Irony

I love irony. Do you love irony? I'm totally into it.

Take for example one of my neighbors. He needed a strip of my property to run a power line out to his detached garage. I agreed to allow the encroachment if he would agree to go the legal route and get an easement drawn up and recorded. He didn't want to muddle his project's efficiency with these sorts of things and would yell, threaten, and try to steamroll me instead.

His big talking point to anyone who would listen was the loss of the use of his garage. Without power, that is how he saw it. And while I didn't believe his garage was a tear-down merely because he was too big of a candy ass to open the roll up door manually (on a temporary basis), I did sympathize with the inconvenience of it. I thought that was remarkable on my part, considering I was his definition of evil.

He really tested my sympathy too. We went back and forth for almost a year with me insisting on trifles like licensed/insured contractors, permits from the city, and recorded easements before I would grant him use of my land. He suggested I let him in with no notice to do a permit free 3-inch deep trench where he could just direct bury some line (that means right in the dirt) and be done.

We finally ended up seeing eye to eye when he realized he wasn't going to be able to fit his shoe in my ass, and I think maybe someone might have helped him pull his head out of his own as well.

The permits, contractors, and easements magically appeared, and the project was completed without a hitch. His garage has had power for just about three months now.

That's not so ironic is it, but can you see where this is going?

And wait for it.........he doesn't use his garage. He doesn't use the fucking thing.

I haven't seen the door in use one time since power was restored. What I do see is him pulling his car up to the front of his garage door and leaving it there, partially blocking the main driveway to other garages.

In fact, if I was a good photographer, I could take an artsy shot of his car and the No Parking - Will Be Towed sign because the proximity would allow for it.

So that right there my friends is a little bit of layered irony -- and well...venting.

Good times.

I Don't Want Mine - I Want Yours

Oh, I am so very nauseated from reading whiny articles written by mostly women, lamenting that in the wake of January's earthquake, they haven't had any lucky snapping up Haitian children for adoption.

One woman wrote a post that her child needs her now, but all the red tape in Haiti was going to make it impossible for her to adopt from there anytime soon. Her child. When did a Haitian orphan become her child? Asinine.

Like I was saying, they are all pretty much along this same vein, so I won't bore you with every subtle nuance of whining style I came across. That will also wipe out the risk of me whining about the whining. I would much rather think of myself as sweeping and angry, than weak and whiny.

When I am not staving of the heaves, I do have questions about all of this.

Why are these Americans so obsessed with adopting an orphan from another country, when they are children right here in the US that could use loving parents and a secure home?

The foster care system alone includes over 100,000 children up for adoption in this country. Are those kids less abandoned? Do they suffer less from that loss, and the system they are thrust into so young? Are these women making a judgment that moving through the system to legal adulthood here is "good enough" while Haiti's system isn't? Or is it more romantic, and higher up on the Personal Jesus scale to run to an impoverished nation for your little bundle of charity?

Kids these days

Who knows, but they are annoying the hell out of me. When all the children here have what they need to thrive, then I say we look abroad to reach out.

On that note, I sometimes wish I didn't suck at relationships so badly. I have ovarian moments where I muse about finding a partner and adopting a child. In these visions, I co-parent with someone healthy and raise a child who is kind, generous, bright, and filled with drive to give back to his or her world.

These moments usually coincide with wine and cheese, and abruptly end when I remember that I am the only important person I know. Oh well.

Anger Management

I was sitting at my desk when I remembered a phone call I'd
forgotten to make. I found the number and dialed it.
A man answered, saying "Hello."

I politely said, "This is Chris. Could I please speak with Robyn
Carter?"

Suddenly a manic voice yelled out in my ear "Get the right blankety blank number!" and the phone was slammed down on me.

I couldn't believe that anyone could be so rude. When I tracked
down Robyn's correct number to call her, I found that I had accidentally transposed the last two digits.

After hanging up with her, I decided to call the wrong number again. When the same guy answered the phone, I yelled "You're a jackass!" and hung up. I wrote his number down with the word 'jackass' next to it, and put it in my desk drawer.

Every couple of weeks, when I was paying bills or had a really bad day, I'd call him up and yell,
"You're a jackass!" It always cheered me up.

When Caller ID was introduced, I thought my therapeutic jackass calling would have to stop. So, I called his number and said, "Hi, this is John Smith from the telephone company. I'm calling to see if you're familiar with our Caller ID Program?"

He yelled "NO!" and slammed down the phone. I quickly called him back and said, "That's because you're a jackass!" and hung up.

One day I was at the store, getting ready to pull into a parking spot. Some guy in a black BMW cut me off and pulled into the spot I had patiently waited for. I hit the horn and yelled that I'd been waiting for that spot, but the idiot ignored me. I noticed a "For Sale sign in his back window, so I wrote down his number.

A couple of days later, right after calling the first jackass (I had his number on speed dial), I thought that I'd better call the BMW jackass, too. I said, "Is this the man with the black BMW for sale?"
He said, "Yes, it is.." I asked, "Can you tell me where I can see it?"
He said, "Yes, I live at 34 Oaktree Blvd , in Fairfax .
It's a yellow rambler, and the car's parked right out in front."
I asked, "What's your name?" He said, "My name is Don Hansen."
I asked, "When's a good time to catch you, Don?"
He said, "I'm home every evening after five."

