the sloppy copy

If you’re looking for a way to eat up a large chunk of your free time, might I suggest becoming (temporarily) obsessed with a television show?

The process of finding a show and really getting into generally begins spontaneously, but if you’d like to expedite the process I’ve outlined it below. Just follow these simple steps and you will soon be well on your way to rabid fandom.

1. Turn on the television while you are performing some sort of mundane task, such as trimming your nails or ironing your work pants. 
Originally meant as background noise, you will catch something interesting and your ears will perk up. When you glance up at the screen, you see someone doing something that catches your interest. Perhaps this character is kicking down a door to get at a Bad Guy. You like it when Good Guys kick down doors. It is exciting. You want to know who this Good Guy is, and what the Bad Guy did. Maybe Good Guy is saving his partner in police officer-ing, or firefighting, or time-travelling, or detective-ing, or astronaut-ing, or Army-ing. Either way, they lead gritty lives and have gritty careers – the kind that gets them into all sorts of trouble – and you want to know more. Also, they are devastatingly handsome.

2. Find out what the hell show this is.
Wait. Is THAT what this show is? No freaking way! I’ve totally heard of this show! I see it on all the time but I never watched it. Huh. Oh, there’s another episode on next. Maybe I’ll check this out. I had no idea this is what this show was about. This is way cooler than I thought. 

3. Settle in for the next episode.
Become completely sucked in: How did these people get there? What the hell are they talking about? Is that a Good Guy? Does that person know that other person is a Bad Guy? Are these dudes brothers, or what? Who’s this chick? Why do they keep talking about x, y and z? Is that important to the Plot? I think it’s important to the plot.

This sure-as-shit better be on Netflix instant streaming or I’m going to cut someone.

4. Plan your schedule for the next month-or-so accordingly
Start thinking up excuses for being late/absent to work. Or not meeting up with friends. Or putting off mopping the floor, or taking the ferret to the vet, or bathing yourself. Because “I only have 8 episodes left in this season, and only 4 more seasons to go until I’m caught up” might not be an excuse that others “get.”

Because they obviously have no taste, but whatever.

In an embarrassment of first world riches, I got super-dupes frustrated when trying to go through my insurance co’s website to pick a doctor recently. Way too many categories, y’all. Narrow search by when he/she received their degree? Whatever. I’ve known some great 160-year old physicians and some shitty Doogie Howser-types. I could care less about those kinds of things. Really, when it comes down to it, I just want someone who smiles.

Have you ever seen a doctor who didn’t smile? It’s unpleasant. If you smile at me, I will be nice to you. And even though I might be the 7,836th patient you’ve seen in the past three hours, maybe I will make this 45 seconds a pleasant interaction for you. Just saying.

If you smile at me, I will be more forthcoming with information. Your furrowed countenance makes you look as if you want to show my temple the business side of a 10-blade. In this case, I will want to make our conversation as quick as possible. “So, Julie, you say that you are having blinding pain in your side?” “Uh, no. Forget it. Never mind. I’ll just go home to die alone in my bathtub.”

If you smile at me, I will think that you care (even if you actually don’t, and I don’t really hold that against you unless this turns out to be a regular-appointment kind of deal). And if I think you care, I will give you the whole story. “Well, I did spend some time in the Amazon a few weeks ago with a balloon of coke crammed up my poo chute, now that you mention it.”

If you smile at me, I will tell my friends good things about you and you will become rich and famous, like Dr. Oz, except with scrub tops that properly cover your biceps.

If you smile at me, I will heed your advice. “No more sticks of butter for breakfast? Okaaaaay, but only because you asked me so nicely.”

So you weren’t Numbero Uno in your class at Prestigious Medical University. I don’t care if you completed a fellowship at Prestigious Medical Center. It doesn’t matter to me that you set up some charity in Random Third World Nation (though, props if you did). Just try to pretend like you care, and I’ll come back to see you.

