We've come a long way since the Flowbee

It was brought to my attention on that last post that many of you are not familiar with Mates of State. Let's remedy that, shall we? Yes, yes, I know you all hate video posts, but take a quick look when your coworkers aren't near enough to notice you're not working, OK?



I had other things I was going to tell you this evening... like that the new-to-me laptop I've been so excited about seems to have become possessed already but that I lack the techno-prowess to know what to do about it and hence, am attempting to solve it like I solve so many problems in my life: by ignoring it in the hopes that the problem goes away on its own. Or that my pal Carrie and I went to an MPR & Citizens League event tonight and both simultaneously developed a crush on the MPR reporter who was a panelist for the event, and that we are considering inviting him to our next party (or even perhaps planning a party solely so we can invite him).

I was going to tell you these things and possibly more, but I spent the time I would have spent typing that talking to Lara instead, and now it is time for bed. Lara fully supports that party idea, by the way, and even went so far as to suggest we call it an M-P-R-ty. Heh. Lara may have been inhaling fumes from her Ukranian egg decorating supplies when she cracked that joke, but I have to admit I lack any similar excuse for laughing at it.

Do you remember in old movies, when a long distance phone call was a major event? When people scheduled calls and had operators put them through, and a hush fell over the entire house because "Mr. So-and-So is on the phone, from NEW YORK! LONG DISTANCE!"? I don't want to imply that a phone call from Lara is not an event, but I do appreciate the fact that the air of formality over a long distance call has long since dropped. I mean, while we talked, Lara was dyeing Ukranian eggs, and I decided to read her the questions on Mental Floss's "SkyMall Product or Rejected Invention Patent?" quiz. It was probably exactly what we would have been doing if we were chatting in the same room together, instead of several states away. Ah, the wonders of technology.

Speaking of technology, allow me to present my favorite answer on the "SkyMall Product or Rejected Invention Patent" quiz. Mental Floss pitted the "Cool Steps" self-cooling footwear against the "The NECKpro over-door cervical traction device," and it nearly stumped both of us. I mean, a miniature air compressor in each shoe does sound a tad ridiculous, but so does an at-home traction device. Aren't there some things that should not be do-it-yourself ventures? I would have assumed cervical traction fell solidly in that category, along with at-home dental work and chiropracty. Alas, no. Behold: the NECKpro...



It's no personal mini-donut maker, but every product has its niche, I suppose.

Like Christmas for Nerds

Hey friends. Do you know what day it is? It's National Grammar Day!

To be entirely honest, I didn't do anything particularly notable to celebrate this event last year, and yet, I feel it would be out of character for me not to point it out again this year anyway. Maybe I will actually pour myself a Grammartini when I get home. Maybe you should, too. I have no idea what makes a Grammartini any different from any other -tini, but here is the recipe, for what it's worth.

The Grammartini

1. Pour two-and-a-half ounces of gin, a half-ounce of dry vermouth, and several ice cubes into a martini shaker.
2. Shake. (The shaker—not your body or your dog’s paw.)
3. Strain into a chilled martini glass and garnish with an olive. If you must, use a lemon twist instead. The Society for the Promotion of Good Grammar likes olives, however. When life hands us lemons, we make lemonade.

Now go forth and spread the word. Remember, times are tight, but good grammar costs nothing!

There's a reason I'm not a film reviewer, it seems

So. You are probably wondering what I thought of Twilight, right? What do you mean, "Not really"? OK, the five of you who also saw Twilight this weekend are maybe wondering what I thought of it. And I'm curious what the five of you thought as well.

Me? Eh. I don't know. It sort of felt disjointed and rushed. I realize it's not easy to cram 500+ pages into a two-hour movie while remaining true enough to the tiny details of the plot to keep the preteen uber-fans happy, but I couldn't help thinking that the whole thing had been pieced together from a handful of key events in the book, minus the context or buildup around any of those events. I'm not sure it would have stood up on its own, had I (and seemingly everyone else in the sold-out theater with me) not already read the book.

It sort of reminded me of the Angry Alien "Bun-o-Vision" production of It's a Wonderful Life in 30 seconds, re-enacted by bunnies. [Are you not familiar with that web phenomenon? Go ahead. Take half a minute to watch it. I'll wait. And incidentally, woah. The bunnies have been busy since the last time I visited their site. Their library has grown! They've now got Office Space! Sixteen Candles! March of the Penguins! (My two-cents: If you haven't yet seen that last one, save yourself the time and just watch the 30-second recap instead.)]

I was trying to decide what the 30-second Bun-o-Vision recap of Twilight would actually look like, when I realized there's a note on the site saying that title is next up for them to create. Whoo! I'm sort of more excited to see that than I was to see the full-length film on the big screen. I have short-term memory problems when it comes to this sort of thing, however. Someone remind me to go back in a few months and look for it, OK?

I'm guessing the 30-second recap of Twilight won't be all that different from the two-hour version, though. I think it'll go something like this:

Bella: My mom got remarried, so I'm moving from Phoenix to Forks, to live with my dad. I'm pretty sure it's going to suck.

Bella: A big, beat-up old truck? Cool! Oh, hi Jacob. Yeah, I think I remember you.

Every boy at Forks high school: Hey, Arizona. You're pretty. Lemme show you to your next class. Oh, and will you go to prom with me?

Every girl at Forks high school: All the boys like you, so I guess we'd better be friends with you. Oh. Those are the Cullens. They're impossibly beautiful, but way weird. Don't talk to them.

Bella: Why does Edward Cullen hate me? What did I do to him? Do I smell?

Edward: I'm sorry I was rude to you. I love you. Watch me keep a van from crushing you, but don't ask me how I did it. Did I mention I love you?

Jacob: The Cullens don't come here. They're the cold ones. We're descended from wolves.

Bella: What?

Jacob: Yeah. I know. It's just a silly story. You're pretty. Let's talk about something else.

Edward: I can read minds. Not yours, though. It's fairly maddening.

Bella: I've figured it out.

Edward: Say it. Say the word!

Bella: Vampire!

Edward: Are you scared?

Bella: No.

Edward: You should be.

Bella: I fall down a lot. See that? Whoopsie.

Edward: It really is a lot of work looking after you. Did I mention I watch you sleep at night? Also, look! I'm all sparkly.

Bella: You're beautiful! It's like diamonds!

The Cullens: There's a storm coming. Let's play baseball! Uh oh. We've got visitors.

James: You brought a snack.

The Cullens: The girl is with us.

James: But she's a human! I must have her!

Edward: Never!

James: We'll see about that.

