I Wish I Were a Superhero Too.

July 23, 2004

Well, I saw the doctor about that knee thing that I mentioned in the last journal entry, and yes, it is arthritis. That sucketh. I am maintaining the firm hope, however, that the cartiladge won't deteriorate any further, and that I will be able to deal with this without whining incessantly. Please pray for me. (And if you don't pray, send me money... I could always use some money.)
Not much has been happening lately. Work mostly. You know, the usual. Get up, go to work, come home, get ready to take a shower, realize that the maintainance guys came during the day and broke your shower WITHOUT warning you ahead of time. That kind of thing. Yeah, so I can't use my shower or turn on the cold water in my tub. Bucket baths aren't just for Mexicans anymore!
But, moving on, I present to you reason #12748 why I am the biggest dork on the planet: My rediscovered love for comic books. Not just any comic books, mind you... "The Tick" comic books. Let me present you with a few panels from the books to prove to you why the famous big blue arachnid is my new favorite source of amusement:

Yeah, So I'm not sure how many copyright laws I'm breaking by showing you those, but I think it's worth it. See you all soon!

Frozen Peas On My Knees

July 6, 2004

Life has been tragically funny lately. I have been spending much of my time at work, which is all for the better because the time I spend at home is spent in extreme boredom. I've learned an interesting life lesson about family-owned restaurants, however. If you are the new girl (and by "new," I mean anyone who hasn't been working there for 25 years or more), you will be asked to do anything. I mean ANYTHING. A couple weeks ago, my official job was to stand outside of the restaurant and direct cars into the parking lot (there was work being done on the main parking lot entrance, so my boss wanted customers to know they could come in from the other way). Ridiculous? Yes. I only had two cars even come in, and both seemed to know what to do already. I also had 3 people ask me what time it was, 1 guy in a truck ask me how to get to Penn Avenue, and 1 woman tell me I was waiting for the bus in the wrong place. This experience could only be topped by the time my boss sent me to the gas station to play her lottery tickets. Oh! And let's not forget the time I had to screw the damn dance floor together. We're talking an hour and a half of crawling around on the floor with an electric screwdriver trying to line up little holes in the wood panels with holes in the frame underneath... with the head on the driver being, of course, the wrong size, making the job that much more difficult and consequently irritating. At least the maintenance guys who randomly popped in thought it was funny. I didn't. "Are you a carpenter too, honey?" asks an employee at the bank next door and a regular customer at the deli. I guess he couldn't tell by the waitress apron that I was still idiotically wearing that I am indeed not a carpenter. (The fact that half the time I had the screwdriver set in reverse should be another clue. Geniuses I'm surrounded by!)

This brings me to my title subject. My knees. I think I have arthritis, and I'm not kidding. Is it normal for knees to grind when they bend? Or to get really stiff and hurt for what seems like no apparent reason? I'm thinking not. If anyone has any insight about how to fix this problem, it would really make me feel better, because this kinda sucks. I'm ready to change my name to Thelma and move into an old folks home where someone talks to me like I'm a 5-year-old and feeds me strained peas (After the peas have been used to ease my knee pain, of course).

My final reason for whining comes from the guy department. This is not a typical rant about some guy I like who doesn't like me... no, far from it. This is a rant about the types who DO like me. Namely, the mildly retarded dishwashers at work. There are 4 of them, and they all decided that they had a crush on me. So, here's what I get at work: "You're pretty! I'll clean off this cart for you, cause I like you!" or "Hey, girlfriend! Uhhh, your name's Holly right?" And then there's always the crazy Russian at church who thinks that every single Orthodox woman is a potential wife... including me, unfortunately. And he's said so. Eww. Last, but certainly not least, is the 30-year-old security guard at work who always bothers me in the deli. Here's the deal with this guy: his baby's mama just died, but what's the first thing he says to me? "So, how's your apartment working out? Is your man helping you with rent?" I say "no," because I do not have a "man," but rather than tell him that, I just let him believe that I have a boyfriend so that maybe he won't take the conversation where I think he is taking it. But, he does. "You need a new man." Flustered, I answer, "I know" and roll my eyes, as if to acknowledge the fact that my imaginary boyfriend is a total deadbeat. Now, completely uncomfortable and looking for a quick way out of this conversation, I say, "well, I guess I need to take apart the ice cream machine now so I can get out of here by five."
"Oh yeah? What are you up to tonight?"
"Uhhh... there's a thing at church."
"oooh! A church girl! I like that." Bear in mind, this man's 4-year-old son's mother just died. The LAST thing he should be thinking of is picking up the cute 20-year-old white girl in the deli. Luckily a car trying to park in the wrong place outside diverted his attention, rescuing me from the extremely awkward situation and allowing me to tackle my soft-serve machine in peace. The moral of this story is: A man I have interest in will never return that interest, but every man I meet who I can't stand will bother me constantly and refuse to take a hint. This is the story of my life. Tragic? sure. Hilaroius? Definitely.

