Tuesday, April 03, 2007
To Leo or not to Leo
Leonardo DiCaprio.
There. I said it. My hubby, if he reads this today, is now shuddering and has probably already gone offline. My best friend is also shuddering, but she's a curious enough individual to see where I'm going with this. I'm still remembering how incredibly sexy his South African accent was.
He really hasn't ever done anything for me - I guess Titanic kinda killed his sex factor for me. And that movie is the reason that DH and BF shudder. But I'm now a convert.
Leo got sexy? When the hell did this happen?
Oh, and the movie (Blood Diamond) was good too. REALLY good. DH refused to "officially" watch it, but he sat at the computer and every time I glanced his way, his head was pointed at the TV. A few times, especially towards the end, he even walked into the living room and stood beside me. But he never sat down and "watched the movie." I was watching it and he just happened to be in the same room. And he'll never admit that he liked it, because he's completely on the "Not to Leo" side of my title for the day. Me? I'm so on the "To Leo" side now. And I think from now on, he should always have that accent.
I'm off to add The Departed to my Netflix queue.
Monday, April 02, 2007
Sunday, April 01, 2007
I've gained a few IQ points since last year
Last year, I got royally sucked into Google's April Fool's Day joke. If you'd like to see how spectacularly beautifully I embarrassed myself, just check this out.
They didn't get me this year. Or, they got me for a half a second before I remembered what day it was. Which is almost like it never happened. Because at least I remembered before I got to the first time they spelled out that "T" is for toilet.
My goal for the next year? To solve pi. Because at the phenomenal rate that I'm getting smarter that is sooo do-able.
PS: I used Blogger's spell check on this post and it didn't recognize " Google's " as a word. Am I a nerd for finding that hilarious? Or is that just a sign that my sense of humor is elevating to a level on par with my intelligence?
Thursday, March 29, 2007
I have too much free time when my boss doesn't come to work
I don't have an iPod. And my MP3 player has so little memory, that I usually just put about 3 or 4 podcasts on it and keep it in my car for times like this week when I get tired of listening to NPR's pledge drive (since I've already paid, I don't want to listen to them begging for more money). I've been wanting an iPod for a long time...and driving around with my uncle last summer as he called up some of the 123,956,128,372+ songs that I'm sure he has stored (and I think that number is probably too low, knowing my uncle) gave me a bad case of... well I'd use the word lust, but that's just wrong in a sentence with the phrase "my uncle" in it. (which I just did anyway, but at least it was broken by an ellipsis.) So I'd like to announce to my entire family, that since I'm the baby girl, the next iPod my mother wins comes to me. I think she's already won two, and it's been over a year since the last one, so she's due for another one any day.
ANYWAY
Apple announced today that if you've bought a single from an album, and then later you decide you want the entire album, you'll get credit towards the whole price of the album from the single you bought.
I could probably make that more confusing if I thought hard enough. I don't want to think that hard though, so here's something in the USA Today about it.
Completely unrelated:
Dodge is having one of the coolest contests ever. Write a 250 word essay about why your commute is horrible, and how a 2008 Dodge Avenger could make it better. The winner not only gets - surprise! - a 2008 Dodge Avenger, but ALSO a trip to LA (with a guest) for two days where you'll watch a replication of your current car get demolished. What's all this fun for? National Stress Awareness Day. I love it.
Even more not related:
I've given in and signed up for a two week free trial of Netflix. I don't know why, since I get ALL of the HBO, Showtime, Cinemax, and Stars (or maybe it's Encore) channels. PLUS their "OnDemand" counterparts. I hate to sound like a whining 15 year old , but there's NEVER a movie that I want to see that's on any of it! (Actually, the 15 year old's complaint is that he's seen everything already). So I went and looked around and got sucked in. I'm going to do the $10/month-only-get-one-movie-at-a-time deal, since I don't think I'll ever need to have 3 movies in my hands at one time, and I've heard the turn around times are incredibly quick. So we'll see. And my boss told me that if I want to cancel, I should do it right before my free trial ends, because they'll extend your free trial for two weeks to try and get you to stay. That seems too sneaky for me...but we'll see how much I get addicted.
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
It's like I'm a hard-core criminal. Almost.