Edward: I WILL make you safe again, Bella! If it takes hiding you away in a hotel room with my pretend sister and her husband/pretend-brother, only to have you run away from them because a vampire tricked you into thinking he had your mother, so that I then have to rush in and rip him to shreds while you bleed on the floor of your old ballet studio, I WILL make you safe again!

Bella: And then we'll go to the prom?

Edward: Yes. Alice will loan you a dress.

Bella: Neato. I love you.

Edward: I love you more.

Victoria: This film better make enough money to warrant a sequel, because I've got some revenge to seek.

And... scene. Tell me: what did I inadvertently leave out?

FYI: Jane Austen books and Jimmy Stewart films don't count either

I picked up the third of the Twilight books last night. So much for Web-based library reservation systems allowing me to indulge in the ridiculousness of teenage vampire love in private... When I scanned the shelves of the "Holds" area, there was a decidedly Eclipse-sized gap in the section of the alphabet where my book should be. I looked; I looked some more; and then I went to log in to my account on a library computer to make sure I hadn't remembered the date wrong and in fact, Eclipse was supposed to be on hold for me through September 11 at closing time. After verifying all of the above, I finally went to the circulation desk and casually jingled my keys to get the librarian's attention.

Me: Um, I'm supposed to have a book on hold through today, but it's not over on the Reserve shelf. There seems to be a gap right where it should be, though, so...

Slightly sketchy-looking male librarian: Can I see your library card?

I handed over my card, and he scanned it in their little system. Then he smiled and handed my card back to me.

SSLML (chuckling): That's a special book. It's so special, in fact, that we keep it... (pause while he hunts around the shelf behind the circulation desk) ...back here!

I'm not sure what the slightly sketchy-looking beady-eyed librarian was actually telling me. It's feasible, I suppose, that those ridiculous Twilight books are in high enough demand that they need to keep the reserved copies out of the general public's eye to avoid theft or angry jealous revolt. But I saw a copy of New Moon hanging out seemingly peacefully in the "F"s of the Reserve shelves, so I highly doubt that is the case. More likely, they'd just removed it from the hold shelf already, assuming I wouldn't come to get it before closing time. Or maybe Slightly Sketchy Librarian is reading the Twilight series himself, in fits and starts as reserved copies are returned temporarily to the shelves.

Either way, I refused to be embarrassed about it. Hello, my name is Stefanie; I am 34 years old, and I am reading a young adult vampire series. I am not the only one, clearly. I see no reason to hide in shame.

Still, the incident brought me back to a conversation at the Pizza Farm Tuesday night. The topic was "Guilty Pleasures." I thought it would be a fun game for everyone to play. Unfortunately, while some people came out with "Ludicris" and "Talking to oneself in a Sean Connery voice" (which is really more "secret single behavior" than "guilty pleasure," but it's amusing anyway), the best answer a particular too-refined-for-her-own-good friend of mine could come up with was, "I really enjoy popular fiction... you know, things like The Time Traveler's Wife."

The Time Traveler's Wife? Are you kidding me? John Grisham or James Patterson I'll give you. Harlequin romance novels? Certainly. But The Time Traveler's Wife? I'm gonna call that fully valid modern fiction and claim there's no shame in adding that title to your reading queue. Dear, dear Carrie. Lovely Carrie. You are brilliant and fabulous and good at lots and lots of things, but I'm sorry: you suck at this game.

I haven't done a Friday Five in a good long while, so I thought this would be a perfect opportunity to enumerate something at my own expense. The problem is I actually have very few secrets here. I've probably already admitted each of these somewhere within my archives before. Also, I'm sure I could come up with more shameful admissions if I'd just give it a bit more thought. Off the top of my head, though, here they are. Five guilty pleasures o' mine.

1. Kraft Singles (straight from the fridge, or torn in pieces and scattered on a tortilla--microwave for 30 seconds and then roll up like a yoga mat. Um, an edible yoga mat. Mmm.)
   
   
2. Linkin Park
   
   
3. McDonald's Filet-o-Fish
   
   
4. Various long-canceled hits from the WB: In particular, What I Like About You, Reba, and yes, Dawson's Creek
   
   
5. Wham! (Seriously. Every time I for any reason think of them, I vow I will buy this on CD. In fact, fuck it. I am adding it to my Wish List right now. Come on, don't you want to buy it for me?)
   

You know what would make this game a whole lot more fun, though? If all of you played along, too. Come on, spill it. What's your guilty pleasure? And none of this valid modern authors nonsense.

Nerd Meter

I have been unusually busy at That Place Thou Shalt Not Blog About this week, and it's particularly annoying given that the things I've been unusually busy with are not even my OWN things at That Place Thou Shalt Not Blog About. Instead, they are the things that someone ELSE would be doing if someone else weren't on her second vacation this summer. Mind you, I wish that someone else no ill will. She's an impossibly nice woman and she deserves even more vacations for the things she puts up with when she's there. I just wish I hadn't somehow silently and inexplicably gotten nominated to do those things on the days she's not. Also, I wish there weren't a hole in my damn shower, so I could perhaps justify taking a vacation myself. Grr.

None of this is anything I should be any less vague about, however, partly because there is a reason we don't blog about the place in question and partly because it's really just not all that interesting a series of complaints. Instead then, I'll shift gears and take the lazy way out with a "Just Post a Link"* entry.

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* TM Noelle
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This article may be sort of a nerd meter... I'm well aware that not everyone is a punctuation enthusiast, but surely at least a few of you are like me and find that passionate and sincere discourse on the topic warms your geeky little heart.

If so, Salon.com's "Is the semicolon girlie?" might be of interest...

To me, the semicolon has a certain elegance, like a vodka martini; I don't whip it out every day, but on occasion, and with great relish.

. . . .

Seems to me they're arguing that complex thoughts and nuanced self-expression are chick things, and I'm not touching that one.

. . . .

Not only do I use semicolons, but when I see someone else use them (correctly) I elevate that person to a private pantheon... It's a very nuanced thing -- a test of ear and eye -- but delightful when done right. I haven't read it in 20 years, but in "The World According to Garp," I believe Garp warms to another character when she uses a semicolon in her letters.

I would never consider myself inordinately girlie, but my love of the semicolon is well documented. As for whether real men use semicolons? Well, I think we've already covered that.

