Performing Magic Tricks

When you tell people that you're going to take a leave of absence you can tell that they're thinking you might be dying. So then you feel obligated to tell them you're going to South East Asia for 3 months and you can tell they're waiting for an explanation. "I'm going to teach orphans to read." "I'm studying to be a Buddhist monk." "I'm having a penis crafting from the skin of my inner thigh." All reasonable explanations. So when I offer up my standard explanation of "See a few temples, hang out on the beach." you can tell that they're thinking that I'm insane. Insane and super rich. But I'm not.

I'm going to South East Asia for 3 months and you can too!

I'm not just the 3 month vacation club spokesperson I'm also a member!

It's a 3 month vacation and I helped!

Consider this your How To.

Let's start here: South East Asia is really cheap. Our budget for the trip is $35/day each and we're pretty sure we've over budgeted. Mid range hotels are $20/night. Beers are $1. So.. you really only need $21; we're using the other $14 on 3 massages per day.

"But I have bills at home" you say, "Those don't just go away!"

Actually, they do. I'm turning off my phone, I'm killing netflix and emusic and I'm subletting my apartment. Subletting is by far the most painful part of this whole process.

Allow me to digress. Occasionally I'll be working really hard at some Sisyphean task and bemoaning the fact that progress seems to be out of my grasp regardless of how hard I work, how nice I am, and my complete willingness to show a little cleavage. And then suddenly I'll be overtaken by deja vu and think "fuck, this is exactly like dating." I have felt this way about job searches, finding a knee high boot to fit over my (apparently) behemoth calves and now about subletting. If subletting started a business and decided to go with an incredibly honest tag line it would be "Subletting: Almost as painful as dating."

When you live in a nice neighborhood in New York in a nice apartment with nice furniture and no roaches or bongo playing neighbors (http://www.flickr.com/photos/45569186@N07/) people tell you that subletting will be a cinch. And you believe them because why wouldn't anyone want to live in your awesome place? You have an ice cream maker! And a tivo! And all of the toilet paper they could ever need (thanks, Costco)!

Well, it turns out that people are a huge pain in the ass. They ask crazy question like if you can ever hear outside noise("Well, we live in NYC so there is the occasional bum getting shot but that's usually just one quick scream, no big deal."), or if you can find them a roommate, or if you know what bus their kids would take to get to school. They make low ball offers and when you accept them they diddle around for days and then eventually decide not to take the place. They make you get in really petty fights with your significant other over if his socks would like to sublet the place since they seem to have taken up permanent residence on the coffee table (and hell, because those socks are a close friend I'll even cut them a deal!).

But despite the weeks of pain and suffering subletting is doable. You'll keep the place spic and span for weeks, you'll meet with a lot of wishy washy folks and a few creepy creepers and eventually somehow someone will actually give you money and start sleeping in your bed. You'll feel super rich for a day or two and then you'll remember that you actually have to give that money to your landlord.

"But. My job."

Ok, this is a real problem. Honestly, if you want to go on a 3 month vacation you might have to get ok with the idea of quitting your job. That said I think companies are learning that retaining good employees is worth granting the occasional leave. It can't hurt to ask. And if that doesn't work: you can get another job. It might not be the job you want. It might not pay as much as you'd like. But I think it might be worth it. I'll let you know when I'm sitting on a beach somewhere with a $1 beer in hand and a sweet young thing rubbing my feet.

Off We Go

Oh Hi.

It has been a dream of mine for years to check out on life and spend as long as possible traveling. Ideally this would involve beaches and exotic fruits. Double ideally this would take place in a warm place when my homeland is frozen solid. Triple ideally this would somehow not cost a fortune.

Well guess whose dreams are all coming true?

On February 6th G and I depart for 3 months in South East Asia so I suppose one could say that it is my dreams that are blossoming but the real winners here are you guys, my fair readers. Cause what excuse could I possibly have not to write when I'm just lazing around on the beach for 3 months? Let me list them for you: No Wifi, Mai Tais, Contracted malaria, Busy sleeping 15 hours/day, Sunburnt my fingertips and cannot type, Kidnapped by pirates. Now I am going to try super hard not to use those but I can't make any promises (especially if the pirates look anything like Johnny Depp).