If you've gone through customs to get back in the country, you know what a pain it can be. If you've gone through Customs in Atlanta, you know that there are moments when you think that the illegal aliens have it right - going through the desert and facing possible death might actually be faster than standing in one more line. Security is tight. Sometimes, there are so many one-way mirrors and people with official scary-looking badges walking around that I'm afraid that sneezing might look suspicious. And let's face it - after 8 hours on a plane with a couple of hundred other people - one being your 15 year old step-son and another being your attention-span-deprived husband - it's quite easy to look like a maniac bent on destruction. I feel like interrogating myself when I look in the mirror and I KNOW I haven't' done anything.
The basic routine is this: get off the plane, follow the designated (and only available) path down some stairs or an escalator, pass a few scary security people, go through a hall and into the "holding pen" to wait in line to get your passport checked while answering a few questions about why a good upstanding citizen might want to leave the country in the first place. Get a piece of paper stamped, move on to the next area to collect your checked bags while being circled by more badge-wearers who now have dogs with them. Take checked bags through another check point where you turn in the your stamped piece of paper and answer some more questions about what you might or might not have done while out from under the protective eye of our government. Get in another line and recheck your bags, before going through a security scanner that looks at you and and your carry-on bags. Get released to go forth and fly. (I think it might be faster to just get a pilot's license and fly myself across the Atlantic, but then I wouldn't be able to sleep for the entire flight).
As we were walking off the plane in Detroit, I realized that both of my shoes were untied. Since long trailing shoelaces aren't all that safe on escalators - and I had to get on one within 15 steps of the plane - I stepped to the side, against a wall, to tie them. Of course, this immediately made me look questionable, as I'm the only person doing something besides walking docilely behind the person in front of me towards the holding pen. My hubby took the opportunity to stand next to me, against the wall, facing the corner to take out his wallet and start re-arranging his different currencies so that the American money was easily reached. So I'm kneeling, and he's buried in the corner. Yes, security noticed. They came over and stood directly in front of me and looked over his shoulder watching as he methodically - and boy, was it methodical - counted out how much cash he had. He never noticed the guard, who gave me an "I've got a highly trained eye on you" glare and then followed us down the escalator at a discrete distance.
So we stood in line and got stamped and questioned and proceeded to pick up our checked luggage. I dropped my carry-on on the floor and told my stepson to watch it while I went up and waited for our suitcases to come around the conveyor belt. About this time, another security guy - this time with one of those killer drug sniffing dogs - headed our way. Killer went directly to my carry-on bag and started sniffing. And circling. And sniffing. And circling. He started to sit (Which, I believe, is the point where they put you and your bag in a tiny room to be searched), but then he apparently got indecisive and circled again. Then he repeated the entire procedure - complete with the almost sitting routine. Knowing that I had nothing in my bag that Killer would be interested in - I'm not a drug runner, and I don't carry raw meat across oceans - I left him to his sniffing and went to collect the baggage. He was taking so long with my bag I was beginning to wonder if a cute little "Miss Killer" had snuck in the side pocket and they were planning a rendezvous. By the time I got back with a suitcase, Killer and his scary looking escort were gone.
Fast-forward to the point where we're re-checking our luggage. The lady casually says "You don't have any liquids in your carry-on bags do you?" And I said "why, yes ma'am, as a matter of fact we have the equivalent of a small duty-free store between our two backpacks." And she proceeds to tell us that we're not allowed to take those on the plane. But we're welcome to open our suitcases and repack everything with the liquid safely stored and out of our carry on bags. So we grab our suitcases, open them up and take out our bags of dirty laundry and proceed to repack right there in the middle of all the TSA agents. Thank God the flashy red silk thongs with black tassels had not gotten bounced to the top of my suitcase, but several people did get a great look at my favorite blue Victoria's Secret bra.
Fast-forward to Saturday - we're home, recovered and unpacked. Best Friend is over for drinks and a recap of the trip, and I give her all the goodies I bought her. One of them - and the best thing I got for her - is a little blue and white flowered tin that opens up to reveal four miniature glass bottles that I got at an open-air antique market for about $5. And I mean these bottles are SMALL - maybe an inch and a half tall. But they're tiny and cute, which are the only things that are required for her to go crazy over something. Add the fact that they hide inside of something that's blue ... well, I really should keep smelling salts on hand.
She pulled out one of the glass bottles - making all the appropriate noises for a gift this cute - and stopped cold.
"D!"
"What?"
"Did you look at these bottles?"
"Yeah, they're cute, huh?"
"No! I mean yes, but look - they're all coated on the inside with white powder!"
