Geraldo's Mustache of Truth

I keep seeing these ads on Facebook encouraging people to go on cruises. The ad has a clever tag that says, "Click if you like vacations!" Who doesn't like vacations? I like a lot of things so I am honest with Facebook about what I like. I went to click that I, indeed, like vacations when I noticed two very important things. 1) It was an ad for a cruise line.  2) A beloved family member had already clicked that they had liked vacations and thus, that they had liked the cruise line and may already be in danger of being sucked into going on a cruise where they may meet their demise and not have their death reported simply because CRUISE LINES DO NOT HAVE TO DO THAT! And they don't. Do you know why?  They don't want to be the cruise line that is equivalent of the Titanic. They want to be the HAPPY FUN TIME STUFF YOU WITH FOOD AND WHOA LOOK AT OUR CASINOS AND SWIMMING POOLS AND YEAH WE'RE GOING TO SENOR FROGS cruise line.

But I'm not buying it. Not for all the Bon Voyage streamers in the world.

Mind you, I would totes get in a cage and look at sharks, knowing full well I might lose a hand. However, there are people on that boat I feel safe with and that should I become a shark snack (I'm not really a dinner), they have to march back to their superiors and the police and file Shark Snack papers. Also, I'm pretty sure this would make the news and Jon Stewart would make a joke about my death on the Daily Show, which is pretty rad.

But I digress.

The Fort Lauderdale Sun-Sentinel reports, "While crime is rare on cruise ships, justice for those victimized on the vacation voyages can be elusive due to overlapping investigative powers, difficulty obtaining evidence and witnesses, and a lack of sworn officers aboard ships." See! I may have first seen and gasped at this horror while on a late-night insomnia binge of news from Geraldo Riviera (Is that even his last name?) some years ago but I have since followed it up from "reliable" news sources. You know. Ones that don't crack open vaults of mobsters and get hit by chairs.

I have quietly bitten my nails as other loved ones have gone on cruises and, on the other end of the spectrum, chuckled to myself as despised co-workers announced a two-week cruise to ...I don't know...some Senor Frog destination.

The fact is I have also seen those movies where people have to turn into Indiana Jones in an instant when the ship starts to go down. Pianos are turning over, chandeliers are lighting on fire, people are traversing pipes and swinging on wires. The intense music alone makes me nuts! I'm a survivor in many ways, people, but if I was somehow drugged and woke up on a cruise ship with only the savory and delicious buffets to survive on, I know that if something happened I would not be the people crawling through vents and doing crazy acrobatic stunts to get out of a ship. In fact, I would be the one to go, "Ok well. I told you this would happen," and swallow a cyanide pill. The heroic people could use my dead body to slide to safety or to build a raft. I'm even okay if they use my stiff corpse to fight off villains. There are always villains. I would embroider permission on the front of all my clothing with a cute little boat next to the words so it would still be stylish.

I know many people in the entertainment industry find jobs on cruises.  I'm not trying to kill an economy here. In fact, at one point when I was still naive about cruise lines, I thought, "Hey, I could make a lot of cash working on a cruise ship and see the world!"  And then I saw the light that Geraldo's Mustache of Truth shined.  Cruise lines don't like you. They don't even have real "officers." I mean, I could be an officer.  I could get a jet boat and have a picnic and call it a cruise line.  The only difference is that I would have to report deaths because I wouldn't be able to get out into international waters.  Oh, and I'd be cheaper too.  It would still be a vacation, though. Which we all like.

My Mom Refuses to Read Anymore Today!

"I know I'm angry.  As my FBI Forensic Psychologist Husband put it last night while I was cooking dinner in our historic Cambridge home that was built by a well-known Transcendentalist, 'You're being tricked, Kay." -Patricia Cornwell from her book, "Red Mist" that my Mom is currently reading.  In fact, she came into the guest room in which I am currently lounging to specifically read this sentence.

Thank goodness she did this because I was struggling for a segue into what I wanted to write about: writing. Yes, writing!