I said, "Listen, Don, can I tell you something?"
He said, "Yes?"
I said, "Don, you're a jackass!"

Then I hung up, and added his number to my speed dial, too. Now, when I had a problem, I had two jackasses to call.

Then I came up with an idea.
I called Jackass #1.
He said, "Hello."
I said, "You're a jackass!"
(But I didn't hang up.)

He asked, "Are you still there?"
I said, "Yeah."
He screamed, "Stop calling me!"
I said, "Make me."
He asked, "Who are you?"

I said, "My name is Don Hansen."
He said, "Yeah? Where do you live?"
I said, "Asshole, I live at 34 Oaktree Blvd , in Fairfax , a yellow rambler, I have a black Beamer parked in front."

He said, "I'm coming over right now, Don.
And you had better start saying your prayers."
I said, "Yeah, like I'm really scared, jackass," and hung up.

Then I called Jackass No. 2.
He said, "Hello?"
I said, "Hello, jackass ."
He yelled, "If I ever find out who you are..."
I said, "You'll what?"
He exclaimed, "I'll kick your tail,"
I answered, "Well, jackass, here's your chance.

I'm coming over right now."

Then I hung up and immediately called the police, saying that I lived at 34 Oaktree Blvd , in Fairfax , and that my gay lover was on his way over to kill me. Then I called Channel 9 News about the gang war going down in Oaktree Blvd in Fairfax .

I quickly got into my car and headed over to Fairfax I got there just in time to watch two jackasses beating the devil out of each other in front of six cop cars, an overhead news helicopter and surrounded by a news crew.

NOW I feel much better.

Anger Management really works!


Author behind depiction of this totally well adjusted way to deal with people and telephones is unknown.

You're Probably Going To Hate Me For This...

...but what the fuck are we doing giving $100 million in aid to Haiti?!

I'm sorry but it's ridiculous. You are probably already convinced I am Pat Robertson's evil twin, but maybe you could just let me have a chance to tell you why I think we are being lame: Our country is in a fucking shambles and we are jumping up to bleed out a little more! That's why. Thanks for letting me get that out.

Let's refresh on the current state of our grand old union, shall we? And I will throw the net wide and keep things as general and positive as possible. The current lowhighlights include:

Unemployment rates the highest they have been in decades

Complete healthcare crisis/meltdown

Complete banking crisis/meltdown

National Debt at an all time high

Many small businesses and homeowners struggling to stay afloat

For all intents and purposes, our debt to China means they pretty much own us

Eighth year of US military action in the Middle East

Do you wonder where we just happened to have $100 mil lying around with everything that is going on? Do you ask yourself why our government hasn't made sure that it's own citizens don't suffer? Doesn't it sound at all silly to you folks?!

It does to me.

America has become that lame-ass twenty something guy that is in the hottest car (balloon lease payments), blinging the most tricked out phone (massive security deposit on it), buying the whole club a round in his Armani suit (charged it yo!), before he goes home to sleep in his twin bed (the one his parents got him when he stopped using diapers) back at mom's and pay all the minimums on his secured credit cards.

Whoo! I know I am waving my asshole flag really high here, but I am going to take a shot at redemption here. I am not advocating in the least bit that we ignore the horrific damage and loss the people of Haiti are suffering. I wholeheartedly believe there is something we can and should be doing to help. Of course it is only right and just to honor their need, and do our part. We just make our part way too much of a starring role; and at a time when we literally can't really afford to do so.

We need to learn our limit before that last round goes out for a toast, and we are face down on the floor, getting that Armani all stanky before we can even get it paid off. Which brings me to another thought - who would pick us up off that floor?

Now I have seen like .08 of an episode of that So You Think You're Smarter Than A 5th Grader so I know we as a nation suck at geography...but do we suck to the point where we think we constitute 90% of the countries on this planet? Europe can't help a Haitian out? Is Dubai too strapped from making snow all summer for their indoor ski resort, to send a little food and water?

And maybe they are pitching in - I don't know. Researching facts gets in the way of my anger and sweeping generalizations, so I avoid it like a hooker dodges churches. I am just using them to soften the blow of my very unpopular opinion anyway.

Now that I have bitched about the problem, believe it or not, my lame opinion includes some solution too.

Let Americans decide how much aid goes to Haiti.

In just two days of mass exposure on television, Facebook, Myspace and Twitter, we have donated over $5 million dollars to Haitian relief through the American Red Cross alone, and that number continues to grow. And that is just via their texting option. I am sure many more have mailed in checks and donated on the web.

Many celebrities have also pledged very generous donations to the cause as well.

There are also several not-for-profit organizations that are set up for exactly this sort of need.

Don't believe me? Here's just a tickle of what is out there:

Doctors Without Borders

Partners in Health

International Rescue Committee

International Medical Corps

CARE

American Refugee Committee

Yele Haiti

Save The Children

When I went to get these links, I noticed that several sites are already posting their thanks for the overwhelming amount of support they are receiving for their efforts, so obviously we are pitching in. Doing our part to help a global neighbor in need. Just as it should be.

Don't hate me for having opinions, hate me because deep down inside I am arrogant enough to believe my opinions are important enough to be blog worthy.