Silence for a half a second as the alcohol fumes explain to me what this means.
"Oh my god! I bought you someone's old cocaine bottles!
And suddenly, the drug-sniffing dog trying desperately to get enough of a scent to incriminate me made all too much sense.
The basic routine is this: get off the plane, follow the designated (and only available) path down some stairs or an escalator, pass a few scary security people, go through a hall and into the "holding pen" to wait in line to get your passport checked while answering a few questions about why a good upstanding citizen might want to leave the country in the first place. Get a piece of paper stamped, move on to the next area to collect your checked bags while being circled by more badge-wearers who now have dogs with them. Take checked bags through another check point where you turn in the your stamped piece of paper and answer some more questions about what you might or might not have done while out from under the protective eye of our government. Get in another line and recheck your bags, before going through a security scanner that looks at you and and your carry-on bags. Get released to go forth and fly. (I think it might be faster to just get a pilot's license and fly myself across the Atlantic, but then I wouldn't be able to sleep for the entire flight).
As we were walking off the plane in Detroit, I realized that both of my shoes were untied. Since long trailing shoelaces aren't all that safe on escalators - and I had to get on one within 15 steps of the plane - I stepped to the side, against a wall, to tie them. Of course, this immediately made me look questionable, as I'm the only person doing something besides walking docilely behind the person in front of me towards the holding pen. My hubby took the opportunity to stand next to me, against the wall, facing the corner to take out his wallet and start re-arranging his different currencies so that the American money was easily reached. So I'm kneeling, and he's buried in the corner. Yes, security noticed. They came over and stood directly in front of me and looked over his shoulder watching as he methodically - and boy, was it methodical - counted out how much cash he had. He never noticed the guard, who gave me an "I've got a highly trained eye on you" glare and then followed us down the escalator at a discrete distance.
So we stood in line and got stamped and questioned and proceeded to pick up our checked luggage. I dropped my carry-on on the floor and told my stepson to watch it while I went up and waited for our suitcases to come around the conveyor belt. About this time, another security guy - this time with one of those killer drug sniffing dogs - headed our way. Killer went directly to my carry-on bag and started sniffing. And circling. And sniffing. And circling. He started to sit (Which, I believe, is the point where they put you and your bag in a tiny room to be searched), but then he apparently got indecisive and circled again. Then he repeated the entire procedure - complete with the almost sitting routine. Knowing that I had nothing in my bag that Killer would be interested in - I'm not a drug runner, and I don't carry raw meat across oceans - I left him to his sniffing and went to collect the baggage. He was taking so long with my bag I was beginning to wonder if a cute little "Miss Killer" had snuck in the side pocket and they were planning a rendezvous. By the time I got back with a suitcase, Killer and his scary looking escort were gone.
Fast-forward to the point where we're re-checking our luggage. The lady casually says "You don't have any liquids in your carry-on bags do you?" And I said "why, yes ma'am, as a matter of fact we have the equivalent of a small duty-free store between our two backpacks." And she proceeds to tell us that we're not allowed to take those on the plane. But we're welcome to open our suitcases and repack everything with the liquid safely stored and out of our carry on bags. So we grab our suitcases, open them up and take out our bags of dirty laundry and proceed to repack right there in the middle of all the TSA agents. Thank God the flashy red silk thongs with black tassels had not gotten bounced to the top of my suitcase, but several people did get a great look at my favorite blue Victoria's Secret bra.
Fast-forward to Saturday - we're home, recovered and unpacked. Best Friend is over for drinks and a recap of the trip, and I give her all the goodies I bought her. One of them - and the best thing I got for her - is a little blue and white flowered tin that opens up to reveal four miniature glass bottles that I got at an open-air antique market for about $5. And I mean these bottles are SMALL - maybe an inch and a half tall. But they're tiny and cute, which are the only things that are required for her to go crazy over something. Add the fact that they hide inside of something that's blue ... well, I really should keep smelling salts on hand.
She pulled out one of the glass bottles - making all the appropriate noises for a gift this cute - and stopped cold.
"D!"
"What?"
"Did you look at these bottles?"
"Yeah, they're cute, huh?"
"No! I mean yes, but look - they're all coated on the inside with white powder!"
Silence for a half a second as the alcohol fumes explain to me what this means.
"Oh my god! I bought you someone's old cocaine bottles!