Harry Potter and the Slightly Obsessive Fan

June 23, 2004

I know it's been over a month since my last journal update, so I should prattle on about my oh-so-exciting life, but I am not going to do that today. Instead, I'm going to touch on an issue very dear to me--German Harry Potter. After seeing the latest HP movie, "Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban," my annual summertime obsession was rekindled and I just had to have more Harry. (I know, that sounded dirty. Sorry) I really didn't want to reread what I've already read, since I've read all the books in English, so I decided to pull my German language version of "Harry Potter und der Feuerkelch" off of the shelf. (That's "Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire" to you English-speaking muggles.) I got the first four for 29 Euros a pop off of Amazon.de, but hadn't touched them yet. The first thing that jumped out was the translation, which is pretty close to the English. A little too close, actually, which scares me, because I realize that I know the English well enough to know how word-for-word the German really is. My dorkiness is reaffirmed daily. I was hoping that the German version would do away with some of those little annoying "Britishisms" that pollute our fair language, but it didn't. In fact, it made them even more glaringly stupid. Here's what I mean:

Example one: "Hello, old boy!" I hate this phrase. If I ever heard someone saying this in real life, I would beat them with their own legs. The German translation says, "Hallo, alte Junge!" which is a syntactic nightmare. "Alte" means "old," and "Junge," although it means "boy," comes from the word "jung" which means "young." So in German, this phrase says, "Hello, old young one!" The Germans would approve of beating someone with their own limbs for this.

Example number 2: "Hello, old house!" This is even worse than example number 1. At least when you call someone "old boy," you are acknowledging their humanity. Unless you have little people taking up permanent residence inside your body, you should be extremely offended when someone calls you "old house." So offended, in fact, that you should build a fire. A big fire. The Germans unfortunately did not rise above this stupidity. "Hallo, alte Haus!" is present in the German text. Build your big fire in Germany.

Example number 3: "Well, speak of the devil!" This phrase, commonly overused by those with a talent for cliche, is said when the person someone was just viciously slandering walks suddenly into the room. Anyone caught uttering this malicious phrase should be sent back in time to Stalin's Soviet Union. Instead of just finding some kind of German equivalent, the translator of the German "Harry Potter" went from "bad" to "what the hell?!" by translating the phrase to "wenn man vom Teufel spricht!" When one translates this word-for-word back into English, they get "If someone speaks about the devil!" This is where Holly says "huh?" and wonders how the translator will enjoy his time in the GULAG.

However, my favorite part overall about the German Harry Potters is, without a doubt, the cover art. Take a look:

Here we see our young blond-haired, blue-eyed Aryan posterchild hero casting a glance your way that says, "Hello, mein name is Harry and I vould like to make love to you in ze back of mein Volkswagen. I vill show you ze true meaning of 'Fahrvergnuegen!' Jawohl! Vould you like to see mein Zauberstab?"

And, well, there you have it. My entertainment for the month. I will be back with a normal journal soon. In the meantime, behave yourselves! Bis dann!

Would Sue B. Vote For Me?