I'm aware I haven't posted since May but thank goodness for you, I happened to listen to a podcast interview with my friend, Ben Loory  on Brad Listi's blog, "Other People." I then thought to myself, I should really start blogging again. I'll make a blog tomorrow. Apparently, I already have one I abandoned for several months so I'm letting it rise from the ashes of my memory like a feeble Phoenix.

This is an illustration of how my mind usually works, which is why my blogging tends to save us all a lot of hassle.

Now. You may be saying, "Wendy, why didn't you make easy to click links to all of these references?"  And I say to you, "I tried but it just made two whole blog posts that were linked to Ben's interview and Ben's new book marked BEN LOORY and that seemed a little creepy." Why, two? It's a mystery. So Google them until I figure it out.  I mean for you to use Google and not Bing because Bing sucks. But I digress.

My friend, BEN LOORY, speaks about his writing methods in the podcast.  Part of it is about being in the present and letting the story happen to the reader.  Too much background or any at all, really, according to Ben, is unnecessary and takes away from the experience of being immersed.  A little background about Ben and I: one time, a few years ago, I almost went to visit him but I became very sick and was unable to fly for two years. I also belonged to the bird club where he lives via the internets and tried to sell homemade post cards to benefit it and a man who lived in the park.  I failed but the point is I tried.

See what I did there? No? Okay.

I was pretty inspired by the interview with Ben. It helped me come to terms with the different ways that I write. I'm okay. Ben's okay. You're okay. Patricia Cornwell is not okay. As a writer. I'm sure she's a super nice person.  Yes, I am scared of Patricia Cornwell and her lack of staying in the present but more than that, I am terrified of not knowing what she was being tricked into because of all the damn background information about her fancy house and husband.

As Ben once said to me, "I always like to end on an up note," and I have taken that to heart.  Thus, I end  this blog post in the present.  Here we go.

My Mom just announced from the other room, "That's it. I refuse to read anymore today."
Thanks, Patricia!  Now I can get her to make more tiny cheesecakes.

What is Lube?

[Names changed because I like making up new names for people]

The other day I was rather tired and decided to go for a quick bike ride over to my friend [Otto]'s house. Normally, I don't drop in on people as I am not a fan of the drop-in but it seemed okay because [Otto] was making some baked beans and coming over in an hour anyway. Plus his phone sucks and if I called he wouldn't get the message until like a week later so it seemed useless to call. EXCEPTION TO THE RULE CARD PLAYED.

What you should know is that [Otto] was actually banned from my house for a small period of time.
When I first moved into my cool ass house, which I refuse to post photos of because you'll only want to come steal it in the middle of the night, [Otto] would drop in constantly and tell me it was going to burn down and myself and my cats were in severe danger. The reasons varied depending on what he saw and what day it was but essentially I was living in a death trap and if Bruce Willis didn't show up and explode out of the window in a mushroom cloud of fire at any moment, it was a miracle.
Some time passed and it was whispered to [Otto] by a family member that he may get chopped up and tossed into the compost pile if he didn't chill the fuck out because said house is just fine and makes me happy as a clam with glitter glued to its face. Things were okay for awhile as in it was okay that [Otto] was distracted by some skunks that lodged themselves under his bathroom for awhile and that became a large part of his life. They would have skunk parties under his bathroom and he couldn't sleep so he took to napping a lot during the day.

Fast forward to when I lurched to a stop on my Mom's bike the other day in [Otto's] driveway. I knocked on his door and could smell his baked beans cooking but [Otto] seemed confused as to why I was there. It was not particularly unusual, really. In fact he usually invites me in, tries to give me plant clippings and what not. That day, he wandered around his yard and was musing aloud randomly and then when I casually mentioned the bike I was riding was making a clicking sound he went into his MUST FIX MODE. I didn't really have time for him to do a full bike tune-up that was not necessary and was just stopping by to say "Hey hey" on my ride but I was forced off of the bike and stood there seething as he held up a can of Acme Bike Lube, proclaiming loudly as though I were a foreigner, "THIS IS BIKE LUBE."