On the up side, if I installed a privacy fence, I could finally get that trampoline I want*

I just spent twenty minutes outside talking to my neighbor, a lovely and pleasant elderly lady whom I chat with only about three times a year, when she happens to stroll through her yard while I'm outside raking leaves or pulling weeds or reattaching the drain pipes that I toss aside and out of the way while I'm mowing my lawn (the latter being what I was doing when I ran into her tonight). And after twenty minutes face to face with her, I came inside and looked in the mirror and shook my head in shame that anyone had seen me in that state up close and personal. Having just worked up a sweat mowing my lawn, my ponytailed hair was plastered tight against my head. The remains of today's eyeliner had settled itself into speckled, round gray shadows beneath my eyes. And my outfit? I was wearing the paint-stained t-shirt and mid-90s cargo pants that have been my official painting clothes since I bought this house. The spatters of color on my legs and torso serve as sort of a bare-bones tour of my home's palette. "This is my living room," I could say, pointing to my left boob. "And over here's my kitchen," my right leg says. "Down here you can see my bedroom, my computer room, oh, and over here, the brand-new avocado green of my basement." In short, I looked a mess.

One Saturday last summer, I walked past my neighbor to the other side (you know, the guy I've code-named "Reed") on my way off to a date. He was crouched down feeding the fish in his backyard pond, and when he saw me, he did a quick "Whoot-whoo" whistle and said, "Lookin' good!"

At the time, I was entirely caught off guard, wondering, "Do I really look any different from usual??" I mean, yes, I was off to a date, so I maybe tried at least a little harder, but I've accepted by now that the only visible difference between the Me that takes an hour to put together and the Me that takes 10 minutes is the difference between mascara and no mascara. It doesn't matter what I pretend to do to my hair; to the untrained (i.e., not mine) eyes, it looks the same. Yep, mascara is the only real difference between Date Me and Workday Me. So what the hell was Reed whistling for?

And then I remembered. Reed sees me only when I'm doing yard work. I can probably count on three fingers the number of times he's seen me at close range when I've showered, or when I'm wearing anything I might consider proper clothes. Given what I look like after a couple hours of yard work, I had nowhere to go but up in his eyes.

I was thinking about this as I showered and changed tonight, wondering if, were my neighbors to see me properly "done up" more often, there might suddenly be offers of nice single friends or cute grandsons I should meet. And then I went outside to turn off my lawn sprinkler, hair up, no makeup, black ballet flats that happened to be right by my door ever-so-sportily paired with my striped pajama pants and a t-shirt. And not just any t-shirt, but the most comfortable but also most ridiculous t-shirt I own--an impossibly soft blue shirt that an ex-boyfriend brought me back from a business trip in Georgia. It features a picture of a pig with the slogan "Put some pork on your fork." Klassy. Oh, and did I mention no bra? Extra klassy, obviously. But I was just running outside for a second. No one would see me, right? Yeah. No one except Reed AND my elderly neighbor AND my elderly neighbor's visiting son. Sigh.

I may be one incident away from being deemed the devil-may-care crazy spinster lady on the block. Maybe it's time to invest in a privacy fence.


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* (Trampoline reference is here, if you're not the type to memorize every little thing I ever write.)
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A milestone of sorts, plus more than you ever wanted to know about my shower

First off, a bit of housekeeping. I'd like to thank my good friend Darren for his excellent guest post the other day. I almost forgot what well-crafted writing with a meaningful start, middle, and end looks like on this site. You mean I'm not just supposed to ramble along about whatever's on my mind? You mean people still write in full, logically sequential paragraphs rather than random bullet points? OK then. Perhaps I'll work on that.

Secondly, I thought I should mention that what you're reading right now is the 500th post on Stefanie Says. Considering it took me over three years to get here and considering there's no prize (not even a flurry of confetti, a balloon drop, or a startling and enthusiastic announcement over a bullhorn), perhaps it's a bit anticlimactic to mention this milestone, but since I'm a little surprised I even noticed the post count in time to announce it, I thought it bore acknowledgment of some sort.

With that in mind, perhaps the best way to commemorate 500 posts is to write a list of 500 more little-known facts about me. Are you ready? Just kidding. That wasn't funny when I threatened to do it after 300 posts, either.

Instead, how about I write a little something on each of the five topics I probably return to most often? Without any scientific polling or counting of any sort, I'm going to decide that those are the gym, Target, dating, alcohol, and my own stunning ineptitude. Sound fun? I thought so. Let's get started.

Regarding the sweat shop...
The other day, my kickboxing instructor had us try a move we haven't done much before. It was nothing complicated, but apparently she was worried if we didn't watch our form, we might throw out our backs. Considering I injured myself cleaning my bathroom last weekend, it's probably more than fair to assume I might need some sort of warning. The instructor apparently doesn't know I'm less coordinated than the average ball of twine, however, because after warning us to be careful, she looked at the small group of only five regulars assembled that day and said, "Oh, you guys are fine. This is the advanced group, right?" Um, advanced group?? Me?? I am the girl who once tore a ligament in my ankle when I tripped on a balloon. The girl who never once won that stupid patch from the Presidential Physical Fitness award--not even in the early years, when the challenge was an eraser relay and flexed arm hang instead of a mile run and a series of chin-ups. I have never been deemed "advanced" in anything athletics-related. But in kickboxing? Apparently I rule. I can crush imaginary foes like no one's business. Look out, air; I'm coming for you. I'm gonna kick air's ass. Kick the ass of air. Ahem. I may be taking this small victory a bit too far.

Regarding Target...
I tempted fate and went into Target with unwashed ponytail hair again. Apparently Target IS still my happy place, however, because I saw no past meMarmony dates while I was there. What I did see was the bar stools I had found online for $99 marked on clearance for $24.99. I got TWO bar stools for my newly sort-of-refinished basement for HALF the price of ONE. As indicated by all that capitalization, I am ridiculously excited about this. I was even more excited when I returned to that same Target this past weekend and saw a fresh new shipment of the same bar stools now marked $99, just like online. I realize this isn't a very interesting story to anybody but me, and yet I've told at least six people (plus now the Internet) about it anyway.

Regarding dates...
I don't have much to tell you here, but I do have a date with another middle-aged bald man tomorrow and a possibly pretentious English professor next week, so perhaps I'll have some stories to share again soon.

Regarding alcohol...
Apparently at our dinner for 18 last Saturday, my friends and I consumed 16 bottles of wine. There was one nursing mother and probably at least a few other non- or light-drinkers, which means that more than one guest drank more than a bottle of wine on his or her own. I'm very much hoping it wasn't me, but considering the five-course meal and subsequent socializing lasted well into the wee hours, I can't guarantee I didn't make a dent.