PS ~ I love you....and I donated to an org for Haitian aid.

Racism Is Always Unacceptable...

Stereotyping though? That's coolio. Have at it.

Let's start with the stoopid dolt of a road crew dude. Of course he has to be Caucasian. Why, you ask? Because that is the only group of people who are racist. Everyone knows this.

That pretty much explains why Betty Crocker back there is yucking it up at his antics. When she isn't throwing burritos at Mexicans, or making weave jokes to the Black women in the office, she is laughing her ass off at just how funny Eber is.

Really now, isn't he funny? Such a comedic innovator. Who would have ever thought to mock eye shape. Very sharp, that guy.

And then we have our Miss Oppressed right there, front and center. A chop stick using, rice eating Asian. Nice. You can tell they are serious about championing her plight by the sheer in-your-face way in which they undermined the whole scenario with the stereotyping.

Lame.

If employees really need posters like this one in the workplace, to guide them about what is an act of racism, and what isn't, then perhaps Obama doesn't need to work on that 10.2% unemployment rate as much as we thought.

It may just be Darwinian office weeding at it's best.

Mr. Freeland, Can I Get Extra Credit For Pulling This Number Out Of My Ass?

From NBC Bayarea.com

Man Sues Bank of America for $1.7 Billion Trillion
Demands an extra $200,164,000 for "miscellaneous fees"
By EDWARD J. CARR


One can only imagine Dalton Chiscolm brought his pinkie finger to his mouth when he said he was suing Bank of America for "1,784 billion, trillion dollars."

Infuriated with Bank of America’s customer service, Dalton Chiscolm decided to do what every other red-blooded American in his situation would do: He sued them.

How much did he sue them for?

Try $1,784 billion trillion, according to Reuters. That’s the number 1,784 followed by 18 zeros. It’s also more money than the world’s 2008 gross domestic product, which was comprised of a measly $60 trillion (that’s six followed by 13 zeroes). To top it off, he also wants an additional $200,164,000 for "miscellaneous fees."

Chiscolm decided he was entitled to the money after he received inconsistent information regarding his bank accounts from “a Spanish woman” during numerous calls to Bank of America’s headquarters in New York City.


District Judge Denny Chin gave his two cents in a written order released Sept. 24.

“The claim is incomprehensible,” he wrote.

Chin previously had the honor of sentencing Ponzi-schemer Bernie Madoff to 150 years in prison.

Chin gave Chiscolm until Oct. 23 to explain why his case shouldn’t be dismissed.

Honestly folks, I am really not planning to rip on Mr. Chiscolm for this silliness. Why you ask? Well, let's start with coming up with that number. 1.7 Billion Trillion. At first, you're thinking it's a fake. The numerical equivalent to those words that just miss the dictionary target like Fabuloso, Romantical, and Weinis. But it's not. Apparently when you put 18 zeros behind something it's because that shit is real - and coming for ya!

Bank of America is a deserving target too. I can vouch for this after 15+ years of their tyranny. They suck. Officially.

They suck so bad there is already a graphic out there to prove it!

I didn't know that Spanish women were the diabolical force behind the B of A reign of terror, but as his claim states, they are pretty inconsistent. Every ATM has a different posting deadline so if you don't check each machine, your deposit may not post the same business day. They also have more fees for their craptacular service than Carter's got liver pills*, and those seem to change quite a bit. They have shaken me down $4.95 at a time for a while now.

I just hope that when the case is settled and Mr. Chiscolm gets his 1.7 Billion Trillion Babillion that he throws a giant ice cream party or buys me a fur coat.


*Even though I am not 107, I have used the Carter's got liver pills saying for years. And I too thought it was some little know fact about the ex president Jimmy Carter. Desultor cleared up that little mystery, but I am not sure how I feel about it - was really attached to Jimmy as an integral part of the pep behind the saying.

We Can Do More Than Remember

Capt Walsh took this photo in Ghazni, Afghanistan and shared it with us

"Few will have the greatness to bend history itself; but each of us can work to change a small portion of events, and in the total of all those acts will be written the history of this generation." ~ Robert F. Kennedy

We can do more than remember.

That is what I posted as my status update today on that devil machine known as Facebook. And to tell you the truth, I was irritated and frustrated when I did it. I am sick to death of people using 9/11 as a day to just sit there and say "I remember" or "I was sad" or "We can't forget".

What is the point of remembering anyway? If you aren't going to attach anything to it, than what is the point? Without honor, and action what does remembering really accomplish?

The plaintive sentiments about how emotional you were that day strike me as a waste too. Sorry, I know I am really flying the A-hole flag today, but I just don't get it. Of course, there is nothing inherently wrong with having the emotion, it just seems that as a nation we sit on our laurels with it. Slip off the hook for the next 12 months by telling ourselves, and each other, that "sad" is enough.

It's not. That's right -- I am judging you fair nation and I am saying it is absolutely not enough.

The struggle continues. Maybe it's not happening in your backyard, but it is happening. Taking place this very moment in front lines overseas, soup kitchens down the street, and individual lives across each state.

Want to honor the tragedy of September 11th 2001? Want to remember what we lost by giving? Start by looking around and reaching out.