It was at this point that I started wondering what would happen if I just strangled him with the bike chain. Could they trace it bike to this bike? No. No. It's my Mom's bike. Don't get her into that kind of trouble. She's a kind soul. What if I just cracked him on the head with...that shitty bike pump? It never works and it could be explained away as a drunken injury. Hmm.

It was announced after I wrested the bike away from him that he was going to take a nap. Mind you, he and his Magic Beans were supposed to be arriving in less than an hour and he just announced a snooze-fest. I was actually alternately okay with this and mildly pissed. I hate when people are not courteous so that was the main pisser there. Otherwise...WHAT. EVER.

But [Otto] did show up. Two hours late. As people were leaving. So of course we all sat down and ate a bunch of damn beans. Then a half hour later other said people, [Dude and Dude's Son], left and my Mom mentioned the beeping/F2 warning on her really expensive dishwasher. I'm sure you can envision what happened next. [Otto] decided to have a half hour look at it before my Mom herded him out to the yard where I am told he took charge of the fire pit and dug up some shit because our fire wasn't just fine the way it was. He also checked that she had turned the propane off on the BBQ as he was leaving because my Mom is a total firebug. It's well-known. There's photos of her at the propane places around the county.

At this point, I was just laying on my Mom's futon in some sort of cross-eyed fury where I was trying to figure out the cheapest locale for socks and oranges in bulk. In my head I was going to construct a Rube Goldberg-esque machine that constantly pummels [Otto] until he is broken of his habits to compulsively fix shit that isn't broken or if it is...no one asked him to take up our entire lives to inspect it and go off on tangents about how he's lived here for over ten years and ....zzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
Either this post will make you want to kill me (and I won't judge you for that) or you will completely understand. Maybe you even know [Otto] and you understand.

My Futurography

Someone I know was actually required to do the following in a 500 word essay. Note that the word "futurogoraphy" is made up and not actually a synonym of the word autobiography at all. Mind you, I have no problem with making up words. If you do, though, (and this is a major rule in Sniglet Scrabble), the context has to coincide with your made-up word not be the antonym or completely out of context.

You may have written your autobiography, which

included how you would like your future story to be. We will call this

your futurography. The purpose of this therapy project is to write

your futurography in more detail.


OBJECTIVES

Making future plans.

Stating the kind of person you would like to be.

Thinking about what skills you will need in the future.

Write your futurography.

My Futurography (few-toro-graf-ee):

Hello, Wendy from the past. This is your autobiography from the future, your "futurography," if you will. I know how much you like milk so I've brought you a nice cold glass of of 6.75% milk from the future for you to enjoy while I tell you what you're all about...in the future. (I will just use "I" to refer to you since we are the same person but just in the future. That way we will avoid mixups. Sidebar: I love your vintage outfit!)

The good news is that the spoken word project has taken off! The Talkies and The Green Typewriters constantly perform together and last year (my time, which is like 6 years from now) I got married to Andrew Bird in a very small ceremony (I met him when I convinced Ryan to make him a door necklace to give to him, despite his widely known social anxiety-Andrew's, not Ryan's. We'll do Ryan's futurography later if he wants and talk about that.) Andrew came to a Talkies/Green Typewriters show and that's how everything happened. The rest is history. Or it is to me. For the past me it's futuristory? Anyhoo, so I'm very good at the guitar now and I also play the violin. It's coming along. I have an excellent teacher. It helps if you're sleeping with him! Sorry, you're the only one who hasn't heard that joke a million times.

Oh! I also finally finished my book. I'm working on sending out the manuscripts but I'm still a procrastinator. Plus, I just found this great burrito recipe everyone likes so we have burrito night every Wednesday. So, while that's going kind of slow, it's still going.

I finally have twenty-two pairs of prescription glasses and can match them with any outfit! Goal reached! I don't think I had a specific number in mind but I am happy with what I have.

For my birthday this year, Ryan and Anthony chipped in and bought me a Driver's Education class. At first, I was kind of pissed off because I still insist I'm not a horrible driver but I actually learned some things. For instance, there was an ice driving course involved. That was really helpful! Also I was allowed to drive my car around on the ice between cones and well, that's always awesome. At the end, they let me do a couple victory donuts on the ice.