Right now the trip planning is taking over my life. We've spent months stressing out over subletting our apartment. I've created 3 different Google docs to track our to do lists (and endured what adds up to hours of eyerolling from G because I continue to share these with him and he continues to think i'm f-ing insane). I've purchased a pair of those often awful light-weight hiking pants made for people who like to be active in humid countries but apparently do not like to look cute at all. (Thank you to Kajal for the shopping assist and for laughing her head off at the 3 or 4 pairs that actually had pleated elastic waist bands). I have stocked up on an obscene amount of sunscreen and have also accepted that G will almost for sure come home with a melanoma anyway cause have you seen him? I have purchased a netbook and named it mangosteen. I am ready. South East Asia: Bring it.

Bottom? Needs Work!

My job involves sometimes watching a lot of preroll video advertisements. these ads appear right before the games I maintain on a website that shall remain nameless. Unfortunately the site runs about 3 ads at a time so if I have to play a game say 10 times a day I'm see the same ads over and over again and then I have way too much time to think... Right now this is one of the ads we're running:

Right.

To summarize for those of you too lazy to watch that stellar commercial: Baby Bear comes out of bathroom (one assumes this is a thicket). Mama Bear checks that he washed his hands and brushed his teeth (Are you supposed to brush your teeth after doing business in the thicket? I had no idea. ok, whatever). And then Mama Bear checks his butt (As someone who has taken a 3 year old to the potty I recognize that this is a necessary duty that reminds one that love will make you do anything, even look for stray dingleberries on a kid's ass. The world is a beautiful place.). And then Mama Bear's all, "No way my little bear friend, you have pieces of toilet paper stuck all over your furry ass! go back and clean them off!" And this is the selling point for the toilet paper. "This toilet paper will totally not get stuck on your ass!" People, is this a problem that you have? Are you ever caught thinking life would be so sweet if only you could count on wiping your ass and not having it riddled with pieces of paper fluff? I do not have this issue. Do I have an especially nonadhesive tuckus? Is this a gene I should be thanking my mom for or did she just really kick ass when she trained me to wipe my butt?

Etsy + Twilight = Profit

Let me start by saying, F-you blogger formatting. Sorry this post looks like crap, I did everything I could.

Unlike the hordes of haters out there I embrace my love for the truly trashy Twilight franchise (also being embraced: my love for alliteration). I read all of the books (albeit with a bit of cynical eye rolling), I blogged about them once, and I very much look forward to sneaking booze into the New Moon movie (because the first movie should have received some sort of special comedy recognition at the Oscars). But none of this means that I do not see the inherent humor in the craziness of the Twilight industry.

Inspired by Regretsy and Amy, who dared me to look up Twilight on Etsy, I bring you the best (aka worst) of the 706 (!!) pages of Twilight themed goodies up for sale at the internet's favorite craft fair.

1. Twilight Brings the Sexy

Timberlake is such a fucking copy cat.

2. Twilight Brings the Perspiration

Deodorant? OF COURSE ("my vampire boyfriend gets me all hot and then I sweat and then I stink... or I *would* if it weren't for my awesome Twilight deodorant."). And it's vegan (DOUBLE of course!) cause I may be ok with drinking human blood but I also love animals so much that I consider eating honey blasphemous.

3. Twilight Brings the Stupid

There are a lot of artists (?) on Etsy using the business model "Twilight quote + crap I made = PROFIT." Part of me thinks this is brilliant and that I need to start creating my own brand of Stephanie Meyer potholders or toilet paper or golf tees but I'd like to think that not every teenage girl is will to wear a necklace proclaiming their stupidity. I mean wouldn't this shit get you beat up?

4. Twilight Brings the Sharpie

This "artist" didn't bother to do anything other than scribble on a Kmart bag with a Sharpie -- She's probably already swimming in greenbacks.

5. Twilight Brings the Creepy

I'm pretty sure it is not safe for 14 year old girls to wear anything this woman sells.

6. Twilight Brings the Fuzzy

From the description:

This cute little puff ball comes to you from trees right in your backyard. Some loose there balance and fall out seeking human life... The one you are looking at is named Edward. He's a vegetarian vampire, can't you tell by his amber eyes.

Obviously.

6. Twilight Brings the Abs.

Not technically Twilight themed just awesome.