In Order To Be Returnable, There Must Be Death

Not long ago I was watching Elmo with a very charming young man named Joe. In this riveting segment, Elmo was asking his goldfish Dorothy questions, and I'll be goddamned if she wasn't answering them!

Each time the E Man interpreted another tidbit of the sage advice of Miss Dorothy, I became more and more enthralled. I had to have one of these fish, so it could start talking to me as soon as possible.

Alright - cut to reality: I don't believe that shit. I know fish only talk to other fish. They aren't going to give up their magical watery speech skills to some red furry Plaza de Sesamo character. Sheesh, what kind of nutbag do you take me for?!

Anywho, despite my irritation at Elmo's attempts to trick me, I was getting a warm fuzzy over Dorothy. I remember my first fishbowl with it's two crap feeder goldfish in it, and how excited I was to have them for the 42 hours they lived.

I remember my dad taking us on a rainy afternoon to the local aquarium store to pick out our goods, and then helping me and my brother each put our fish bowl together. They were round, glass bowls complete with colored gravel, plastic plants, and the token must-have treasure chest.

I loved having a pet in my room and eventually our bowls turned into full-fledged fish tanks with all the fixings. I still remember falling asleep under the soft glow of the tank light and the hum of the air pump.

Ahh those were the days.....

Two weeks ago, I decided to indulge my nostalgia and went to Petsmart. I already had a bowl set up, and I decided ahead of time I was going to get me a couple of scrappy feeder goldfish to go in it. Recapture a bit of the good ole day's glory.

I had a touch of that little kid excitement too [ok - big touch] as I entered the store and started perusing the tanks. Fish, fish, fish, expensive fish, ugly fish, who would want that fish?, saltwater fish, glowy fish, tiny fish - where are the feeders man?!

Eventually I work my way back to where I started, and next to all the fancy goldfish I see a big empty tank. They were out. Noooooooo!

Like a seven year old, I was hell bent on instant gratification. I was going home with fish goddamnit!

I then proceeded to make a big mistake. I bought Ethel and Enid.

I have had fancy goldfish in the past and it has never worked out. They're snotty, spoiled and superficial. And then just so you can hate them that much more, they go and die right away so you can weep as you flush your $5.99 down the toilet.

What was I thinking?! Fancy goldfish?! Eck! As soon as I got them home, I knew I should have held out for my scrappy little faves, the feeders. Talk about an attitude of gratitude! They know how grim their prospects are. How you could have fed them to your snapping turtle or pet piranha or dumped them in bleach water like a certain brother I know. Their every move screams "thank you!" and you have just got to love them for that.

Alright, well so I fucked up, but I am a commitment girl so Ethel and Enid are going to shack up with me for as long as they haunt this earth.

If I hadn't been thinking like a kid, I would have got me some guppies. At least they are small and darty and you never know when they are going to splooge out some babehs - God's miracle every one of them.



But I digress.....back to E & E.

They are annoying as hell. My visions of relaxing evenings sipping a glass of wine, gazing at my peaceful little fishy duo are blown out. These two will not be any help in lowering my blood pressure.

For starters, they can't swim worth a shit. Everyday looks like it is their first day behind the fin. Most of the time they just look like they are trying not to float up to the top. They fight over the food like there isn't a thousand little flakes there floating for them to share. They're pretty much ungrateful little biotches........and I am stuck with 'em.

And we come full circle: When I was leaving the store that fateful day, the sales girl tells me that they have a return policy on their fancy goldfish. If they eat it within 14 days of purchase, and you have your receipt AND the dead fish, [she told me twice I had to have the carcass on me] they will give you a refund or store credit.

Well that little ray of hope blew out yesterday. Today is Day 15 and as I type this those two gaping fools are over there still trying to get the swimming thing down. Damn.

Grande Pessismisto?

I have to work really hard at being optimistic. I just don't have light roots. My tethers are darker and heavier than many. This is not to say that I am always in Half Empty mode. I meant it when I wrote I work hard to spend most of my time at Half Full. I think I have made some pretty good strides over the years, but I suspect if I didn't work at it, I could be a Grande Pessismisto - no foam, extra whip of course.

So this morning I am sitting at my desk thinking that this all is just fucking great. By "all" I mean my life. I got into this head space where I am wondering where the hell I am going and what am I doing anyway? I even made a list for god knows what reason.

I will spare my vast readership the oodles of optimism embedded in the list. Highlights include being a lard ass, one of my neighbors wanting to sue me (and not for having said lard ass), and a couple of fall-on-my-face failures.

So where am I going with this? We all have problems. It always occurs to me how inherently lazy and spoiled it is of me to sit and complain -- even to myself .

I need to turn this around.

Stoopid, (I like to spell it that way) self-congratulating Oprah always talks about her stoopid gratitude journal....."Write five things everyday for which you have gratitude". Whatever Oprah.

But still, it is a good idea.

Let's see if I can turn my mental frown into at least a straight face...

1. I live in Santa Cruz. I may have crappy neighbors, and a little isolation going on, but it could get a hell of a lot worse than owning a home in a coastal Northern California town.

2. I have choices and resources. e.g., I can choose to learn from my failures and take that into my future. I can afford to bolster my job training with some online courses (even if it is boring-ass, tedious bookkeeping).

3. My brother showed up in the middle of my Monday Mental Meltdown and offered to run an errand for me, make a repair to my vehicle, and replace my broken smoke alarm. Thanks bro!

