works out.

Vegetarian Chickens & Meatless Monday

My brother got married about seven months ago. His new wife is pretty awesome -- we probably like her more than we like him. However, there is one thing about her that stands out in our steak-and-potatoes-type family: she is a vegetarian. However, while we do enjoy a good hunk of meat when we get together for family dinners, that's not the only thing we will eat, and we've had lots of fun trying new vegetable recipes with her and making old favorites with alternate ingredients.

The new sister-in-law had a birthday this week and my parents took my her and my brother out to dinner to celebrate. I tagged along because it's fun to push myself into situations like that. Plus, free dinner.

The birthday girl chose a local vegetarian, organic restaurant called the Sage Cafe, which was quite tasty and we all had a good time. My favorite part of the night came when the waiter took our orders. Several items on the menu included "vegetarian chicken." We asked the waiter what that was, and he explained that it was a chicken substitute that was seasoned to taste good, etc. Then, out of nowhere, my dad and the waiter launched into a discussion of how a chicken would be a vegetarian. Apparently eating bugs disqualifies chickens from being true vegetarians, but if they are corn/grain fed only, then that would be okay.

Meanwhile, I'm flashing to Portlandia. If you don't know already, it's an excellent sketch comedy show that gently mocks the mentality and culture in Portland. One of the skits involves a couple who grills a waiter about just HOW local the chicken on the menu is until they finally just get up and go to the farm to see for themselves. I'm sitting at the table, giggling to myself to the mental image of my dad at the chicken farm, interrogating the farmer about what is in the feed, and if it's really vegetarian and organic.I did manage to keep the snorting down to a minimum, so I didn't look like a crazy person. At least, not right then.

The cap to the night was when the waiter thanked us for helping participate in Meatless Mondays, an initiative they are trying to spread where for one day a week, people don't eat any meat. After he left, we got to talking and realized we'd all had at least one form of meat that day, expect for vegetarian sister-in-law of course. In spite of the strides we've been taking to try new dishes and enjoy vegetarian cuisine, I guess we just aren't yet cut out to be committed vegetarians, even if it is just one day a week.

November is Write a Blog a Day Month

In the spirit of National Novel Writing Month in November, I have decided to do some writing of my own. I'm not going to try to write a novel -- frankly I don't think I have a novel in me, and I'm fine with that. I am, however, going to write a blog a day. It's a creative exercise on a level that I'm better at working with, but it's still a creative exercise.

What that's you say? Today is already the fifth of November and I'm already five days behind? I do realize that, and I'm just going to start now and finish out the month. Depending on how many ideas I have, I may even do four or five extra days into December just to keep myself honest.

For those of you out there who have followed my blog -- all two or one of you -- you know that I don't exactly update this thing all the time. I enjoy writing when I have ideas, but unfortunately, I'm not struck with ideas that sufficiently inspire me very often. The idea behind writing a blog a day for a month is to make myself write, even when inspiration hasn't necessarily hit. This is sort of an exercise in endurance. Not necessarily enduring the writing, that's the easy part, but forcing myself to write even when I don't have anything in particular that is trying to burst out of me. I suppose writer's block is not a new story, but this is what I'm doing to get over it.

All of that being said, I'm going to log out for the night. I do actually have a couple of ideas in embryo ready to be fleshed out, but I've got a month more of blogs coming, so I think I'll save them for later.

Tomatoes vs. Broccoli

I have recently entered a new and baffling world of pint-sized picky eaters. Well, to be fair, there is really only one pint-sized picky eater. I’ve been spending a lot of time with a ten-year-old who, I’m coming to realize, has the most Byzantine rules regarding what she will and won’t eat this side of Orthodox Judaism.

The most recent adventure involved lasagna. It wasn’t eggplant lasagna or anything unexpected like that. It was your basic sauce, noodles, cheese and meat lasagna. I even used boring hamburger instead of Italian sausage because I could foresee the spiced variety of meat causing drama. I’d seen the kid eating pizza before, and I figured that lasagna was basically the same thing. Apparently, I was mistaken. What I wasn’t aware of is that tomato sauce is a definite no. Her words were, I believe, that the tomato sauce “scared her”. She spent dinner picking out chunks of noodles and scraping any vestiges of sauce and cheese off of them before she held her nose and swallowed quickly.

I was more amused by the situation than anything else. From a conversation we had while I was cooking, I already had a heads up she wasn’t going to be partial to the lasagna, and my feelings aren’t going to be hurt by her not liking something I cooked. She already thinks my bean and cheese burritos are the food of the gods and is of the opinion that no one boils up a pot of buttered noodles like I do, so I know she wasn’t reacting to me but to the food.

What made me really decide to give up on understanding the rules of what is and is not acceptable was when I mentioned the broccoli I hadn’t cooked because I felt like the lasagna and garlic bread was enough. Her eyes lit up and she actually looked excited over the prospect of a green vegetable. Apparently, the kid who won’t eat lasagna because she’s worried about tomato sauce loves steamed broccoli. Not broccoli smothered in cheese sauce or dipped in lots of ranch either. Just plain, steamed, buttered broccoli.

I’m not going to try to make sense of it anymore. I’m just going to enjoy the ride.

Things I shouldn’t enjoy, but I do anyway

When I’m golfing and I line up the shot, make sure my stance and grip are all correct, swing carefully and precisely, and completely and totally miss the ball and instead get a huge chunk of air. I just have to laugh.

Late at night when I can’t sleep and I’m desperate for something on TV to distract my churning brain but there is nothing on TV except for Billy Mays infomercials. It seems OxiClean really is the answer to all my troubles, and I’m so glad Mr. Mays took the time to shout it to me. He is definitely missed.

Pulling an all-nighter to do homework because I have procrastinated the work and now it’s due in 5 hours, as soon as I get to class. Something about producing good work when I’m on a ridiculously tight deadline feels so much more satisfying than getting it done boringly ahead of time.

Being stressed for time at work and being pulled four different directions by eight different people as I’m working to meet looming deadlines. I’m sure it’ll get old eventually, but having a job where what I do makes a difference and people rely on me is refreshing after the dead-end gigs I pulled for several years.

Talking about other people’s misfortunes and drama is usually frowned on as something no polite person does, I know, but other people just make their misfortunes and drama so darn interesting that I have to gossip about it.

When my brothers and I are all hanging out and someone brings up a touchy or sensitive subject, I love pushing buttons and getting a sibling or two all red faced and worked up. Using my life-long knowledge of what makes them tick is just too much fun to pass up, and familial discord is always good for a laugh.

Crappy hostess doughnuts – the kind with powdered sugar on the outside and “raspberry” filling in the middle. I know they are horrible for me and chock-full of chemicals, but I love them. Tasty, tasty preservative goodness.

When I’ve got a captive audience of small children, usually relatives, I will tell them things that aren’t, in the strictest sense of the word, true. I wouldn’t make things up about anything important, just silly stories that take advantage of their gullibility. Is it so wrong to abuse the trust of the innocents in order to get some giggles? Well, when I put it that way I have to say yes, it is wrong, but it’s still fun.

When I’m done eating and I still have food on my plate, I will play with it until it becomes a big, smooshy mess. Then I’ll create art and fantastical sculptures with said smooshy mess. I know this is the kind of thing I should have outgrown about 20 years ago, but I’m not quite ready to give up the creative outlet.