This weekend, the plan is to skip the wine and mix up some retro cocktails for the inauguration of my newly updated pine-paneled, sixties-tastic rumpus room. Tonight I went shopping for ingredients I have never actually purchased before (Angostura bitters, blended whisky, sweet vermouth), and after dinner I decided I should do a test run and try out a retro recipe or two. I have never actually had a Manhattan or an Old Fashioned before. I figured it'd be best to know what I am in for Friday night. Um, did you know Manhattans and Old Fashioneds are nearly straight-up alcohol? And not the really tasty alcohol, like Kahlua or Baileys, but straight-up whisky with a little ice and sugar just to pretend you're diluting a bit.

I'm curious if there's no chance I will ever like either of these drinks, or if I just picked a bad recipe off the web. Tell me, do any of you make either of these? Do these recipes sound about right? If you have a more successful ratio to share, please do so. Otherwise, I'm just hoping for better luck with the Tom Collins or the Sidecar. If not, it's back to the standard G&Ts for me.

Regarding my stunning ineptitude...
I've already told you that I managed to injure myself during the seemingly simple and innocuous task of cleaning my bathroom the other day. What I did not tell you is just how ridiculously that transpired. My shower is not lined with normal tiles like any normal house. Instead, the walls of my bathroom are covered with thin sheets of metal with indented lines meant to look like grout. After years of water and wear, the fake grout lines have sprouted cracks and rust spots, and that, combined with the chipping coat of paint that the previous owners thought was a good idea to apply, have made my shower a very sad, shameful looking place. I've tried to patch the cracks with caulk and sealant, hoping to get a few more years of wear out of the stuff, but I'm fighting a losing battle. The HGTV "Bad Bathroom" folks would love to rip those metal sheets out of there (if only I could get their attention to come do so). It's a sad, sad site to behold.

Anyway, Saturday morning I decided it was time to scrub the newest rust and mildew stains from the layers of caulk I've already applied and try caulking once again. There's a portion of the fake tile that fell off completely a few months ago and I'm embarrassed to say has been secured with duct tape ever since. My plan was to clean the shower, remove the duct tape, and recaulk anywhere the metal fake tile was cracked. I should know by now that things rarely go according to plan in my house.

About three minutes into this project, I was reaching across the shower scrubbing with a grout brush, holding on to the ceramic soap holder on the wall for balance. At the very moment I thought to myself, "You know, I probably shouldn't be putting this sort of weight on this," the soap tray broke away from the wall and smashed into pieces on the floor of my tub. My left thigh took a blunt hit against the tub as I fell, and only today have I finally stopped limping and wincing in pain with every step because of the resulting bruise. At the moment, I was in such pain (and was so frustrated--at my thwarted plans to end the day with less duct tape in my shower instead of more, at my fear about just how much a full-fledged bathroom remodel is going to cost, and at the fact that I now had a mess to clean up that was going to put me even more behind schedule for the day than I already was) that I sunk down to the floor in a flurry of tears and profanity. And then I looked down and realized that on top of the throbbing leg and the hole in my shower wall, I was also bleeding onto my floor. The gash in my wrist was deep enough that I worried for a minute I might actually need stitches (which would mean not only admitting this ridiculous injury to an emergency room doctor but also completely missing the roller skating party I was already late for).

By now, I have finally accepted that I need to find the budget for re-tiling (sooner, rather than later). I have also accepted that it's actually much more interesting to hurt myself cleaning my bathroom than to do so roller skating. (Anyone can fall and hurt themselves at a roller rink. It takes a special kind of absurdity and ineptitude to do so in one's own bathroom.) What I have not made peace with is how to address the fact that I have at least ten friends coming over on Friday who might be nosy enough to peek behind the shower curtain to see what's there. We all have medicine cabinet-peekers in our life, right? Surely checking behind the shower curtain at someone else's house is equally tempting, don't you think? So what now? Do I tell people about the garbage bag duct taped to the wall before they see it for themselves? Do I hope my friends are less nosy than average? Or do I tape a note to the shower wall for anyone snooping there to see? "Yes, I'm aware my shower is more ghetto than a double-wide. Wanna make something of it?" No? A note like that doesn't say "Welcome to my home"? Well, what do you think the note should read?


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Note: Can you believe I got through this entire post before I realized that I completely neglected to include in that list of five the topic I undoubtedly write about the most?? Surely I talk about grammar and spelling at least as often as wine, don't I? I mean, I've gotten awards for that obsession! Oh well. Have to save it for my 600th post, I guess.
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It's a good thing no one expects me to be her wingwoman

I am not particularly good at flirting, and therefore I rarely do it on purpose. I am, however, particularly good at letting whatever thought pops into my head find its way immediately out of my mouth, and when these thoughts are directed at male strangers in social settings, I'm pretty sure they are often misconstrued as flirting. Women don't talk to men unless they want to sleep with them, right? Or so every stereotypical meathead portrayed in modern television and movies would have me believe.

Accidental flirting is not necessarily a bad thing, I suppose. I have a friend who advocates flirting with everyone, male or female, interesting and attractive or not. The theory, I guess, is that it helps to present oneself as warm and pleasant and it makes the person on the other end feel complimented and special. It's also probably good practice. If you're constantly in "flirting" mode on auto-pilot, you don't need to think about it when you actually want to reel a potential date in.

The problem is that the comments I make towards strangers are rarely comments that any woman in her right mind would use if she were actually trying to flirt on purpose. A conversation starter is a conversation starter, so perhaps I'm the only one who's overanalyzing my unintentionally ridiculous unintentional lead-ins this way. Then again, maybe I'm not. Case in point? Last night’s Devotchka show.

The scene: Average and unremarkable guy who I have no intention of purposely flirting with walks towards me on his way to the bar. I note that he's wearing a navy blue version of the t-shirt I received when I volunteered for the Minneapolis Central Library opening.

Me: Hey! You're wearing a library shirt!
Guy in library shirt: I am!
Me: I have the same shirt. Mine's red, though.
GILS: Well how 'bout that? This is the first time I've worn mine.
Me: I wore mine to bed last night.
GILS: (...)
GILS: I think that's a little TMI. (Smiles, walks away.)

Shockingly, in my 20s most of the guys I went out with were guys I met at concerts in bars. Either I am really rusty or guys in their 20s didn't listen to a word I said. Frankly, I'm not sure which explanation I prefer.

More grammar and more whining, but if you make it through that, there's a game!