May 5, 2004

First and foremost, I would like to apologize for not updating my site. I know the absence of regular journal entries probably made you cry yourself to sleep every night over the past 3 months, but never fear--mommy's here now, and it's gonna be OK. Although there is no excuse for my negligence, I must say that school got busy, and my comedic creatvity got lost in the craziness. Fortunately, it's back now, and it's ready to go! Booya, yo mama.

Yeah... So, finals were fun (about as fun as performing a rectal exam on a distempered badger), but I got A's on all of them, so everything worked out pretty well. If only the final counted toward the WHOLE grade. heh. Actually, yeah, in the great scheme of college grades, the final is pretty absurd. It is, theoretically and ideally, your chance to show off what you've learned about everything you encountered during the semester. So, how can I get an A+ on a final, but still get a B+ for the course? Because finals are useless. That's why. So, schools should either make the finals count for more--because the final is all anyone prepares for anyway--or get rid of them all together, and grade performance in the course on a progressive basis. But, as always, "college" is not synonomous with "common sense."

Speaking of useless, I hate Susan B. Anthony/Sacagawea dollars. As if I don't have enough lose change in my wallet that I'll never get rid of, I have to worry about whole dollars butting their way in there? And what are they good for? NOTHING. They don't work in most vending machines and they're embarrassing to give to cashiers.

What a cashier is thinking when you give her a Sue B. dollar: "What, now I have to find a place in my register for this freakin' piece of crap?! You're an ass. I don't get paid $5.15 an hour to deal with this bull--."

Homeless people don't even want them. They can't figure them out.

Homeless man: Honey, you look like a nice girl. I just need a buck to get on the bus.
Me: Here... here's a Susan B. Anthony dollar. I swear, it's a real dollar.
Homeless man (talking to voice in his head): ...stupid honky girl givin' me a big quarter... a quarter ain't no dolla... don't care what she says... QUARTER AIN'T NO DOLLA!

There's also nothing in the world that sets off my irony alarm quite the same way as the Susan B. Anthony dollar. Susan B. Anthony was truly a champion for women's rights in the United States. She led the revolution that gave women the right to vote--to make their voices heard, and to allow them to take part in our nation's decision-making. And how do we honor her memory? By putting her on the most despised piece of coinage ever. America, once again you done me proud. Morons.

While we're on the subject of coins, I must mention my new $5 a week laundromat habit. I can't go home on the weekends anymore because of my new job, and I only have 2 shirts I can wear to said job. Therefore, I must wash these shirts even when I can't get home to do it, if I want to be clean and keep said job. Let me just tell you one thing. The laundromat is amazing. I like watching the dryer spin my clothes dry (but not completely dry... because that would make way too much sense. You're not putting fifty cents in the dryer for it to actually do its JOB.)

I also like when the lights automatically go off at 11pm, cause only idiots do their laundry at night in the laundromat next to the BAR. Yes, I know from experience. But, I must confess, my biggest reason for hitting the laundromat 3 times a week is the attention I get from the random drunks wandering in from the bar next door looking for money. Actual conversation:

Drunk dude: Hey Shorty, you work here?
What I was thinking: people actually work in the laundromat? And Shorty? Well, you certainly are a poster-boy for pop culture, aren't you?
What I said: no.
Drunk dude: You got 75 cents? I need to get on the bus. I just got out of prison.
What I was thinking: My life might actually be in danger right now.
Me: Uhhh... ok, here's a Susan B. Anthony dollar. I swear, it's a real dollar.
Drunk dude: man... lemme get some of that other change. What I was thinking: Suzie B. You've done it again. I can't even fool ex-cons with you.
Drunk dude: You're pretty.
What I was thinking: Oh Lord, get me out of this right now.
What I said: ...thanks.
Drunk dude: I been drinking.
What I was thinking: Nah! You don't smell like it! And I thought when you walked into the door frame, you were trying to be suave.
What I said: Here's 75 cents.
Drunk dude: Hey, thanks. Lata, shorty.

