the sloppy copy

If you are a 21 year old who drives a Porsche Cayenne, I dislike you.

Pardon my Archie Bunker-level of transparency here; I’m actually trying to work through my bias. In fact, I laid in bed last night, trying to imagine a decent person – someone with whom I’d want to be friends, say – who fit that description.

This is the best I could do:

I guess, if one came from a family with the means to provide their college kid with a $50,000 ride, why the fuck wouldn’t you? Maybe you could think of other ways to spend that kind of cash (I sure-as-shit could). But to each his own, yeah? Maybe Mr. Porsche thinks a <insert dream car here> is as frivolous as I think a Porsche SUV is. I’ll allow that that doesn’t make him a fundamentally bad person.

Because let’s face it: The story of the wealthy person who can afford luxury automobiles actually tooling around town in a Ford Aspire is a big fat false myth. For every Prius-driving celebrity are forty-four Escalade-owning professional athletes.

And really, this is a poor example. Hybrids ain’t cheap, y’all.

Wait, what was my point? Oh, right. Judging books by their douche-y covers. I shouldn’t do that.

But I got a ways to go yet.

“Hey, Jim, which one’s yours – the Subaru or the Aston-Martin?”

When I think about what my “dream home” would entail, several key features stand out:

1. It is free
2. The carpet vacuums itself
3. I have a deck.
3a. Lots of decks.
3a-1. Like, off of every room.
3a-1(a). Basically, I think I just want to live on a giant deck.

I watch a lot of House Hunters: International, because when you get home from work at 12:30 in the morning it’s either that or a replay of the 10:00 news (that one really confused me the first time – I didn’t know channel 5 did a 1:00 am newscast!).

Anyway, I guess a “thing” on some of these Caribbean islands is houses without walls. Like, there are some walls. But the line between the outside and inside is pretty nonexistent. And some of these places are pretty freaking incredible. Imagine waking up, sitting up in bed, and looking out onto the ocean. Because the ocean is right there.

The first house I saw like that, I was all like sold, motherfucker! Sign me up! But then the rational side of my brain went into Override Mode and I started asking questions. Questions like:

1. What do these people do if it rains? Does it not rain in the Caribbean? Because I’m pretty sure they get freakin’ hurricanes down there. Right? So what the hell do you do when that happens? Move out for a week?

2. I guess I could trust my neighbors not to just come on in and take my shit, but what about vagrants? I’m sure the Caribbean has vagrants.

3. I’d like to think I’m an animal lover and all, but I am certain there is probably some freaky-ass wildlife to which I am most definitely not accustomed lurking around down there. I do NOT want to wake up with some sort of mutant scorpion-armadillo-stegasaurus rummaging around my craft room.*

I was going to find a picture of some horrific Caribbean insect and add it to this post. So I did a Google Images search for “Caribbean bugs.” Trust me, THIS IS A BAD IDEA.

Oh my LORD is this a bad idea.

I will not sleep for a week.

Maybe walls are a good thing after all.

*I will have a craft room, damnit.

Whoopsy-daisies! Only today, when I opened up the newspaper to see how well I did with my Oscar predictions, did I realize I didn’t include my pick for Best Picture in yesterday’s post.

It was Argo, for the record. No lie.

And yes, I have not actually watched the ceremony yet. It’s on the DVR, taking up approximately 97% of its available recording space. I figure this way, I can at least fast forward through the junk. Or hit pause as the camera falls upon a delectable piece of eye candy.

Except no – not really. The pausing thing, I mean. I’m really bad at that. I’ll be watching something, and hit pause because I have to pee, or I’m thirsty, or I suddenly remember that the clothes I put in the washer were done like four hours ago, damnit! Now I have to rewash them because they’re practically moldy! and without fail the image I end up freezing on my television screen is someone making the most hideous, horrible (but downright hilarious) face. Picture the most handsome/beautiful/desirable person you can imagine. Now picture that person about to release a massive sneeze. 

It’s a talent, I tell you. 

In other news, hearty congratu-fucking-lations to the best Sound Editor in the Land:
I think maybe you had to share this with some other people, but they don’t count, sir. In my heart, you will always be Nummer Ett

Even though I briefly thought my boy Paul N.J. Ottoson was summarily diss-missed among the nominees this year (I just skimmed through the nominees for Sound Editing like some carefree fool) I decided  to bring you (an abbreviated) list of my 2013 Academy Award Predictions!