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3/10 Update: Finally! I've posted the answers below. I'm sure it was killing you.
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Obviously it is no longer National Grammar Day, so I thought I'd really better post something to move that last entry from top position. Sognatrice is right, though: EVERY day should be National Grammar Day! It's sort of like that "Keep Christmas with you all through the year" song they sang on the Sesame Street Christmas special... except, you know, with grammar. And no puppets.

Coincidentally, ON National Grammar Day I received an email message from a friend of mine with a work-related grammar question. (This occurs more often than you might think. Apparently I am the go-to source for grammar dilemmas for many people I know, including my boss, who considers me not only a walking Chicago Manual of Style but a human dictionary as well. I am going to assume she does this mostly because she doesn't always see me on a daily basis and obviously misses me, and not because I need to introduce her to the Internet.) Anyway, when I responded to my friend's question, I mentioned that it was an excellent day to be pondering big questions such as his, it being National Grammar Day and all. He replied with enthusiasm, suggesting that opening his email on that particular day must have been like opening a present on my birthday (which is coming up, by the way; start your shopping now, folks). Sometimes I wonder if my friends overestimate the extent of my nerdery or if I underestimate the extent of my nerdery. It's toss-up, I suppose.

I'm feeling rather cranky today, for reasons that have nothing to do with grammar, or how big of a nerd I am (or am not), or the fact that I STILL don't have my Girl Scout cookies, or even that the wrong person won Project Runway last night. (Yes, I got sucked into that just like half the rest of you. No, I won't say any more in case you've taped or Tivoed it and have avoided any spoilers thus far.) No, trite and overstated as it is, I think the weather is what's getting to me right now. I am tired of being cold all the time, tired of sliding around every time I go outside, either because the ice is slipperier than usual this year or because I've somehow forgotten how to walk in this weather or because I simply ought to buy some better shoes. Also, I am tired of listening to my nearby coworker sniff and cough every 8.2 seconds like clockwork. I know he can't help it, but that doesn't make it any less annoying. After three days of this, Coughy McSnifferson is working my last nerve.

To distract me from the negative then, how about a game? I'm stealing this from NPW, and the game is pretty simple. I give you quotes; you give me the movie (without using the Internet to cheat for reference).

Sadly, there will be no prizes, because I only recently managed to finally send out the prizes from my Pay It Forward contest last month (actually, I have one prize left to distribute, but I plan to hand that over to -R- in person when we meet for dinner tonight), so I don't much feel like starting that process all over again right away. This time, then, the only prize is my respect and admiration. Let's play anyway, shall we?

1. I can't sing. I've got a sore finger.
   The Sound of Music (Congrats to -R-, Liz, L Sass, and Lara)
   
   
2. This desk set wants to fly. Ladies and gentlemen, the world's first unmanned flying desk set.
   Dead Poets Society (Congrats NPW and Lara)
   
   
3. - Hey, my brother. Can I borrow your copy of Hey Soul Classics?
   - No, my brother. You have to buy your own.
   Say Anything (Congrats to Pam and 3Carnations... I really, really thought more people than that would get this one)
   
   
4. You know how I said I'd rather be with someone for the wrong reasons than alone for the right ones? I've decided I'd rather be right.
   Some Kind of Wonderful (Pam again. Yay!)
   
   
5. That's fascinating. It's like dating public radio.
   2 Days in Paris (I didn't really expect anyone to get this one, and it seems I was right.)
   
   
6. - How about worst case scenarios after graduation?
   - Heart attack.
   - Live in Milwaukee.
   Kicking and Screaming (No, not the Will Ferrell one. This one. And I highly recommend you all see it.)
   
   
7. Hey brainless. Don't you know where coconuts come from?
   It's a Wonderful Life (Yay Mara. I can't believe Aaron didn't also identify this one. Clearly he was too lazy to even play.)
   
   
8. Where's my wandering parakeet?
   The Philadelphia Story (It's a Jimmy Stewart double feature on #7 and #8. I love this movie. If you haven't seen it yet, you really must.)
   
   
9. - You know that night on the phone? Well, I'm pregnant.
   - Are you sure it's mine?
   - I don't know; I made a lot of calls that night.
   The Truth about Cats and Dogs (Congrats NPW and -R-, assuming this title is in fact the one -R- meant by "Cats and Dogs movie with Janeane Garafelo")
   
   
10. Now that's a real shame when people be throwin' away a perfectly good white boy like that.
    Better Off Dead (Yay to Pam and NPW.)
    
    
11. - No more rhyming now. I mean it!
    - Anybody want a peanut?
    The Princess Bride (NPW, L Sass, and Pam pegged this one. I'm pretty sure Poppy knew it too.)
    
12. All the great themes have been used up and turned into theme parks.
    Pump up the Volume (Apparently not everyone watched this movie 147 times during the early 90s, like my sisters and I did?)
    
    
13. Why, if only we were all wiener dogs, our problems would be solved!
    The Brave Little Toaster (An obscure choice, I know, but a charming and underrated little animated gem)
    
    
14. Marriage is like a tense, unfunny version of Everybody Loves Raymond. Only it doesn't last 22 minutes. It lasts forever.
    Knocked Up (NPW knows that Paul Rudd is one of my favorite fake boyfriends. Maybe the rest of you forgot.)
    
    
15. I don't think you're an idiot at all. I mean, there are elements of the ridiculous about you. Your mother's pretty interesting. And you really are an appallingly bad public speaker. And, um, you tend to let whatever's in your head come out of your mouth without much consideration of the consequences... But the thing is, um, what I'm trying to say, very inarticulately, is that, in fact, perhaps despite appearances, I like you, very much. Just as you are.
    Bridget Jones's Diary (Yay NPW again, as well as -R-, Jess, 3Cs, and Lara. Note to 3Cs: It was actually Colin Firth who said it, not Hugh Grant, but you were close.)
    

And... Go!

Do you know what day it is?

As the Funky Carter Administration's appointed Grammar Czar, I feel it's my duty to notify you that today is, officially, National Grammar Day.

Do with that information what you will. Take a permanent marker to that sign with a missing apostrophe. Invite a friend over to diagram sentences. Try once again to teach the Internet the difference between its and it's. (Seriously! I am still seeing this places! Why can't we all just learn that one by now??)

Ahem. Sorry. I got a little worked up there, I guess. Perhaps I should have a grammartini and unwind. Or just flash my new membership card with authority and watch people's grammar miraculously improve on command.




What? It could happen, right? A nerd can dream.

Super Tuesday indeed

In all the excitement over the historic nature of today's caucuses and primaries, I almost forgot that a woman and a black man aren't the only notable names I'll see on my ballot tonight. No, I forgot that, in Minnesota, anyway, we get the chance to cast a vote for Stuart Smalley.