7. Twilight Brings the Creepy Again (no surprise here)

Um. Ew. The tongue and just... gah. No need for that watermark, I'm pretty sure the only people who want to steal this are sex offenders looking for style tips.

8. Twilight Brings the.... Yarn?

From the description:

This batt is hand-dyed merino wool, luscious white bamboo, some hand-dyed nylon, and angelina for sparkle! It is the softest batt I have ever carded. The colorway represents Jasper Hale, the former Confederate general in the Twilight series.

Seriously?

9. Twilight Brings the Half Assed Attempts at Art






















Step 1: Rip page out of book
Step 2: Paste to block of wood
Step 3: Sequins+masking tape
Step 4: Collect $2

10. Twilight Brings the Holiday Cheer

Lastly, I am happy to report that Christmas shopping for G is TOTALLY DONE.




































If only I could decide which gift he'd like best....

Then Again I Don't Seem *That* F-ed Up

Lately you hear a lot fist clenching and concerned look-making over the topic of just how badly the children of mommy bloggers will need therapy. The theory goes that once 4 year old Blog Fodder Jr. grows into 14 year old Googling Alldaylong he will find mommy's little online journal where his every goo and poo was documented and commented on by the mothers of half the population of his freshman class and the mere thought that Ms. Nextdoor has heard about the stinky green turds he layed down from ages 1-3 will cause our good teenager's head to explode. The end.

I have never been capable of taking this tsk-tsking very seriously since I choose to document my own goo-ing and poo-ing for all to read and look! I'm totally fine! (seriously.). But today as I tried to make sense of this story over on The Sneeze where his kid runs around "drive-by anusing" his parents I finally felt a little sympathy for our perhaps over loved tots because for some reason this story reminded me of a little story of my own....

*cue wavey screen effect signalling blast from the past*

When I was really young -- probably from age 2-4 we had a family, we'll call them The Yothers, living in the house located pretty much in our backyard. I have little recollection of these years which is unfortunate because the older sister of the Yother clan turned out to be much more popular than me in high school and if only I'd had some good blackmail material ages 15-18 may have been smoother. But alas.

Periodically throughout my later child years (say 8-18) my family would run into Mr. Yothers, the dad of the family, and he would of course take every opportunity to reminisce about when they lived in our back yard. This might not have been so terrible except for that fact that his only memory from that time period if of me at age 3ish coming out of the house to tell my dad that I had pooped my pants. For Alex this is the best and most hilarious story ever told. For Brianna not so much. In fact I distinctly remember dying on at least 47 different occasions, death by poop story embarrassment is not pleasant.

A horrible tale, no? Now picture that little nightmare repeated over and over only this time everyone you know can access the play by play of your greatest pooping hits. They can print out a poop score card and plaster the school with it. They can do dramatic readings at open mike nights. Frankly I doubt these kids will live past age 12.

Turns Out I'm an Awful Human Being/Daemon From Hell

Last Friday was a much appriciated random day off from work so G and I took advantage by finally getting around to visiting Governer's Island. We strolled through colonial homes, admired the Manhattan skyline juxtaposed against a little New England town, saw some art, picnic-ed on some fabulous cheese and generally had a wonderful time but this post is not about any of that. This post is about G and I being awful people who deserve a painful and embarrassing death by tragic disease or at least to be yelled at really loudly in front of our peers.

Everyone visiting Governer's Island rents bikes. This allows New Yorkers to feel very European (which is also why we love things like socialized healthcare and organic produce -- I expect very short shorts on men and a refusal to shave one's pits to make a splashing debut at the next Fashion Week). There is only one bike provider on GI and the line morphs from a trickle to a torrent whenever the ferry docks but when G and I popped over to rent bikes 15mins before the next ferry docking we waited all of 5 mins (consider this post's one Governer's Island tip). Sadly, the system for returning bikes was far more painful due to some combination of very slow credit card machines, a lack of bike rental employees and the fact that as horrible people we are very impatient and (spoiler alert!) as daemon's from hell we scorn the bright cleansing rays of the sun. The line for bike returns stretched a good 20 minutes down the prestine tree lined block.