4. I am a fortunate person -- I have food in my fridge, I'm not schizophrenic, I won a free rent lottery once, etc.

5. There's a donut in my kitchen right now....and some hot coffee.

Bonus two things because I like the number seven as much as I like the number five.

6. There are some awesome people out there who care about me. -- Not much more to say than that -- it's a huge gift.

7. I have Now. The potential is limitless.

Now you do it. What fills you with gratitude?

And let's be original people -- no, "Well I don't have Schizophrenia either - done."

Alarm Apathy Followed By Stupidity

I have yet another reason to hate Santa Cruz........even though this really has nothing to do with the actual city. This is about my lame neighbors. But still....they're in Santa Cruz.

Some Background

I got a phone call at 9:00 on Sunday night from the property manager of my condominium complex. [I was not in Santa Cruz at the time.] Her voice mail informed me that the police had been called and were out in front of my house because a neighbor called about a loud beeping noise coming from my unit. I called the property manager back within fifteen minutes of her message, but I got her voice mail. Being disturbed by the fact that the police had been called, I didn't feel like just waiting for her to call me back, so I called the Santa Cruz Police non-emergency phone number to try and get some information. They informed me that one of my neighbors had called them about this beeping, and that they claimed it had been going on for three days. Apparently the police checked for smoke or any other obvious issues, found none, and then left. Shortly after this call, I did speak to the property manager. During the call I told her that I suspected it was the smoke alarm, and that there was a key hidden if someone wanted to go in and check on my house. Now don't let the title of Property Manager fool you, this woman had no intention of setting foot on the property, or managing anything. No, she just suggested I let it go another twelve hours or so and send someone over tomorrow to look in on the situation. Nice. Happy ending to the story came when DS Man self-motivated and got a hold of my celly and called me [my guess is that he was the one who called the property manager when the police showed up.] He was more than willing to locate the key and check on everything for me. It was indeed the smoke alarm making the noise, and he disarmed it. Thanks DS Man. Who would have thought he would be the hero in this story, but life likes to throw you those curves sometimes.


So there you have it. I left all of my massive irritation out of the background, but I am going to mad-dog infuse it into the next section.


Some Thoughts

Why in the fuck would you let the damn thing beep for three days?! Three days! Are you kidding me? Idiot -- I'm sorry -- that is sheer stupid right there.

Smoke alarms are pretty distinctive sounding. I am going to guess that if anyone went near my front door they would be able to determine that that was probably the culprit for the noise. Why would you ignore that -- for any reason?! Fires can spark and smolder for days before becoming full blazes. Smoke alarms are designed to detect that. Ignoring the alarm makes no sense to me. I am fortunate that it was not sounding for an actual fire because State Farm's motto don't apply at my place apparently.

So okay, shared walls and all, you don't care if my house burns down, but you do want some quiet. It's been three days, it's the end of the weekend, you're over it already. The beeping has got to stop. I get that. What I didn't know, but should have seen coming, is that dumb people employ dumb problem solving choices. They called the police. It is a condo complex with a circulated phone list of, and for, residents (one I should have been traveling with, by the way), and a property manager (I have her number in my phone, but it didn't do me much good.) and Brainiac calls the police. Don't they know that the police are not sanctioned by the city to slay the Beep Monster? I think only Captain Common Sense can do the killing.

And why in the world would you wait until Sunday night to contact anyone about resolving the issue? That is just another layer of Stupid on the already Stupid filled Stupid with hard Stupid shell. Even still, if it has to be Sunday night why wouldn't you just phone the property manager and have her call me?

If it were me, this is how three days of noise and possible danger could have been condensed down to about one hour of resolution and quiet. If we count backwards, the beeping started Friday apparently. I am waiting no more than a few hours, and that is after I have rung the bell and made sure I do not notice anything wrong while I am standing there. After that, I am calling the owner of that unit. If I do not get a hold of them, I am calling the property manager. Between the two, it would be reasonable to expect a call back as soon as possible and then we are on Resolution Road party people. No sitting on the mystery of the beep for days, and no complaining to the police who can't do anything about it. End of story.

I hate Santa Cruz.

I Want My Fucking Money Back!

The title of this blog is what I feel like screaming at the psychologist to which I used to drone on and on. Actually, I think I would rather lean over her in a menacing, intimidation stance and hiss it at her through clenched teeth.

Why the hostility Daniella? Why the anger? Why the throwing of people skills to the wind?

Why?

Because I am still a bonafide fucking wreck, that's why.

The psychologist I am talking about was supposed to help me be human. She was supposed to help me be more flexible, less driven by worry, anger and phobia. She was supposed to help me build the tools needed to be open and ready for a well rounded life full of all different kinds of experiences.

Yeah, well I want my fucking money back.

If I had put all of her fees on a charge card, these are the highlights of the itemized list I would submit to the credit card company when disputing the charges.

• Cardholder still worries about food poisoning on a daily basis; to the lifetime banning of the McDonald's Fillet-O-Fish sandwich, and numerous other neurotically deemed high-risk foods.
  