Go Al. You can do it. Because you're good enough, you're smart enough, and doggone it, people like you. And to you, Mayor Quimby? It's been real. Don't let the door hit you on your way out.

I promise I'll stop talking about spelling after this. (Well, for a while, anyway.)

All right then. At the risk of being anticlimactic, I am finally ready to share all the spelling bee details. Or, some of the details, anyway. The number of local search engine hits I've gotten in the past two days traced to the name of that event has made me leery of typing "unken-dray elling-spay ee-bay" any more times than necessary. I had fully intended to be pretty generous with the editorializing, but since I don't know which other participants or spectators might Google their way in, I'm hesitant to do so now. I mean, I could go on and on about the prick from Indiana who thought he'd been sprinkled by the spelling gods with immunity dust, but "prick" is really a relative term; it's all subjective, isn't it? And besides that, his half-naked girlfriend couldn't correctly spell "butterflies," so clearly he has his own cross to bear, doesn't he?

First off, I would just like to say a hearty "thank you kindly" to all of you who said you were entirely unsurprised by my victory. When I asked my friend Michael (who forced me into participating in the first place) why it was so important to him that I get up there, he said, "Because I want to see you WIN." I promise you, I had no intention of winning. Spelling bees are a crapshoot; we all know that. My goal was only not to humiliate myself--more specifically, not to be eliminated in the first round.

As it turns out, I needn't have worried. Speller #1 was eliminated immediately... on the word accessory. The crowd was surprised but pretty forgiving. Plying people with alcohol always helps; does it not? And following that, at least half the first round contenders were ousted. (It's sad; spelling really is a lost art.) My first round word was nugatory--a word I couldn't define but have actually seen before, and therefore I spelled with no problem at all. I eased up and had the requisite inter-round drink. If I went out on "millennium" (which I surely would have spelled either "millenium" or "milennium"), so be it. We were all just there to have fun.

In the second round, I lucked out and got a word from the "Hipster" category. When I heard the word in a sentence, I wasn't at all worried I'd spell celibating wrong. But the third round, I actually worked for it. That round went something like this...

Judge: Speller number [I forget her number], your word is "Butt fuck."
Nice girl whose number I forget: Butt fuck? Oh, OK. B-U-T-T space F-U-C-K.
Crowd: [Various cheers, hoots, and hollers. Obvious general appreciation for the Hipster and Pop Culture categories]
Judge: Speller number 28 [that's me], your word is "Ooh-blee-ett."
Crowd: [General menacing and foreboding groan]
Me: Ooh-blee-ett? Um, can I spell "Butt fuck" instead?
Judge: Nope. Sorry. Your word is "Ooh-blee-ett."
Me: Can I have the definition and origin, please?
Judge: An Ooh-blee-ett is a dungeon with an opening only at the top. Origin: French
Me: [seemingly long pause] Ooh-blee-ett... O-U-...
Crowd: Oooh! [General groans and whistles signaling "clearly you are WRONG!"]
Judge: Quiet, please. I need to hear the speller. Keep going, please, 28.
Me: Wait. O-U was right?
Judge: [Nods]
Me: O-U is RIGHT??
Judge: [Still nodding]
Crowd: [Suddenly silent]
Me: O-U-B-L-I-E-T-T-E.
Judge: [pause] That's correct.
Crowd: [Mad cheering all around, signifying clearly I AM a spelling goddess.]

Following that round was a sexy hula hoop routine, which some of you likely saw on Flickr. (Note: I left out the last photo in that series. Somehow I suspect posting a woman wearing only pasties above the waist might violate Flickr's terms of use.) And following that was the nearly naked round, where contestants who'd already been eliminated were allowed to come back on stage and compete in their underwear. I didn't post those photos either, for reasons that are probably equally obvious. Suffice it to say I have a bra-and-jeans-only photo of Jackass from Indiana's seemingly nice but bad-spelling girlfriend, but I'll do the right thing and not post it for the Interwebs to see. (This might also be a good time to mention that I didn't take any of those pictures. Michael was in charge of my camera the entire night.)

The winner of the nearly-naked round was a fun little man named Jaime, who was so unshy about photodocumenting the performance that he urgently thrust his own camera in my hands before he went on stage. Again, I don't feel right about posting him in his tighty-whiteys, but here's a shot of him (with me) fully clothed after the whole event.



In round four, my word was conflagration, which I know only because I am a huge enough nerd that I took notes as we went along. Apparently the "drunken" part of this bee was getting to me by then, because I don't remember spelling that word at all. That round wasn't actually a total blur, though. I do remember counting the five remaining contestants around me and thinking surely I was doomed to fail at that point. "Maybe coming in sixth at spelling bees is what I do," I thought, remembering my sixth grade defeat in the regional bee. Maybe it's an unavoidable jinx in some way. If my word in that round had been pejorative, I've have thought the universe was speaking to me. Instead, I correctly spelled conflagration, proving again that the universe really pays no attention to me.

By round five, there were only four of us still in the running, and the three women in that group had formed an alliance, all saying (while glaring at Indiana Boy), "I don't care which one of us wins. But ONE of us has to TAKE. HIM. DOWN." I should note that he may not have actually been so awful. Alcohol does have a tendency to heighten emotions. But he rubbed most of us the wrong way in the first round (when the judges asked him to repeat the last part of his spelling and he pranced off the stage scoffing, "No. I spelled it right"), and his attitude only escalated from there. Also, he may not have actually been from Indiana, but I don't remember precisely which "I" state he claimed to be a former champ of, so for the sake of my story, he's Indiana's black sheep to bear.

In round five, I actually went down, by mysteriously trying to put a "th" in proselytize. (Was I thinking of "prosthetic"? I have no idea. Apparently I just never learned how to spell that word.) Luckily, all four of us tanked in that round, so they brought us all back up on stage. (Mind you, brought us back only after Indiana Boy tried to claim victory as last-man-standing by virtue only of his later-number place in line. Luckily, the judges said, "No, you have to spell first" and when he blew his word, we all got another try.)

At that point, they mixed up our order and made Indiana spell his word first. They also made him spell sans his pants, which tells me the judges didn't like him any more than we did. He flubbed his word, as did the two nice women who followed him, and then it was my turn again. (Note: What was that I said about not editorializing? Sorry, Indiana; you just rubbed me the wrong way, I guess.)