We waited and waited and finally day turned to night, the seasons changed, man walked on the surface of Mars, etc and G and I were 3rd from the front of the line and could almost taste the post biking margaritas that we'd promised ourselves. And then a random older lady (55ish? maybe 60?) walked up and emitted a huge huff and with a glance at her watch, another glance at the snaking queue of people as far as the eye could see, and a mean shake of her head muttered to herself, "What time is it? Is this the line!?!?" and then... she got right in front of us and scooted into the edge of the line! G and I exchanged raised eyebrows and waited... Just as the line was about to move G took the initiative and casually joke, "Ma'am I hope you're not planning on staying there." She turned around and again with her trademark huff whined, "oh come on, give me a break, I'm an old lady!" A lady so old that apparently senility had set in and caused her to forget everything she learned in Kindergarten (aka all anyone needs to know!). I can only guess that she has no recollection of the deliciousness of PB&J, the joys of playing kissy girls, or her ABCs but I can testify without a doubt that she totally does not remember the rules associated with butting in line and how it might result in another kid crying to the teacher and/or kicking you in the balls. How sad for all of us (mostly for G and I). I responded to her claims that old ladies don't do lines as nicely as I could, "yes, but it's a really long line and we all waited." At which point she upped the ante -- "I have a disability!" And here is where G earns all of my love and respect even if he's a little embarrassed at the words that crossed his lips, "That's an interesting disability -- riding bikes around an island for 2 hours? Totally fine! Standing in line? No way!" This produced shock and a look of complete scorn which caused G to back down a bit and apologize for pushing things too far (which I maintain he didn't do because she did just bike her not-really-that-old ass around and island! So GOOD POINT G!). As many readers may have realized we were now snowballing out of control down Mount Grumpy Old Lady.

MGOL: I HAVE CANCER! DO YOU WANT ME TO TAKE OFF MY WIG?!?!

Brianna: No!

MGOL: Just let me go in front of you! I don't feel good.

G: Why don't you ask the nice people behind us if you can cut in line in front of them?

And with another huff -- she transformed into Poor Widdle Old Lady. Over our shoulders we heard the following:

PWOL(voice suddenly quiet and raspy): Excuse me, I have cancer and I'm very ill and I was wondering if I could please go ahead of you in line. I nicely asked these people in front of you but I guess they don't care about senior citizens with cancer. Also, I think that they are deamons brought upon us from hell itself. I wouldn't get too close, occasionally plumes of sulfur shoot out from their eyes.

Good Summaritan/Evil Harpy from Long Island: OF COURSE!!! My mother had cancer last year! Please, go ahead. I can't believe how rude some people/daemons are!

That's us! The rude daemons from hell! Should it be at all shocking that daemons are rude? Has this woman never seen Buffy the Vampire Slayer? Daemons are always crashing parties and biting people and generally pooping all over social decorum.

(Note: the author has taken a few liberties with the actual quotes used above. Changes may include but are not limited to: the addition of all caps, the use of somewhat unkind nicknames and the claim that anyone called the author or her boyfriend a daemon. These changes have all been made to better represent the intention of the speakers whose general attitudes can best be described as super crazy ridiculous. Rest assured that the author is now reigning it in and pretty much everything from here on happened in real life even though it also seems totally insane.)

GS/EHFLI (now in a much louder voice): I CANNOT BELIEVE HOW AWFUL THESE PEOPLE WERE TO YOU. WE'LL SEE HOW THEY FEEL WHEN THE'RE OLD! I HOPE PEOPLE ARE AS HORRIBLE TO THEM AS THEY WERE TO YOU! I HOPE THEY BURN IN HELL! YOU GUYS ARE DISGUSTING EXCUSES FOR HUMANITY!

Silly lady, we're DAEMONS! Not even your regular old demons but the kind with a random a at the beginning! Do you not understand how evil we are? Be glad we didn't rip that woman's cancer wig off and defile it with our throbbing daemon genitalia!

Through this diatribe G and I stood quietly staring straight ahead not talking and generally trying to melt into the asphalt. Not because we were embarrassed and feeling bad about not letting Our Lady of Cancer butt her ass in line (Be serious! We made the total right call on that one! Also, we're evil daemons so feelings of guilt are somewhat beyond our limited emotional abilities.) but because neither of us is very good with people yelling. I contemplated pointing out that everyone could go ahead an claim they had "cancer of standing in line" willy nilly without proof and then where would be be? Or that I totally had a friend who got cancer at 27 (aka way younger then you and therefore TOTALLY MORE TRAGIC) and that I was so helpful that I pretty much received an honorary membership in the cancer survivor brigade. Or that using a disease as an excuse to butt in line is practically asking God to smite your ass with even worse cancer in the future. But I held my tongue least I actually breathed fire at them.