Please, please. Calm yourselves. You’re causing a scene. And don’t make that face again. Yikes.

here’s hoping you snag Number 3 tonight, baby.

First, though, some Full Disclosure: I am qualified to make these predictions based on these factors:
1. I watch a lot of television and flims. Enough so that I sometimes worry that parts of my brain are turning into jelly. Though that might be the margaritas talking.
2. Even though I have seen exactly zero of the Best Picture nominees, I have read the books upon which two of the movies (Zero Dark Thirty, Silver Linings Playbook) are based. This makes me feel super-smart (see also: cocky).
3. Nope, there is no 3.

Moving on!

Actor in a Leading Role:
Abraham Lincoln, portraying Daniel Day-Lewis, playing Abraham Lincoln as acted by Daniel Day-Lewis
Because: duh.

Actor in a Supporting Role:
Christoph Waltz, Django Unchained
Because: process of elimination, or,  my – mother – told – me – to – pick – the – very – best – one – and – you – are – not – it

Actress in a Leading Role:
Jennifer Lawrence, Silver Linings Playbook
Because: I did not like the book, and I did not like Tiffany (Lawrence’s character) even more than I did not like the book. If she could have made that character likable, bra-fucking-vo! Well done, lady! Otherwise, I’m just going to operate under the assumption that this is one of those “the character is grating and weird-in-an-ungood-way but damn this chick just nailed it” performances.

Really? Who are you? WHAT are you?

Actress in a Supporting Role:
Anne Hathaway, Les Miseraereabaebles
Because:  It’s not that I want her to win, it’s that she just will. Hathaway is the ultimate Meta-Actor: she acts while she’s acting about acting. I can’t tell where she even begins, and I don’t think she knows, either.

As far as awards go, I’m stopping there. Unless you’re Erik-Jan De Boer‘s lover waiting at home in Dutch-Land (or wherever the hell Dutch people are from), no one cares. I will, however, offer a few more notes on the ceremony:

Predictions:
Seth MacFarlane will say something pants-shittingly funny.
Seth MacFarlane will do something pants-shittingly cringe-worthy.
Some famous actress will wear an outrageously-beautiful dress.
Some not-as-famous actress will wear an outrageously hideous garment-of-some-kind.

this might be the sort of colleague that ACTUAL female petty officers, er, think about

Gross Oversights:
Yeah, yeah, everyone’s bitching that Affleck wasn’t even nominated for Best Director, but what about these other slights or category omissions by the Academy?

* I’ve got four words for ya: Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter

* Special Recognition Award for Tyler Perry: though, really, I would have rather seen Madea cast as Alex Cross.

* Best sequel: Taken 2. Because no one learned their fucking lessons the first time around, and Liam Neeson obviously needs work.

* Most “What-the-faaa?” Award: Cloud Atlas. Because turning this monstrosity into a movie was a FANTASTIC idea. I mean, really.

* Thank God It’s Over Award: Twilight Breaking New Moon Dawn Vampire Wolves Shitshow. That was the last one, right?

* Best Supporting Actress oversight: Rihanna, for her gripping portrayal of a Naval Petty Officer in Battleship.

adventures in apartment living.

Why are there children playing in the Dumpster?

Is lime green a factory option from Chevrolet, or did you take your Impala to Maaco and ask for that on purpose?

Why did you think that’s a parking spot?

Rihanna, huh? At 4:00 am?

So, all your bras and non-pajama pants are in the wash today, huh?

Seriously, why are you letting your children play in the Dumpster?

Why is that perfectly-nice chair next to the Dumpster?

Is your Camry supposed to make that high-pitched screeching noise when the engine’s running?

What’s that smell?

Do I call 911 or the non-emergency police line?

What are you barbecuing in the parking lot?

Shouldn’t those children be wearing coats? AND WHY THE FUCK ARE THEY INSIDE THE DUMPSTER?

The most comfortable feeling in the world is when you accept a day-long job interview at a place out-of-state.