How could I forget? I finally learned how to change a tire. Although, I tell you, these days it's a bit easier. I'll leave that one surprise for you. Enjoy your futurography! Oh, by the way. Don't eat the Jell-O at Dad's funeral just to be polite and really don't sign the guestbook. Bad decisions on both accounts.

Dialogue Project #1 "The Stain"

"Don't scribble that out."

"What? The stain? I'm just taking this...number," she said, lifting her eyebrows and moving the pen spastically over it, "and getting rid of it."

"Don't touch the stain!" I said emphatically, admiring the curve of the stain left on the last page of the tablet from a tea cup leftover from the previous evening.

"This?" she said, marking in the area where the stain was and coyly smiling as I recoiled in horror.

She lifted the tablet off the table so I could see it and revealed a whimsical face where once a tea stain was.

"Ha!" I shouted and clapped my hands against my cheeks in delight.

"Trainee Coffee"

Here's a little life lesson (for those who already know it, feel free to stop reading or just have a refresher.) I'm combining two into one so just bear with me.

Don't be an asshole and don't fuck with the people who handle your food and/or beverages.

You would think this would be a given on both accounts, that no one would have to say it. However, there are people wandering the earth who are under the impression that their asshole behavior is entirely justified and furthermore they take it to another level and direct it toward people who handle their food and/or beverages, which just is not smart.

Let's address just the asshole part first. A certain person writing this blog, who shall remain nameless unless you look above her picture, lost the job she'd just gotten after four days of 3 1/2 hour shifts. It took her 4 months of job searching to get said job. This person got a job in a coffee shop and has worked in other coffee shops before, including the mighty Starbucks (the drive-thru in a college town even!) While working at Starbucks, she was also working another full-time job which kept her on her toes in a different way. Basically, working with the elderly who had memory disorders, which isn't all glitter projects and gin rummy. These people are slippery and will be down the road in about two seconds if you don't watch them. But I digress. My point being that said person lost the coffee shop job after just under 14 hours on the job, being fired over the phone at work by the owner who was in Salt Lake City after having had knee surgery. She apparently, after just under 14 hours, several of which not being around the owner, had come to fit the profile of past baristas who, after four months or so, just didn't work out. They, ("they" being the two people who had trained said person so far, one of which was just promoted to manager and "still unsure in her position" and the other being a Jehovah's witness who happened to show up at her house on her day off and then make a snide remark the day I she was fired about her laptop) all came to a concensus that said person fit this profile, despite praising her extensively and saying, "Good Job!" and "You're doing great!" at the end of each shift. The big characteristic of this profile? Not being able to keep with the busy pace of the summer crowds.

Yes. That's right.

Okay. If you haven't figured it out, said person is me. At this point, you can imagine it's probably best the owner is not standing in front of me. After telling her how ridiculous everything she is saying is and that she's giving me the shaft and that "the person she interviewed and the person she hired are not the same person" is a bunch crap because it takes more than 4 days of 3 1/2 hours to get used to a new environment and the people in it, who were less than welcoming, by the by. Trying to crack into this circle of people was akin to the time I had the grand idea to become popular in school by trying out for cheerleading. The only difference is that I eventually came to my senses and realized the cheerleaders would laugh me out of the tryouts. Unfortuntely, in this situation you can't see being laughed out of a coffee shop.

As for keeping up with their pace? Again, try working at a Starbucks in a college town where there are constantly five drinks to make, two blenders running, the drive-thru lined up, etc. All that and from the day I walked in there to the day I left, I was the top-selling barista, beating out employees, managers and shift leaders who had been there for five years and more. Furthermore, the manager of the store when I worked there, upon my leaving, told me to come back whenever I wanted and he would rehire me on the spot.

This all blends into the second part of today's life lesson of not fucking with the people who handle your food and/or beverages. If you are you are a) stupid and b) an asshole. I put stupid first because the people who handle your food are working harder for less money and if you piss them off they may or may not have a "spitting" problem that tends to activate around asshole customers' food and/or beverages. Trust me, if it's spit that makes it into your consumables, you're lucky. I've seen some pretty nasty things put into food in my time but frankly, each time I turned a blind eye to it. Some people just deserve to eat piss soup.