• Continued angry Tourettes-esque outbursts while driving are experienced by cardholder, accompanied by hand signals directed towards other drivers.
• Both romantic relationships subsequent to visits have proven cardholder is still a complete idiot.
• Cardholder still firmly believes dead grandmother is alive and well in grandfather's morbidly obese, wheezy Pug.
• To date cardholder is still overly interested in/fascinated by prison documentaries, Christmas lights, and donut sniffing.

Yeah, I want my fucking money back.

Why God...Why?

Dear *Higher Power,

You put me through a few uncomfortable mini-ordeals today and I am not thrilled. I don't know why you hate me. Well, I suppose there could be some reasons, but talking to me about itbeforethe public shaming would have been nice.

Anyway, why do you wait until I look homeless in mismatched sweats and ratty hair without an ounce of makeup on to send the neighbors to my door for first introductions? Why? It's really hard to be taken seriously when you look more like a suspected squatter than a home owner.

And why do you let my dog hang on to her dingle berries until she is at someone's home? You know she then proceeds to drag her brown eye across their floors, so why do you do it? It would save me a lot of ridicule if you could let this smudgy sitch drag itself out at home, but then again you knew that now didn't you?

Speaking of animal crap, why did you wait until the very moment I was getting ready to step into that lady's living room to let me realize I had a heel full of poo? Now don't get me wrong, I appreciate you catching me before I actually stepped into the room, but still man, that was super awkward to explain why I was not able to come in. Seriously though, why do you want me to look like such a tool?

I wish you loved me like you do everyone else.

Sincerely,
Your confused little friend Daniella


*I hesitate to name you as that would be an attempt to pull you down to my level and label you as something/someone I might be able to understand. I know you are not a person or a Chia Pet, so I will refrain out of deference and respect for your Almightyness.

Kindle Puts Out My Fire

When I visit Amazon.com, I have diligently ignored Kindle for months now. I don't want to have anything to do with it. No thank you. Just here for a real book. My psyche does better when I pretend that this electronic madness is not in existence. I don't even allow myself to show the anger and disappointment I feel when I am shopping on Amazon and it punks me by throwing up a super low price for a book, and then I find out it is the damn Kindle downloading fee. Just stay out of my literary path Kindle. I am not your type.

But Kindle won't stand for it -- hence Kindle II came out this week. What-everrrr! All of your supposed techy fabulousness is still lost on me Kindle. I'm looking the other way.

Don't get me wrong -- I am not a complete anti-techite. I went along with the cell phone thing. My little Toyota Corolla had to break down in one of the worst areas of downtown San Jose at 1 a.m. for me to get one, but I got on board eventually. I obviously do the computer thing too. I even learned a little web code magic last year -- so there! I have surprised myself with the mastery of other technological advances as well, but I don't mess with books; I don't want Kindle to mess with them either.

Kindle is trying to rob me -- us really -- of all the pleasure that comes with a book. It's 1500 selection storage capability would rob the gems on my bookshelves of new neighbors. The instant downloading makes anticipation a thing of the past - ewww! The disembodied robot voice it uses to read to you if you so desire, is going to drown out the ones I already hear. And if I wanted that, I would take the meds my doctor is always recommending.

I simply want a book! I want to bend back the binding of a new read, and dig in. I want to turn back pages for a reread on little bits I can't get enough of, or possibly read over too quickly the first time. And once in a while.....I want to skip ahead to the end and allow myself the dangerous indulgence of skimming a sentence or two off of the last page. It's my right! It's my book!


Books are my favorite form of nostalgia. Sometimes I just gaze at what sits on my shelves and my thoughts will drift to memories of each read. Sometimes I share my books. I have been given books from other people's collections and I treasure that added dimension of what they offer me.

As the great Jon Stewart once said, "books are comfortably low tech" and I love them for that. So suck it Kindle and you can pass that along to Kindle II as well! Thank you.

Without A Witness, We Just Disappear

I read quite a few books written by our service members. I do it in an attempt to try and gain real perspective. After all, if you are the one getting shot at, and going without running water and warm food rations for days, then you are also probably the best person to speak on it. I don't care what the news networks have to say.

One of the first books I ever read was a compilation of works titled "Operation Homecoming". Among them is Lt. Col Michael Strobl's account of the journey to Wyoming to bring LCpl. Chance Phelps back home. Phelps had been killed outside of Baghdad, and the DOD report caught Strobl's attention, when he read that they shared the same home town. The Colonel volunteered to take this Marine back to his family. In fact, every branch of the military sends a uniformed escort with their fallen. That is how it works -- when one falls, another carries him.

Commercial planes are often utilized for this job, and unlike this group of passengers, you might not even know if you had shared a flight with one of these fallen Americans.

That is going to fuck up the taste of those little, free crackers for sure.

Most of us get up every day and never even know that this is even going on. We all hear little snippets about this attack and that Taliban strike, but how many of us really see this? The war isn't here. Starbucks is. The death isn't here. That 24 hour sale is.

Without a witness, we just disappear.

If a tree falls in the forest...

It takes some effort and courage to bear witness. You are committed. Where is this journey going to take me? What if it is painful? What if it doesn't have a happy ending? Am I going to have to be uncomfortable?

Without a witness, we just disappear.

I want this country to step up and commit to being a witness for our troops. I am not talking about tax dollars or the collective, "I feel bad for them." this nation sighs every time a news story about the war hits the networks. Go find out! Reaching out within your own community is all it takes.