Unless that’s not what you want. In that case, forget you. Just for that, I’m making an appointment once-a-frickin’-week. You wanna see unpleasant? Just wait til you hear what I’ve been keeping in my bum. Just for you, doc. Just. For. You.

Did I really just write that last sentence?

I’m sorry.

Every two months I have a scheduled three-day weekend, and that glorious, glorious day has finally arrived. To say that I am excited is an understatement. More like “paralyzed with glee.” Seriously. For the past week, I’ve been going about my business, when suddenly I remember holy crap I have Friday, Saturday and Sunday off and then I start clapping like some deranged cross-eyed seal. And yes, there is squealing.

I have a basic framework of plans right now, but plenty of in-between down time to fill with whatever my little heart desires. And that, dear reader(s), is what really gets my biscuits burning.

Some ideas:

Party like a rock star
…minus the hotel-suite trashing, drug-doing, groupie-banging bit, of course.
Though, after that, I’m not sure what’s left. Maybe “rock star” is a little much. What kinds of stars go on hikes and read books and sit outside drinking coffee? I’m imagining some sort of piano-playing, songwriting, Soft Rock star. Norah Jones, maybe? or Kenny Loggins?*

Finish the damn baby blanket I started almost six months ago – holy crap
…I’m not what’s known as a “fast” or “skilled” crochet-er.
Also at this point I’ll never be done, because I just keep having to make it larger and larger as the kid grows.

Do some research for my Fantasy Baseball team
…Namely, figure out how the heck I put players on my team. Or keep score. Or make trades. Or sign up.

Clean my apartment
…Oh, Julie, you crack myself up.

Finish just one of the 80-zillion half-posts I have saved for this site
…except I can’t remember what made most of them post-worthy in the first place.

F) All of the above

G) None of the above
…I’m totally okay with this one.

I am a die-hard list-maker, by the way. Note:

This was a (mostly) good day – Sonic picnic in the park with my buds while we took creeper pics of the weirdos and made our Bucket Lists.

*”Return to Pooh Corner” Kenny Loggins. Not “Danger Zone” Kenny Loggins. Or “Loggins and Messina” Kenny Loggins. Just so we’re clear.
Also, I don’t know anything about Norah Jones. I’ve heard she has a lucrative career, and even sings something other than than that “Don’t know why” song, but don’t quote me on that.

It was – almost entirely – not my fault. If Diana Ross hadn’t been such a damn diva, none of this would have happened. I’m – almost entirely – sure of it.

Oh, Diana Ross isn’t her real name. Keep up, folks.

I think it was Whitney Houston’s birthday party – one of those whole-nine-yards, ordering Pizza Hut and sleeping over kind of deals. I. Was. Stoked. Had I even been to a real sleepover before? I’m not sure. I think this was about fifth grade, which sounds sort of late to be attending one’s first sleepover. But this is also the girl who didn’t watch MTV until she was probably 19.

Where was I? Right. Sleepover.

After we’d eaten our pizza and chased Whitney Houston’s little brother around the upstairs of their house for awhile, we settled down in the family room to decide sleeping arrangements. Whitney’s house was sick. She had one of those big-ass L-shaped sectionals, and we promptly began squabbling over who got to sleep on the sofa and who was stuck with the floor. We oh-so-generously allowed the birthday girl to sleep on the couch, leaving one coveted spot remaining. And I was this close to finagling my sleeping bag on the L…

Enter Diana.

“I have allergies,” she says dramatically. “I need to sleep above the floor.”

“Bullshit!” I cried. Well, I would have cried that if I’d cried such things as a ten year old. But I was thinking it, and instead probably responded with a “Uh, really?” I may not have swore back then, but I was still a smug little smart ass.

This is where Diana went into some detailed explanation about her being unable to breathe below sea level or some shit, getting every single other girl on her side in the process. I tried countering her arguments; at this point, I didn’t even care about sleeping on the couch – I just needed everyone else to know how full of shit she was.

I still lost.