This is why people never fail to amaze and inspire me--and why the laundromat is the best hang-out spot ever.
My second-best hang-out spot is, obviously, sitting right here in front of my homotarded computer, trying to get the damn thing to WORK. I'm updating in the middle of forced shutdowns right at the moment. The goofy thing crashed the other day because of an onslaught of Ad/Spyware. Not five minutes after reformatting, I realize that my system is infected with that new Sasser virus that is hitting Windows 2000 and XP. Pain, pain, pain in my ass. And me without my anti-virus software. *sigh*

Spellchecker Doesn't Work On a Broken Computer

February 13, 2004

Technology hates me. I've come to this conclusion after many months of watching everything I own break. Number 1 was my computer. For one thing, my computer tends to act in a manner befitting a spawn of Satan, so it was only right that it would crash and the sound would stop working. It had sound before the crash, but I'm not sure what happened in the time between "not working" and "working" that made everything go awry. I crossed my fingers and hoped that it was a problem with the speakers. I discovered it was not--after getting nice, new, $45 speakers for Christmas, installing them, and quickly coming to the realization that they would be useless until I buy a new sound card. Number 2 was also a Christmas present. Being mindful of my collection of DVD's from Germany that I bought not understanding the finer points of "region coding," my mother bought me a region-free DVD player from some guy on Ebay. This would have been really exciting, unexpected, and the highlight of my Christmas, except for one thing: it never worked. It turned on, and that was about it. And it's not like we can complain, because none of us are quite sure whether owning this thing is legal or not. The third reason technology hates me (and the reason for all of this in the first place) is my printer. Apparently my computer and my printer are having marital problems and are refusing to
"communicate" with eachother. My printer will print when I don't particularly need it to, but when my computer asks it to print an important assignment (which is usually due within the next 15 minutes), it throws a hissy fit, shuts off, and spends the rest of the day crying in the corner. As a result, the campus computer lab and I have become good friends this past week.
Have I ever mentioned that I don't believe in segues? Well, I don't, and I bet no one on "Celebrity Spelling Bee" would be able to spell that word. Really, watch "Celebrity Spelling Bee" if you get a chance. It's a riot. First of all, it's hosted by that guy from Seinfeld who played Mr. Pitt and who apparently thinks he is still playing Mr. Pitt. And then there are the celebrities: Brett Butler, David Faustino (the guy from "Married with Children" who will never, ever be mistaken for a real actor), and pretty much anyone else who could be dredged from the bottom of the WB. There was George Wendt (Norm from Cheers), and the big guy from the Sopranos who probably could have also played Norm
from Cheers, and who couldn't spell his way out of a paper bag with a dictionary glued to it. And of course, the Fox Network had to fill their quota of pretty blonde girls and I guess it doesn't really matter whether anyone's heard of them or not. I don't know her name, but it was obvious that this girl's main function was to just stand there with a vapid expression on her face and play with her hair. In fact, everyone was expecting so little of her that Mr. Pitt actually said, "We're proud of you" when she managed to stumble through the word "espresso." Tatyana Ali was doing well until she got the word "Silhouette," which she spelled something like "sillohueu7qtt5." In spite of all this, the show was redeemed by the presence of the greatest man who ever lived--Alice Cooper. I don't even remember if he spelled anything right. It's Alice Cooper! Who cares?
This week was not all fun and games for poor me. I realized that my grade in my Russian class will depend on my ability to kiss-ass rather than to actually make progress learning the Russian language. I've fallen out of favor with my teacher due to not feeling well for a few
days and missing a few homework assignments. Now I only get called on in class to answer questions to which I couldn't possibly know the answers, which in turn makes me look like a complete ass. On top of that, I hate Mac computers. For no reason really. Just that they ruin
my day when I can't get the crap at the Language Media Lab to work.
Yeah, that's about it. Join me tomorrow for Valentine's Day!

Over the River; Not Quite Through the Woods.

February 1, 2004

After thinking about how ungood my vocabulary is, I decided that it would behoove me to sign up for the "Word of the Day" e-mail services from two online dictionaries. There are a few of these words scattered throughout today's entry. See if you can find them!