Judge: Speller number 28, your word is "guy-no-bib-la-phobia."
Me: Can I have the definition, please?
Judge: "Guy-no-bib-la-phobia." A fear or dislike of women authors.
Me: [Silently breaking down the root words, using that awesome liberal arts education of mine...] Guy-no-bib-LEE-OH-phobia?
Judge: [Squinting at the paper the word was printed on, obviously feeling the effects of the free PBR herself] Oh. Yes. Guy-no-bib-lee-OH-phobia.
Me: G-Y-N-O-B-I-B-L-I-O-P-H-O-B-I-A

My friend Michael says as soon as he heard me question the pronunciation, he knew I had the bee wrapped up. The host descended on me with that yellow and black striped hat and matching scarf and she declared me the winner of the whole bee. The scarf and hat wasn't the only prize, though. The grand prize was a free tattoo, courtesy of a local tattoo spot. It wasn't just any tattoo, however. Apparently I got very little say in it. "It's a tattoo of a drunken bee," she said. "And if you take it, you HAVE to get it, and you HAVE to decide RIGHT NOW. Otherwise we'll give it to someone else."

The crowd was cheering, saying, "Yeah! Get it!" But I'm far, far too practical for that. Suddenly I saw myself at 96, wondering why on earth I had a shriveled, dizzy bee on my ass. I mean, a bee tattoo, for the rest of my life? All because I won a spelling bee in a bar? But then again, a BEE TATTOO! For the rest of my life! All because I won a spelling bee in a bar!! Frankly, I'm having a smidge of winner's remorse about passing on the prize. They couldn't really force me to get a drunken bee, could they? Maybe at least a sober bee? Wouldn't that have been fun? Alas, I turned it down, and it's too late to change my mind now.

And with that, I think I've answered all of your questions. Oh. Except for -R-'s, regarding the 3D glasses. Those were for the burlesque show that followed the bee. One girl performed her act behind a curtain lit with a red and blue light. Hence, 3D glasses for the full effect.

I actually got to talking with one of the performers later, and she handed me her card and asked if I'd be interested in a burlesque class. Tempting, I suppose. A useful skill, maybe. But I think I'll stick to spelling for now.

I am so smart. S-M-R-T.

People! I fucking WON the first-ever Minneapolis Drunken Spelling Bee. Can you even believe it?? I still pretty much can't. More details later, when it's not 3:10 in the morning and when the alcohol level in my bloodstream isn't such that I'm bound to mistype some very simple word and effectively negate my victory.

Seriously though. I WON. Did you honestly see that coming?? I sure didn't. Wow.


P.S. My defeat in the 1986 Sheboygan County Regional Spelling Bee is officially redeemed. Thank you, and good night.

Can I hear that word in a sentence?

I'm sure you'll all be disappointed that I have no mullet sightings to relay, but with Weather.com's "feels like" temperature for Minneapolis hitting 20 below zero, attending a pond hockey tournament just didn't seem like a reasonable plan. Carrie kept talking about the beer and brats in the warming tent, but I think she forgot that my aversion to both beer and brats is why I left Wisconsin in the first place. Kidding, of course, but I do think not enjoying either of those Wisconsin favorites might be grounds for excommunication under some archaic law still buried somewhere in the books. So it's lucky I left of my own accord before they had a chance to kick me out. (Or, left of my own Corsica, as was actually the case at the time... Am I the only one who can't hear that phrase without wanting to make a lame Honda joke as a follow up? I am? I thought so. Moving on.)

So. We didn't scope for any boys on frozen lakes this weekend, but we did venture out to three different bars on Washington Avenue in the hopes of feeling social-type Girls About Town. By the time we reached the third bar, the wind chill had dropped noticeably, from "Goddamn, it's more than a bit chilly out here" to a painful "Holy fuck; I do believe my face might crack in two if I don't get inside immediately or sooner." Apparently everyone else got the memo and smartly stayed home, because there were all of maybe eight people in that establishment when we walked in, and six of them were either with the band or working behind the bar. Incidentally, in case you are wondering, sharing the exact same birthday with the bartender who cards you does not earn you a free drink, even on the slowest and most chatty of nights. It'll earn you a smile and a bit of chit-chat about the celebrities also born on that same day (Dane Cook and Queen Latifah, in our case), but you will still have to shell out eight dollars for your Malbec. Lesson learned.

The rest of my weekend was fairly low-key... I ventured to Target yesterday, mainly just to make sure my car would still start, but other than that, I spent the day wanting nothing more than to curl up on the floor directly beside the heat register, not unlike the cat my little sister had years ago. (Sidenote: One benefit to running my Target errands in this weather is that it is cold enough to warrant wearing a hat! Guess what? I can go to Target with unwashed hair in a greasy ponytail if it is hidden under a smart, seasonably appropriate-looking hat! I didn't actually run into any former meMarmony matches on this particular Target outing, but I was ready for them, showered or not, even if I had! Whoo.) Finally, today, I went to an arty documentary with a boy I might be friends with but have decided not to date, and that about wraps up my weekend, I guess.

So, in short, I regret that I have nothing particularly exciting to report to those of you who like to live vicariously through my ever-exciting single-girl life. I will try to make it up to you eventually, though. I'm sure someday I'll experience some blog-worthy antics once again. Case in point: consider the following message, which I received from my good friend Michael on Friday:

From: Michael
To: Stefanie
Subject: Drunken Spelling Bee

S-

I'll sponsor you and give you a ride home if you play.
It's time to redeem yourself after your failure as a child.

http://www.myspace.com/mplsdrunkenspellingbee

*M*

Sadly, pre-registration is full, so I actually can't sign up anymore. I do plan to show up early enough for a potential overflow/walk-on spot, though, and maybe if I'm lucky, I'll get a chance to make an ass of myself in front of a live, drunk audience. Let's all cross our fingers for that.

The "failure" he refers to, by the way, is my performance in my county's regional spelling bee in 1986. Oddly, I cannot tell you the winning word responsible for my victory in my grade school's local contest that year, but I do remember the word that ousted me (with only five pre-teens remaining on the stage) in the regional bee that followed. I went out on the word pejorative. (I know how to spell it now, even without Firefox's spell checker as a guide.)

Somehow I doubt the word pejorative will come up in the drunken spelling bee contest. In fact, the promotional information says the bee will feature "themed spelling rounds, including topics such as celebrity phraseology, alcoholic beverages, and naughty words."

I know how to spell "slippery nipple" and "dirty sanchez" (and plenty of other words I really shouldn't be typing on the Internet right now). Perhaps I'd best research how many Ts Paris Hilton includes in "That's hottt," though. I'd really hate to have Ms. Hilton be the fool who does me in. Don't you agree?

P.S.