Our service members are already fighting this war on their own, they shouldn't have to do it while we shield ourselves from their truth.




Number of Operations Iraqi Freedom and Enduring Freedom Casualties as of 06 February 2009: 4863

Without a witness, we just disappear.

HBO has made a film about the story of "Taking Chance". It will air on Feb 21st. It has also been picked up by the Sundance Film Festival.

You can read "Taking Chance" @ http://www.chancephelps.org/?page_id=126

Goddamn Hippies!!

Phase II of Operation: Sayonara Santa Cruz has to be expression of my fed-upness over hippies.

My open letter to you 'O lame Hippie:

Over the near seven years I have spent in your sacred city of Santa Cruz, I have had many experiences. I would like to discuss a few here as I prepare to depart one of your flag ship towns.


To the UC Santa Cruz Tree Sitting dorks: Get the fuck out of the trees hippies! With everything going on in today's world, that is the best you can do? Really? Just sit in a tree. Riiiighhhht. We are in a war, world hunger is a growing problem, we still have orphans. Find something useful to do! How about getting a job?

[note: bird crap from the skies above is annoying enough, but if enough of you start hangin out up there all the time, someone is going to catch some hippie shit. Eww!

On that note: Get a freakin job! Working and paying taxes is a refreshing way to contribute to the economy. You can sit in the trees on your days off.

To the smelly guy with the Jesus hair and beard but not the divinity glow: I resented being stopped in front of the grocery store while you tried to explain to me how you are teaching The Man a lesson by being homeless, and then in the same I-haven't-brushed-my-teeth-in-two-years breath ask me if I can buy you some potato salad. No, I will not buy you potato salad! It's made by The Man. Get a job!

To the dude that parked next to me at Safeway last year in the old beater Ford truck: Your cat looked miserable in there man. Why in the hell did you think it would want live in that conversion contraption of a camper shell?! The lethargic little eyes peering at me through the chicken wire window holes you made, sort of smacks of ......... oh wait........you are living in there too aren't you? Yikeys! Get a job!

To the wandering Sir/Maam with the full blonde goatee and pendulous breasts: You make me uncomfortable. You are nice enough, but I have to admit that you startle the fuck out of me every time I see you. The day you asked me if I could buy you some shoes while in the store left me fighting the urge to offer a bra instead. Although judging by your attire, "new" is probably not the look you are going for. Maybe I should have offered you mine. I think we might have been the same cup size. Again...uncomfortable. And I am not sure where you are going to be able to get a job. You look like a little bit of an HR issue.

To the two topless girls that were wearing just the flannel pajama bottoms and Uggs. It was wasted on me that day in the cafe window sisters - sorry. And you looked really cold, if you know what I mean. I did immediately call my bf though with a full description and he really wished he could have been there.

In parting, suck it hippies -- and I don't mean the peace pipe either!

Sincerely,
daniella

A few links that help to make my point:

http://www.southparkstudios.com/episodes/103815

Once again, South Park saves the day but putting things out there so perfectly. Short on time? All I ask is the first 1:52 on this one.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zSEaHyzbqTA
Creepy, tree-mourning hippies....a very unsettling variety.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PyBj2WZIw_I

Once you let them form a drum circle, it's all over.

Little Nut Grabbing, Tree Hugging Bastards!

I hate squirrels.......or rats with a better coat as I like to refer to them. I have never understood a love for these little vermin.


My dad used to name and feed the ones that came through his yard, and all I could ever envision was a back of the neck sneak attack when I went out there. Imagine my dad's horror when he finds me face down with the top of my spine chewed out and a blood smeared squirrel face sneering at him as it ducks behind my head. Not a pretty sight is it?! Well, a time or two I went out there and that scenario seemed imminent as I heard little evil feet scampering over the roof towards me.


I have also been challenged to more than one Mexican Standoff with a squirrel when I was only trying to walk to wherever I was going. Minding my own business, they would just leap out at me and not move. When I displayed my docility by moving aside to let the little hairy aggressor pass, they would jump in my path again, getting all up in my grill!

Anyway, I tell you all of this in a celebratory manner because my dislike and distrust has finally been vindicated!





The Squirrel Defamation League

Suck on that tough nut Squirrel!

Reverse Costanza - Backfired!

Do you remember the Human Fund Episode of Seinfeld, where George creates the fund and then gives "in honor of" donation cards to his coworkers for the holidays? He explains further, "I think I could be a philanthropist. A kick ass philanthropist! I would have all this money and people would love me. Then they would come to me and beg! And if I felt like it, I would help them out and then they would owe me big time! The first thing I'm going to need is a driver."

[Author's note: I started a nonprofit for this exact reason myself. The begging packs a powerful ego headrush, second only to the celebrity caliber popularity. I still need the driver though. If you are interested in this position, please email your resume to the address listed on this blog. Thank you.]

Anyway, I decided to try sort of a reverse version of The Human Fund for Christmas this year. Here is the email I sent out:

I truly appreciate how generous you are with me on holidays, however, in the spirit of true giving and paying it forward, etc., I am asking that people make a donation to one of the charities below in lieu of buying me gifts.