And suddenly, the drug-sniffing dog trying desperately to get enough of a scent to incriminate me made all too much sense.
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
Did I mention that I have no attention span today?
Anyone read Microserfs by Douglas Coupland? I'd never heard of it, til I ran across it on a blog today. And after reading this, I think I'm going to have to find me a copy.
Anyone read Microserfs by Douglas Coupland? I'd never heard of it, til I ran across it on a blog today. And after reading this, I think I'm going to have to find me a copy.
Susan is 26 and works in Mac Applications. If Susan were a Jeopardy! contestant, her dream board would be:
* 680X0 assembly language
* Cats
* Early ’80s haircut bands
* “My secret affair with Rob in the Excel Group”
* License plate slogans of America
* Plot lines from The Monkees
* The death of IBMSusan’s an IBM brat and hates that company with a passion. She credits it with ruining her youth by transferring her family eight times before she graduated from high school - and the punch line is that the company gave her father the boot last year during a wave of restructuring. So nothing too evil can happen to IBM in her eyes.
…
Susan’s a real coding machine. But her abilities are totally wasted reworking old code for something like the Norwegian Macintosh version of Word 5.8.
DayQuil has a NEW FORMULA!; or, why I've forgotten how to form a coherent thought.
So apparently, thanks to the heartless meth-makers who buy wonderdrugs and turnthem into illegals, DayQuil had to change its formula. I didn't realize this until I had downed half a bottle, waiting for that miraculous feeling of being able to breathe again. Instead, I'm in a curious state of disconnect. And then I looked at the bottle, to the large yellow print on a black background that says "NEW FORUMLA! with phenylephrine." The fact that the makers of this phenylephrine product went from all caps to extremely small print so quickly clued me in to the fact that "NEW FORUMLA!" is the exciting part. The new ingredient? Not so much. Because the new ingredient DOESN'T HELP ME BREATHE. I kind of like the wavy outlines around everything that I look at, but that could be caused from lack of oxygen as much as to the NEW FORUMLA! that I'm using. At least the night time version still knocks me out for a few hours.
Oh - and I'm saying DayQuil, but to be honest, it's the CVS "Non-Drowsy Day-Time Multi-Sympton Cold/Flu Relief". DayQuil is easier to say when you can only feel half of your tongue, though. I wonder if that's due to the phenylephrine?
And if you're wondering if I'm happy about this NEW FORMULA! - that I wasn't even consulted about - the answer is NO!
Oh - and I'm saying DayQuil, but to be honest, it's the CVS "Non-Drowsy Day-Time Multi-Sympton Cold/Flu Relief". DayQuil is easier to say when you can only feel half of your tongue, though. I wonder if that's due to the phenylephrine?
And if you're wondering if I'm happy about this NEW FORMULA! - that I wasn't even consulted about - the answer is NO!
Sunday, March 25, 2007
Recovery
We got home from London around midnight Friday. I've been incredibly lazy in not posting anything about the trip - but that's because once I write this, my vacation will really be over. I've been working on getting all the pictures up on Flickr - but I took over 250 of them. And my batteries died on our trip to Greenwich, so there would have been even more! I'm going through and naming them and doing all the fun stuff one does with pictures on Flickr. In the meantime, here's one of my favorites:
We had an incredibly good time, but it's good to be home. And some horribly invasive mucous-y nastiness seems to have invaded my sinuses and set up temporary residence. Luckily, I have my DayQuil and NyQuil. Unfortunately, they kill the taste of the wine- but that means that I can drink cheaper stuff and not notice the taste. My meds also kill the effects of drinking cheap wine. So it's almost a win-win situation. If I can get past the inability to breathe, that is.
We had an incredibly good time, but it's good to be home. And some horribly invasive mucous-y nastiness seems to have invaded my sinuses and set up temporary residence. Luckily, I have my DayQuil and NyQuil. Unfortunately, they kill the taste of the wine- but that means that I can drink cheaper stuff and not notice the taste. My meds also kill the effects of drinking cheap wine. So it's almost a win-win situation. If I can get past the inability to breathe, that is.
Friday, March 16, 2007
On my way out the door....
I'm heading out the door - London, here I come! That is, if planes are still leaving the country by the time I get on mine in Detroit this evening. I'm so glad that I flew out of Philadelphia LAST year, because this year, I don't think I'd make it.
There will be more stories and pictures than you want to look at next week. THat's a promise.
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
IM Chat with my sister
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