At least my car insurance rates will be going down soon.
Mood:  cool
Now Playing: The Academy Is...

I can feel it. It's happening.

I'm getting old. I'm losing touch with anything that's cool, on a downward spiral into ma'am-dom.

Kids today, they're snatching up these new video game systems, and pretty soon, I won't be able to even play along. Some day some 9-year-old is going to be waving his Wii controllers in my face, and I'm going to be as awkward and clueless using this technology as my dad was, when he'd hold the Nintendo controller in his lap and use his index fingers to work the buttons instead of his thumbs.

I saw this commercial the other day for this toy I thought was Polly Pocket. "Look, they're bringing back Polly Pocket," I thought to myself. And then the little girl opens up the compact thingy, and it's a video screen inside. This LCD animated Polly-like character was running around in her little digital world, and all I can think is that at least there are no small parts.

I'm also starting to exclude myself from today's music scene, saying most of it isn't any good and sticking instead to my familiar 90s jams. I actually caught myself cranking "Whatta Man" when it came on the radio the other day. 

Also, people younger than me are going to grow up having multiple gigabytes of music always at their disposal. And here's a fact: it's a little dizzying trying to work an iPod for the first time. A coworker let me borrow his for a few hours at work a while back, and that little wheel is rather maddening. I was scrolling like a woman possessed. An old woman possessed. 

I don't want anything in particular for Christmas anymore, just days off work. I'm tutoring kids in 8th grade math I don't particularly remember, because it's just been too long since I've used it. (I may or may not have let this girl divide fractions wrong. She should have brought her damn book.) I get excited about meatloaf. I wear clothes until they get holes in them. I'm critical of people outside without a jacket on: "Look at that idiot, freezing his balls off," I think to myself.

My circle of friends is quickly becoming married and/or with children. In fact, this is not happening just in real life, but in fictional life too. Those crazy kids on Scrubs are all getting hitched and having babies and such. To those of you who are on that route, I guess I just have to say, "I'll see ya when I get there."

Large and In Charge.
Now Playing: Weezer

So when I get bored, I take pictures of Mo with my camera. Please don't think I'm one of those people who is so obsessed with the cat it's unhealthy. Because if you say that about me, I'll sic this beast on you. Cut me a break - it's well lit, well composed. It's art.

 

Hollow-ween
Now Playing: Nine Inch Nails

I didn't dress up for Halloween this year, but I did eat a lot of tiny candy bars. And I carved the pumpkin on the left. By the way, they're making blue Tootsie Roll Pops now, and I think that's an abomination.

 

 

 

What did that dream mean? It meant you were sleeping.
Mood:  cool
Now Playing: House Hunters on HGTV -- I'm addicted.

I've taken some flak about the frozen Lean Cuisine dinners I bring to work on occasion. (The Thai chicken variety comes highly-recommended by me.) "But you're already skinny," they say. Well, here's the deal. It's not Slim Fast, people. Slim Fast. That name says it all; it's for people trying to get slim. By the same token, I think it's called Lean Cuisine because it's cuisine for the already lean. The portion size is small, just enough to be satisfied until you can get home and get some real food. Like Oreos and milk.

A friend of mine from home and I only communicate these days via letters. Real, old-fashioned snail mail. No cell. No e-mail. No Facebook. Just cursive print and stamps. The plus? It's really fun. It's good to know every so often there'll be a quip about hitting on the grocery store clerk tucked in with my bills. The downside? I forgot how to write by hand, I type so much. My cursive is terrible, and my mind moves faster than my pen. It's beginning to be as hard to find a mailbox as it is to find a pay phone these days. I just hope he can finish the crossword puzzle I sent him last time.

Last night I dreamed that I pulled into the two-car garage at my childhood home. On the other side, which in actuality was the side I always parked in, there was a giant (nearly car-sized) dead rat on the floor. Devastated, I was stuck in the car not knowing what to do. For some reason, I knew I had to carry my cat in the house without him going nuts and trying to smell/eat the rat. I'm trying not to read much into this dream, but I hope it doesn't have anything to do with the recent beginnings of my casual new car search. 

Holy technological dinosaur, Batman
Mood:  irritated
Now Playing: That song that Michael Bolton turns down in his car at the beginning of Office Space
I am pretty sure I could work for customer service. Especially at a cell phone company, because you don't need to even really know how much more than how to pick up a phone, it seems. If you call about any problem whatsoever, here's what they'll tell you:

Turn the phone off for a few minutes and turn it back on.

That's it. Apprently, this will magically cause the satellite signal stars to align in your favor.

I naively expect the customer service reps to be really knowledgable and have some idea of how to solve the problem. We don't let doctors get away with that kind of thing. ("Just go to sleep for at least eight hours a day and your broken leg should just heal right up.") Or mechanics: ("Take the key out of the ignition for a couple minutes and then try starting it again. That'll fix the brakes.")

I also learned a couple other things recently.

If I can help it, I'm never going to fax another thing. These illegitimate lovechildren of the telephone and the photocopier must be stopped. The machines are clunky; the technology is archaic, with all the dialing, buzzing, beeping and waiting. I had to fax some crap to my incompetent relocation company today (If you hear the name Paragon Relocation in job negotiations, politely decline and instead pack your stuff on a donkey. More reliable and less stubborn.) and, a mere fifteen minutes of busy signals later, transaction complete!

As I stood there and waited for my documents to scan and come out the other side, I realized that the fax machine is exactly like those futuristic and ridiculous computers on the Batman television series. Batman walks up to the Bat-mileage Calculator or some such and frantically pushes some buttons. Beeping, whirring and flashing ensues. Finally, a little slip of paper comes out. The fax is the exact same way, except you don't get any new information on the paper at the end.

Second thing I will be avoiding from now on is grits. As part of my quest to try new things and to assimilate to the area, I ordered shrimp and grits tonight. I was told grits were delicious: a lovely substance that magically takes the flavor of whatever is mixed in. Even Outkast likes 'em ("If you like fish and grits and all that pimp s***")Yeah, well, here's the truth about grits: It's Cream of Wheat that also gets served with dinner. But not in a comforting warm breakfast cereal, way. Not in a hearty, delicious mashed potatoes way. Or not even in that refreshingly-light-change-from-meat way rice has. My verdict is, grits, as the name implies, simply make food an inedible taste and texture.

Maybe the need to eat grits is genetic here in the South, like accents, friendliness, or a penchant for wallpaper.