The next morning, my parents and Brother arrived to pick me up. Overall, I did have a good time, and was all gush-y about ohmygosh how much fun I had. But I hadn’t really slept. And I was so fucking tired and all I wanted to do was go home and sleep in my own bed, curled up amongst my Garfield sheets.

But we weren’t going straight home. We were stopping at Sam’s Club first. Sigh.

When we pulled into the parking lot, I laid down across the rear bench seat of Juanita’s Bronco. Maybe I could just sleep for three or four seconds? Or wait in the truck while they picked up a pallet of coffee filters or whatever-the-hell was so urgent?

An impatient Get up, Julie answered my question.

So I lifted my head to get up.

But.

What the fuck?

Why couldn’t I move my head?

Why was my head stuck?

Frantically feeling around, I discover that a chunk of my long, long hair is stuck.

In the clicky-end of the seat belt.

I gently tug my head to free myself. Nothing.

This is when I started panicking.

“No no no! It’s okay!” my parents are telling me, trying to get me to calm down. Why I freaked the fuck out, I’m not sure. “We’ll go inside and get some scissors!”

“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” I howled (again: why? Did I imagine that my father would run into the Sam’s Club, bellowing for a pair of scissors? MY DAUGHTER IS A DUMB ASS WHO GOT HER HAIR CAUGHT IN A SEATBELT! SOMEONE BRING ME SCISSORS SO I CAN SET MY DAUGHTER’S DUMB ASS FREEEEEE! To this day, I have no idea).

I think my Dad was actually on his way into the Sam’s Club when I decided, screw it, and yanked my head up as hard as I could.

Juanita gasped.

Okay, so when I say “a chunk of hair” was stuck, I mean about a 1/2″ piece of hair. Like, many many strands.

WHAT DID YOU DO? cried Juanita, but I was suddenly calm. There, problem solved! It surprisingly hurt like hell, but I was free. Come back, Dad! No scissors needed! Let’s buy these damn coffee filters and go home, please!

YOUR SCALP IS BLEEDING! cried Juanita, and I touched a small, now-bare, spot on the top of my head.

Whoops. Maybe I shouldn’t have done that.

The entire time we were in Sam’s, Juanita kept inspecting my head, blotting it with tissues (yes, we still finished our errands. One minor head wound wasn’t going to come between our family and a 5-pack of Tombstone Frozen Pizzas). I can’t believe you did that! she said over and over.

“Yeah, me neither,” I said. “Is it obvious?”

“Well, your head is bleeding.” 

Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time. I guess.

After we got home, Dad gave the seat belt a proper haircut. I can’t remember what it looked like with the entire chunk of my hair sticking out of it like some sort of mutant rattail, but I still remember how it looked for the next few years we had the Bronco: a little tuft of red hair, trapped forever in the corner of the seat belt.

“I used to rub it like a rabbit’s foot,” Brother told me a few days ago.

“That is so weird,” I said.

But, then again, so am I.

A store called Nordstrom Rack opened in town a few months ago.

Now, Juanita and I had never been to a Nordstrom, but we’d heard they were ex-fucking-spensive. So, we reasoned, a Nordstrom Rack would be a bunch of discounted Nordstrom merchandise, priced to Normal People Levels (also, probably full of holes but meh. Details). So this morning we went over there to check it out.

The Nordstrom People had kindly placed a display of decorative throw pillows in the window under a sign that said SALE $17.95.

And this is when we knew we should have just turned around and went home.

Some highlights from the trip:

Juanita, on seeing a $200 handbag: “We should go back to KMart where we belong.”

Juanita, picking up a pair of stilettos: “You could kill a mouse with these things!”

Juanita: “Are those bedroom slippers?”
Me: “No…they’re called Toms.”
<pause>
Juanita: “You’re sure they’re not bedroom slippers?”

And, the best of all:

Me: “I don’t know if I should get these boots. I don’t know how often I’d wear them.”
Juanita: “Well, you can’t wear them at all if you don’t buy them.”

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?