In conclusion I must report after this little fiasco the margaritas were more then just delicious.

I Don't Feel Like Runnin' No Sir No Runnin' Today

A couple of weeks ago I was reading dooce's account of giving birth to her second child (be warned all who click here for there be vaginas) in which she mentions that the last 12 minutes of labor were the worst and that 12 minutes doesn't seem like that long of a period of time but that it totally felt like forever. I could immediately sympathize because I have recently confirmed that 12 minutes is an eternity specifically if you spend that 12 minutes running (or, apparently pushing a child through your loins, something I have not done but which sounds almost as painful as putting foot in front of foot in front of foot at a 10 min/mile pace).

It turns out I'm not so good at running. This is no surprise having been a remedial runner since developing asthma in junior high mostly to avoid the mandated 10 minute mile tests, but it was a bit discouraging. I had kind of hoped that losing 30lbs and spending some time at the gym might have somehow turned me into a running savant or at least a somewhat mediocre but totally passable runner. No such luck. Yet.

The running thing was actually going OK for a while there. After work I'd head over to the gym and do my prescribed Couch to 5K run on the treadmill while listening to Dan Savage rant about all things moist and tantalizing. There were plenty of days when running felt only slightly more fun then being waterboarded but despite the constant messages from my feet, legs, heart, lungs, etc warning that I was killing them I managed to finish all of the runs up through week 7 and was feeling mighty proud of running 25 minutes straight.

Then a couple of things happened. Firstly, I decided to try running more outside -- after all I live near a very nice park and the 5K I was targeting in October certainly would not be run on a treadmill. All of the runners I knew swore that running outside was the super bestest thing ever that I'd feel so good and run so much faster and love love love it so much. Right. Actually running outside was great at first -- and by at first I mean for the first half of the first run when I was whizzing around the park rocking out to I Don't Feel Like Dancin by the Sissor Sisters and feeling light on my feet and speedy. That lasted right up until minute 9 when I lied down on the pavement and died because apparently outside+rocking tunes+running like the wind can be sustained for exactly that long before my whole body revolts.

Then things really started to go downhill. I was sent out of town on a week long business trip where the hotel gym was a sad little room in the basement which couldn't compete with walking around beautiful downtown Seattle. Then I went on vacation to California where it was routinely 97 degrees and where I did go on a 12 mile death march of a hike with my family but did no running.

And now I'm back and summer has finally arrived in New York City so I'm pushing myself to run in 85 degrees and air just wringing with water and... it's hard. I'm finally back up to 20mins straight without any walking but man am I dying for it.

I can run about 5 minutes before I have to start bargaining with myself. I make promises of brief stops at the water fountain, I do math in my head comparing the remaining time to the length of TV programs, movies, airline flights, etc in an attempt to trick myself into believing that the time will just fly on by no problemo ( "Only 15mins left! That's only a quarter of one True Blood episode, that's NOTHING! AND that's only 68% of your average 22 minute TV program-- just imagine if you were watching The Soup right now? You'd wish it was longer!"). I keep waiting for the time when running comes easy enough that I'm distracted for whole stretches of time not noticing the pounding of my heart, the aching of my calves, the constant complaining of my thoughts. I've been telling myself that it's good to do things that are hard, that it will feel so great to run that 5K, that even if 20mins of running doesn't sound like a very long time very few people are actually out there running anything at all. I'm not sure any of these pep talks are working -- it's a good thing I really hate being a quitter.

And yet I still dread the 5K. I fear that not being able to run the whole thing will be a sign that I am meant to be fat -- that today it's walking part of a race and tomorrow I weigh 500lbs. I fear that all of my really awesome supportive runner friends will be fake clapping for me at the end of the race when I finally drag my ass over the finish line eons after them. I fear that my ass will be drug over long after my friend who will be 6 months pregnant has pranced over it, gotten some water, stretched, yawned and decided to run back down the route to find me. Hopefully she won't have to carry me but I can't make any promises.