Of course, if this does not work for you no worries! I don't need to know what you decide. Just an idea.... : )

Happy Holidays,
Daniella

http://womenofhopeproject.org/home/

http://www.hfa.org/about/index.html

http://www.leobuscaglia.org/index.html

http://www.kiva.org/app.php

http://www.operationiraqichildren.org/

Now don't get me wrong, I am no Mother Theresa. I am a typical greedy, sweeping, bloated consumerist American, who makes a good sized asshole footprint on this planet. I just honestly couldn't think of anything I wanted this year.

I sent that email out last week, and so far I am going to have to chalk this little holiday experiment up to a big fat, backfire. The few responses I have gotten are peeps thinking I am requesting this out of a desire to not gift to them. Unlike George, I wasn't looking for the ole, oh-no-I/we-have-to-get-you-a-gift-but-I/we-don't-want-anything-this-year response. Damnit!

So, fuck it -- revisions to my Christmas wishlist are as follows:

• New car -- Anything but a Prius. If you get me a Prius, I will stab you in the neck
• Fur coat -- Winter PETA protests are brutal without a cozy animal to wrap up in
• Pony -- Just would be nice - an actual mini horse would be nicer
• Carl from Aqua Teen Hunger Force -- I will take the guy who does his voice if you can't bring Carl to life in an easy bake oven or Weird Science sort of way.
• Donuts -- enough said
• A younger sib -- because the gift of a person it is legal to beat the crap out of is priceless - ask my brother
  
• Cash -- because it's king baby! And of course I will need it to start my Save the Orphans and Whales slush fund

Happy Holidays! And you better get to steppin - you've got a shopping list to tackle!

Chinese Restuarant -- A Good Home?

My b.f., BF doesn't like my dog. How one could possibly dislike lil Ruthy I do not know, but he is sticking to that story. Even when hand picking little tidbits from the leftovers and making a hot water gravy with them to go over her kibble, he will tell you he wants to drop a brick on her...or tie balloons to her and float her away....or tape her to the street in front of his house and back over her. Good times.

A couple weeks ago, the lack of lil Ruthy love got to me and I told BF that if he found her a good home, I would let her go. I posed this option not only to get him to shut his pie hole, but also out of a sense that I know my enemy. BF self motivates to coordinate for work, food and bj's; he's not going to go looking for a home for my dog. Plus, I know he thoroughly enjoys complaining about her and if he gave her away, that goes out the window.

So I was feeling pretty secure tonight when we ordered Chinese take-out for dinner. When the food arrives, the doorbell rings and sends Ruth into a barking frenzy. As BF pays the small Asian man who delivered our food, I overhear a conversation from the kitchen.

BF - "You want a dog?"
Small Asian Man - "No."
BF - "You sure? It's a good dog."
Small Asian Man - "No, No."
BF - "Come on...."
Small Asian Man - "You Serious?" [leans around the corner sizing up lil Ruthy]
BF - "Nah, I better not. She will get pissed at me. Next time you come though, when she is not here, you can have it."
[Small Asian Man smiles approvingly and then exits]

He tried to give lil Ruthy to a Chinese restuarant! Are you fucking kidding me?! Small dog. Chinese Restaurant. Come on! How is that a good home?! We had an agreement. My trust is shattered, bj's are going to be ancient history, and I dare say lil Ruthy looks shaken.

I just informed BF of today's post topic and I got "If you are talking smack about me on there, I am going to blow up your computer!"

No one is safe.

Georgia On My Mind

Columbus Georgia to be exact; home of the Army's Fort Benning.

I was watching a PBS documentary named School of Assasins that investigated what goes on at The Western Hemisphere Institute for Security Cooperation (WHISC or WHINSEC), formerly called School of the Americas.

Originally based in Panama before moving to Fort Benning, WHINSEC trains troops from Latin American countries. They take courses in areas such as combat, leadership and human rights. I think the last one you will find particularly ironic as numerous human rights violations and murders. It's some scary shit, and it gets even scarier when you realize our tax dollars have paid for it all, including the recently completed 30 million dollar renovation or their headquarters.

There is a lot of information out there on the school and the controversary surrounding it. I encourage you to learn more. This is your country. This is your business. This is happening in your very own backyard!

A couple good places to start:

Wikipedia Article on the Western Hemisphere Institute for Security Cooperation

School of the Americas Watch

Huffy Baby Flopsweat

If you cracked me open right now like one of those German nesting dolls, I think you would find this punky little baby waiting in there to punch you with that balled up fist. Why? Quite simply: I failed. As you can tell by my inner brat, I am taking it really well.

I started a nonprofit to support deployed military last year and now I am faced with most probably having to dissolve it. We just can't take on any more debt, and I failed to effectively fund raise [my Kryptonite] from the get-go.

So, here I am......looking at debt and failure and feeling like a giant flopsweat.

Yes, I know I am supposed to view this as an opportunity for growth, see the lessons in the stumble and pull myself back up and try again.............no!

I am not there yet. For now, I am just going to sit here and sulk with my inner mental, baby arm cocked and ready for a swift right hook to the next person who tells me this is no big deal -- I did enough.

That is all best saved for everyone who ignored me when I tried to tell them how important this is, and how much these brave Americans need to be remembered and supported while they are serving us -- in a goddamned war!

Yep, I am definitely not there yet.