You fly in the night before, are wined and dined by your potential supervisor, and dropped off at a swank-ass hotel. And then the next morning, she meets you for breakfast at said swank-ass hotel. But before that, you take approximately six hours getting ready because you’ve already messed up a couple job interviews before this one (at least, you think you must have because – duh- you’re still going on interviews) and you are determined that this is going to be THE ONE.

So you do something you never do: you wear pantyhose.

Oh, and also makeup.

And straighten your hair.

Okay, so three things you never do.

Anyway.

You’re feeling like you’ve got this shit on lockdown, son, with your suit and heels and combed hair and brushed teeth. And, come to think about it, you owe at least some of that confidence to the ‘hose. Your shockingly-white Irish skin has the potential to frighten and blind those who gaze upon it for too long. But beneath a layer of nylon, you suddenly become Christie-fucking-Brinkley prancing on a goddamn beach in Antigua.

Wait, did I say nylon? Because I meant the Devil’s fabric.

Lured into a false sense of confidence, you sit through a series of 78,039 interviews with 120,393 people. Then you are taken on an extensive tour of the place.

Which includes a lot of walking around.

Outside.

You are smart: you packed flats and blister-block and Band-Aids for this part of the adventure (damn right, I did! says the uber-confident go-getter inside you). You even anticipated the 900-degree temperatures and soul-crushing humidity: I have extra deodorant and body spray and even extra makeup for touch-ups LIKE A GODDAMN BOSS you are saying.

You did not, however, realize that it rained recently and the entire out-of-doors was one giant festering pool of mosquito-breeding standing water. Also, your personal body chemistry is, essentially, mosquito crack.

The tour is at the end of the day, and your interview-anxiety prevents you from noticing much discomfort until you arrive back at your hotel.

Then, like a ton of bricks, it hits you and you must take off the nylons oh my God oh my God oh my God what is going on?! Dear Sweet Lord what has happened to my legs?

You remove the Devil’s Fabric from your person, only to discover that your legs from about mid-thigh down are COVERED in mosquito bites.

THIS IS NOT AN EXAGGERATION. 

And not only are they covered, but they are swollen and itchy and… black and blue? As near as you can figure, the tourniquet effect of the ‘hose has somehow compressed each bite so that and caused actual bruising. Like – seriously? What the fuck?

So you hobble down to the little convenience “store” in the lobby of the hotel and feebly ask for some fucking Benadryl, wanting nothing more than to dull the pain. And you shuffle back up to your room and lay absolutely still on the bed, watching cable television and praying to Jesus that if I’m going to die of gangrene at least let me get this stupid job first. 

And by the morning your legs are yellow and green and still swollen and still itchy and you have a flight to catch but, actually, it doesn’t matter because you miss your connecting flight and end up having to spend the night in Atlanta without your suitcase so you spend one more night laying in a hotel bed praying for death to come quickly.

*                                          *                                       *

Epilogue

You get the fucking job.
Like a boss.
A crippled, swole-up boss.

First, someone made popcorn at work. And it wasn’t burnt!

It smelled so good. And I wanted some. Very badly.

Either that, or I was having mini-stroke. Whatever. Moving on.

Second, I set my heart on making some popcorn when I got home. Truly, it got me through the remaining two hours of work.

Third, I got home and went to my cupboard.

No fucking popcorn.

This is where my brain sort of temporarily stopped working and I did that irrational-desperate thing where – even though I knew I had no popcorn because I just-then remembered making the last bag a few days ago and thinking to myself “Oh, pick up some more popcorn next time you’re at the store” – I started to tear apart my kitchen.

I removed damn-near-everything in the cabinet where the popcorn is generally kept. Oh, maybe there’s a stray bag hiding behind these boxes of tea! Oh, I KNOW there is. THERE HAS TO BE ONE MORE BAG BACK HERE.

Then I remembered that I used to keep my popcorn in a basket on top of the refrigerator. This was, of course, over a year ago. BUT MAYBE I MISSED A BAG WHEN I MOVED IT.

No dice.

That’s when I realized I was a crazy person. A crazy, popcorn-obsessed person.

And I got surly.

Because I didn’t have anything that remotely resembled popcorn. No nuts. No crackers. Nothing snack-y nor crunch-y.

So I ended up eating a caramel instead, which is essentially the least popcorn-like food item ever.

Woe is me. My life is HARD, y’all.

Sigh.