On my last half-day at the coffee shop, I was still under the delusion that I had a job and was getting a handle on the coffee bar, which timed its own shots but had a nasty habit of pulling a ton of bad ones for some reason or another (an espresso shot should be pulled between 18-22 seconds otherwise it's bad) and constantly needed adjusting. I was wishing for the machine I initially learned on where you ground and tamped your own espresso and timed your own shots and actually had to know by sight and smell whether the shot was good. Things were going pretty well, though, and I was getting more familiar with the drinks, etc when the trendiest, most blonde woman I have ever seen sidled up to the area where you pick up your drinks. She had ordered some sort of drink that had a thousand notations on it: the "I'm a control freak" drink as I like to call it. Aforementioned awesome manager was steaming milk for me and I leaned over to ask her a question when the woman started shaking her head like she was terrified and said, "No...no..I don't...I don't..want TRAINEE COFFEE. I want it...how I like it." As soon as these words left her mouth, it took me a moment to process it. My brain went through an "are you a human being?" scan and then my eyes looked over to the uber manager who was saying nothing but I could sense gears moving frantically in her head and then out of her mouth came this: "Wendy, could you go toast that bagel?"

Now we are back to being an asshole.

Nothing else was said to me about this interaction. The fact that I was demeaned by a customer and further demeaned by super manager, which I brought up to the owner over the phone during my long distance firing and nothing was said in response, was so beyond my grasp that I think I put too much cream cheese on that fucking bagel. I'm sure whoever ate it will live with my trainee bagel.

There is no moral to the story because these people have no morals.

Watching The Olympics With Ryan

At the head shop today, my co-worker, Richard, ordered me to go home, chill out and watch the Olympics. He had orders from me to go to the best taqueria in town, located inside a sketchy but awesome mercado, home to a metal, paint-flaking chicken machine that is most likely a decade older than I am. For the cost of two quarters or four bits, you get the chicken to loudly bawk bawk bawk and turn on its metal rod as it lays an egg that most likely contains a small plastic fairy with a birth defect of the face.

So of course I held up my end of the deal but you can't watch the Olympics alone. Enter Ryan Talbot who, appropriately (see his MySpace if you don't get the punchline) makes a better door than a window. I just had to poke him now and again sharply with one of three remotes that operate the one television I own that is merely hooked up to a PS2 that plays DVD's like it's scratching on a turntable. I wish I could hook up the DVD player but we're lucky the PS2 is hooked up. My Mom gets big ups for that and knowing what input and output and coaxial mean. *Insert Peanuts adult speak here*

We both thought the interview Bob Costas did with President Bush was stellar. Mostly because Bob Costas is so cool that he was just slightly above asking Dubya how to spell "cat" because clearly our leader was terrified the Chinese were going to dump a crap ton of Sesame Chicken in his bed while he was away, trying his hardest, clenching the air (he didn't even think to bring his own pencil), announcing that "America has no problems" and "China should just accept religion." We also got a nice shot of a replay in which Prime Minister Putin stood in front of a tortured Mrs. Bush with his ass in her face while in conversation with her husband.

Note: Beverly Hills Chihuahua will be coming to a theatre near you October 3rd. You should probably check for midnight showings and buy tickets ahead of time.

Just so you know, this paragraph would have been really funny and about Michael Phelps but a gag order on ha ha's about the famous, alleged oily bo hunk swimmer has been put in place by Ryan "Goobleygook" Talbot, who can't even get slang correct. "This paragraph is harder for me to read than it is to understand my mumbling,"--Ryan Talbot.

*cough*

Words that are awesome at the Olympics so far:
*Breaststroker
*Titular
*Wingspan
*Stroke
*Lengths
*Peirsol
*Heat
*Ready Room

If anything else good happens, I'll let you know. I mean, other than Ryan re-attaching the chain to the thing that makes my toilet flush. Also, Papa Johns doesn't mind if you tip them in quarters.