So anyway, I think things are starting to look up. Those who know me (and who were paying any attention), know that I have been in an emotional quandary the past month, really just feeling lackluster and drained. Long talks with wise people made me realize that I really have no reason to dislike life as much as I have been disliking life lately. Now I know what to do... getting there is going to be another story.
Fortunately, this manumission from spiritual defeat came at a good time, since my workload for school is about to get much heavier. This week I have to start working on my report about Richard Wagner und "das Niebelungenlied." Das wird schwer sein. Alles auf Deutsch gelesen, gesprochen, und geschrieben werden muss. I have never done a 15-minute oral report in German. Without notes. Lord, have mercy.
On top of examining exactly how ancient Germanic/Scandinavian folklore affected 19th century German opera, I will be diving deep into the realms of the human psyche for my first test in...erm... Intro. to Pyschology. Ok, maybe that one wont be quite so bad. I think I just need to read the book. Finishing the reading for 20th Century Russian Literature will be the tough part of this week. Yevgeny Zamyatin's "We" really is a fascinating book, but not when I cant devote time to reading it closely. I guess I'll just have to learn to sleep less.
I think that is it for tonight. I know this entry was a little dry, but at least it's there. I'll channel my funny into the next one. Promise.

It's OK. I Had Skittles For Breakfast.

January 26, 2004

Well, winter is in full effect and Jack Frost has his icy, iron grip on our fair city. Unfortunately, with that last degree on the thermometer went also my last ounce of motivation. My first class today was canceled, so I slept in until 10:00 with the best intentions of actually getting out of bed then. Of course, that didn't happen. After much deliberation (and by "much", I mean "about 30 seconds"), I decided that going to my classes would be far to perilous. Ok, not so much "perilous" as "more work than I felt like doing." I sank back into a sweet slumber.
I woke back up around noon and realized it will never cross my mind that 11 hours is just too much sleep. By now, my 12 o'clock class was already starting and I felt a little guilty, so I decided that I would face the weather and go to my 1 o'clock.
Slowly, I trudged into the bathroom to get myself together. I washed my face and put in my contacts, which I had to store in an empty container of something-or-other overnight because I accidentally left my case for my contacts at my parents' house. The container says "Fleishmanns. Premium Blend. Not made with olive oil." I'm really not sure. Try as I might, apparently, I couldn't get the smell of Robitussin out of said container (by the way, I had Robitussin in it before. I had a cough and my mother didn't want to give me the whole bottle.) Now the container smells like Robitussin and saline solution. It's really quite disgusting. I think I should throw it away.
Foggy contacts in and backpack on, I intrepidly set off for the fabled Cathedral of Learning. It took me 20 minutes today instead of the normal 15, due to slushy road conditions. When I got there, I knew that my first instincts of staying in were correct. But, like a hero in some ancient Teutonic epic, I sat through Major Cultural Periods (a class taught entirely in German). I decided I would give Intro. to Psychology amiss for the day.
It was 2:15 when I returned home. I took a nap. I'm not sure why. I don't think I was tired. When I woke back up I made dinner--Campbells tomato soup and a baked potato. yummy. But tomato soup can be tricky. It can boil over if you aren't paying attention, or in my case, if you're too busy ignoring that annoying hissing sound coming from the direction of the stove because you're performing the far more important task of separating the good raspberries from the bad. Armed with my bottle of "Awesome" dollar store all-purpose cleaner and degreaser, I in all my domestic glory, being careful not to rupture any gas lines or set my hair on fire with the pilot light (with me all things are possible), cleaned that tomato soup. There's nothing more fulfilling than seeing your reflected face smiling back at you from the inside of a stove. Ok, maybe there are more fulfilling things. I really didn't put much thought into that statement.
So as I bring the excitement of the day to a close, sitting here and writing this entry, I am forced to ponder the deeper mysteries of my own existence. Will I, in a daring change of pace, start my essay on 20th century dystopian Russian literature tonight, or will I be a creature of habit and put off said essay on 20th century dystopian Russian literature until another night? Indeed, such are the questions that only time in her wisdom can answer...