I finally got around to adding an "I did it" NaBlo badge to my sidebar, and I cannot tell you how excited I was to find a Mary Tyler Moore badge as an option.



I think sometimes about adding a tag line to my blog header, but I've resisted thus far because 1) Tag lines are for more clever people and 2) Given that my blog is named "Stefanie Says," any tag line that follows would sound like I'm making a direct quote. (I am a nerd. I overthink these sorts of things.)

Anyway, if I were a tag line sort of girl, surely by now I would have used "Like Mary Tyler Moore, but without the great legs and anachronistic gender roles." But then, since I am one of only five people in my generation to appreciate MTM, I would also be the only one to get that line. So. No tag line for me. But I do love my new NaBloPoMo badge anyway.

OK. Seriously. Must pack now. Later, all.

It wouldn't be an Encyclopedia of ME if it didn't have at least one grammar-related post

----------------------------------------
For an explanation of this alphabet theme, see my first NaBloPoMo post.
----------------------------------------

I am a huge nerd. We all know this. No need for me to apologize for it, right? I mean, I campaigned for an award that Poppy almost removed from the list due to lack of interest. As I said back then, Coca Cola wanted to teach the world to sing; I want to teach the Internet the difference between its and it's. And would you look at that? Both of those words start with I! I think you know what that means...

The letter I is for its... and also, conveniently enough, for it's. Two words! Two different meanings! Let's review them, shall we?

It's means it is (or it has). It's what we call a contraction--a way of combining and shortening two words by omitting some letters and adding an apostrophe. That is the ONLY TIME "it" and "s" are joined together in this way. If you don't mean it is (or it has), then it's is not the word for you.

This smart lady is just as adamant as I am about every blogger just learning this already, and she posted a handy little tip that I'd like to repeat here:

"Imagine that the little apostrophe is the letter i. Therefore, when you write it's, you are writing it is."

Good tip! Let's all keep that in mind; shall we?

Now on to the no-apostrophe version. Its is the possessive form of it. I know this is a little tricky. Apostrophes usually make things possessive. In the case of its, however, not so much. Forget the apostrophe; we'll know you're implying ownership even without it. Would you say your's? Her's? Their's? No, right? (Or, lord I hope not, anyway!) The possessive of it works just like those other pronouns. No apostrophe. Never ever. OK?

Are you ready for some examples? Let's go!

Right: Hooray! It's time for a grammar lesson! The blogosphere needs to get its pronouns straight.

WRONG: No one but you gives a damn about this, Stefanie. Its all stupid, nit-picky nonsense.

--------------------------

Right: Hold that mug by its handle, fool. Or, you know, drop it like it's hot.

WRONG: Good grammar is it's own reward. But most of us would rather have ice cream.

--------------------------

Right: The dog might lick you, but that's just its way of making friends.

WRONG: I know I am prettier than some of you; try not to let jealousy rear it's ugly head.

All right; I think I've made my point. End grammar rant. End nerdery... for now.

It's funny the things that make perfect sense in that hazy place between sleep and half-awake...

Cases in point:

• It seems entirely possible to check my e-mail on my clock radio. No. Really. I have lain in bed mentally attempting this in my half-sleep state so many times that I cannot believe I've never actually reached over and started pressing buttons (thereby deactivating or resetting my alarm). Did I mention my clock radio is not any fancy modern multi-functional piece of technology but a basic brown plastic AM/FM model likely picked up at K-mart for $9.99 sometime in the early 90s? I cannot explain this, obviously.
  
  
• I start thinking about what I should wear for the day, and the outfit my mind calls up and decides upon is one I do not even own.
  
  
• No matter how late it is already, I am convinced that I can press Snooze one more time and still be out the door by 7:20.
  
  
• It seems like a good idea to start composing blog posts from the absurd and random ideas stirring in my half-conscious head.

And neither is my hair feathered. Honest.

Should I be concerned that a woman who by all evidence seems to have gotten dressed one day in 1987 and decided, "Yeah. I like this look! I'm gonna stick with this from now on!" just complimented me on my outfit?

For the record, I am NOT wearing light aqua, pleated-front, tapered-leg jeans. But she is.

I have, however, owned the shirt I'm wearing for no less than four years now. Perhaps I need to rethink my view on what's a timeless classic.

Obviously this sort of thing is contagious

Most of the people in that "real life and in-person" category of friendship don't make themselves known in the comments here very often. They read (or, some of them do), but they rarely mention they've been reading, so it's only when I start telling some little story about the ridiculous or amusing thing that happened to me recently and they stop me with, "Yeah, I read that on your blog" that I'm at all aware they've stopped by. (Yes, I do have a Sitemeter account and of course I periodically examine my stats, but despite apparently popular belief, I have no idea which St. Paul-based Comcast visits are actual friends of mine and which are people popping in via -R- or WhiskeyMarie.)

Sometimes, however, I get e-mails from friends that let me know they're still here. For example, the other day a good friend of mine forwarded a message that a co-worker of hers sent to their company at large. Apparently it reminded her of something I was appalled by a couple weeks ago myself...

------------------------------------------------
From: [Friend's co-worker]
To: [Entire company]
Subject: It won't happen again
------------------------------------------------

I just wanted to apologize to anyone I may have upset yesterday by wearing my socks-and-sandals combo. I understand the error of my ways, and it won't happen again.

Sincerely,
[Friend's co-worker]
[Title, Company]
[Address]
[Phone and Fax numbers]

The friend who forwarded me that message wondered which was the greater offense: wearing socks with sandals in the first place, or sending out a company-wide e-mail apologizing for it. I actually think it's the former. The latter proves a redeeming sense of humor and humbling nature, after all, so I must give him credit for that.

I'd also like to note that the offending co-worker at my own office wore his white socks with leather sandals again yesterday and offered nothing by way of an apology (or good humor) for it. Since scientific law commands that every dorky action result in an equally dorky reaction, however, I've continued to prove myself a winner lately as well. Case in point? Twice (twice!) in the past week, I have stepped into the shower with my glasses still on.

Stones and glass houses indeed.

Reason #47 that it's best I live alone

Because there was no one around to hear me (and thereafter to mock me mercilessly) when I let out a sudden string of high-pitched squeals (while simultaneously and dramatically hopping around quickly out of the way) after stepping on what I thought was a tremendous bug scurrying around my laundry room floor but which actually turned out to be a black rubber washer I'd accidentally sent spinning with my foot.

I think I ought to steal Abbersnail's "Why I rock" label for this one. Sometimes "Nerdery" just doesn't suffice.