Monday, January 31, 2011

But Dad, Mexican Drug Dealers Get Cold Too!

My dad is in the desert right now at the Quartzite, Arizona gem and mineral trade show. He goes every year to buy precious stones and jewelry for his business, Naturally Mine of Foresthill. But Papa Hutch wasn't always a jeweler. He used to be a cop. And a damn fine one at that. Which is why he got suspicious when he noticed tire tracks leading out to a shallow grave in the middle of the desert.

Not actually my dad. But just so you get a visual going.

That's right. A shallow grave.

It's like something straight out of Bones! SOOO COOL! Naturally he called me right away. We don't talk on the phone that often, so you know this is a big deal. He says, "In all my years of going out to the desert, I've always wondered if I would come across a dead body. And I think I finally found one!" He was practically giddy with excitement. He called the local sheriff around 10 this morning to come out and investigate the grave. I've been waiting in agony all day to find out if life really is like it is in the procedural cop shows. Some random passerby in the desert stumbles upon the remains of some high-class hooker, caught up in a high-ranking politico sex scandal. So that's what my brain has been working on all day.

I imagine this is what the Sheriff and her Deputy looked like.

I sent my dad a text a few hours ago, unable to stand the suspense. "Was it a dead body?" He just called me now.


My dad is pretty twisted sometimes. It runs in the family. But no, he was just kidding. The sheriff arrived to check out the grave. She (yes, a kickass female sheriff) approached the site slowly, also with a bad feeling about what she was about to find there. She peeled back layers of plastic to discover...

Jackets. Sweaters. Blankets. Buried in a shallow grave. (Insert signature Law and Order DUN DUN sound here).

The Mexican drug dealers are very well-dressed in my mind.

What the what? Apparently that strip of desert is a known corridor for Mexican drug runners. The weather has been so cold lately that in addition to caches for food, water and supplies, the American side of the operation was kind enough to include warm outerwear. Awww, aren't we sweet?

So no dead bodies. Sad. But at least it was an interesting day for the desert.

Sunday, January 30, 2011

Why I Will Miss South Central

I hate to say it and wreck the street cred I've been working so hard to acquire, but I think I'm finally over the novelty of living in South Central. I've been here over a year and a half, which was about a year and a half longer than anyone expected. Sometimes I love it here still. Like when I see the Liberty Tax dancers on the street corners dressed like Statues of Liberty, skipping, twirling, waving, never without a smile. Sometimes I hate it, like when I get accosted in the drive-through at McDonald's by people asking me for money. Then there are the times at the laundromat when I'm simultaneously frightened and amused by the colorful characters that stop by to do the laundry or sell pirated DVDs and/or tamales.

This is what happens at 10pm on a Thursday night.
My neighbors set old Christmas trees on fire
in the middle of the street. Classy.

I hear the most hilarious phrases from passersby (as my door is exactly two feet from the sidewalk and there's no insulation). Which while loud and irritating, is also great fodder for comedy. One such conversation I overheard part of the other night around 11pm. My friend Eric has been crashing at my place for the past few weeks until he moves into his new apartment. Since it was Friday night and he is not an old fuddy duddy like me, he was on his way to a sexy party that didn't even start until I was pleasantly tucked away in bed. (I also had to work the next morning, so that also explains why I was not going to the sexy party.) I woke up just as he was locking the door to this conversation:

Ext. South Central Neighborhood - Night

A stylish young black man locks the door to the heavy iron screen door on an olive green and red tile apartment building. ERIC (25), is somewhat of a hipster, but not the obnoxious kind so we can forgive him for this association. He also likes boys. Like, a lot. That's important to the story. Two young ghetto girls dressed like hookers approach him.

You locking up?

Um, yeah.

Where you going?

To a friend's house.
(Ed. Note, Wisely not
mentioning the sexy party)

Eric starts walking towards the bus stop. The girls follow him, wobbling a bit in their high heels, obviously intoxicated. (Ed. note. This was all I heard. Meanwhile I was panicking, thinking he had been talking to my landlady. I'm probably not allowed to have guests for this long, since she pays the water bill. But I went back to sleep shortly after my panic attack. What follows is the story Eric told me later on.)

What's your name?


My name's Janae, but everyone
calls me Little Vicious.

And everyone calls me Baby Vicious.

Eric tries not to snicker under his breath and keeps walking.

You cute. I would totally
fuck you.


Oooh gurl, me too. I
would lay it on you.

That's nice. No thanks, though.

What's the matter? Do you
like boys or something?

Is it that obvious?

That's ok. We like other
girls sometimes.

Yeah, we even have gay

BABY VICIOUS takes out her cell phone to show Eric pictures of their gay friend.

Yeah he's cute too. I
would totally lay it on
him if he weren't gay.

We could call him, and
hook you two up if you want.

That's ok. I actually have
to go. Nice talking to you.

Bye Eric, sexy!

A shiny old school cadillac pulls up to the sidewalk blaring a repetitive bassline so loud it shakes the foundation of the olive green apartment building. Baby and Little Vicious squeal and teeter over to the car. Eric walks faster. He may be African American, but he's afraid of black people.

That story makes me so happy for some reason. I get hit on all the time here also. But in the five years since I've known Eric, I've never heard him being so brazenly propositioned by females. He's just so out of his element here in the ghetto. We both are, I suppose. But that's not the reason I've decided to move. I'm a big girl now, and I think I deserve a big girl apartment. One that has a separate bedroom and living space. An apartment in which I can actually fit a whole couch instead of just my big blue comfy chair. Somewhere I can have friends over, or flying spaghetti monster-willing, an actual party without having strangers sitting on my bed. It would also be nice to not have people be afraid to come visit me like my sister-in-law who was genuinely nervous to bring my then six-month-old nephew to visit. I would love to have a place that has an actual heater and air conditioner so it's not miserable six months out of the year. Somewhere with a full size refrigerator that isn't just barely bigger than my microwave. Ideally it will be somewhere with my own washer and dryer, and an easy parking situation for both me and any guests I might have. I don't want to have to commute longer than 10 minutes to work. That's the big thing. And I also don't want roommates. Overall, I don't think it's too much to ask for. I just wish moving wasn't such a pain. Let the apartment hunt begin!

So long, South Central. It's been real. Real what, I don't know. But real nonetheless.

Thursday, January 27, 2011

Angus, Thongs, and Full-Frontal Ranting

I'm so over thongs. Not that I was under them really. I just don't see what the big deal is. They're uncomfortable, for one thing. Basically a voluntary permanent wedgie. Which is fine if you're into that I guess. But my biggest problem with thongs is that they fail to achieve their primary purpose: to eliminate the dreaded underwear line. (I refuse to use the word 'panty' *shudder* or VPL since I loathe acronyms that you end up having spell out anyway. Why waste the time in the first place? I'm looking at you, Rachel Ray with your EVOO). I'd say 60% of the time, you can still tell the wearer is wearing a thong. It morphs into 'visible thong line' which to me is more embarrassing than people knowing you're wearing full, comfy underwear (I don't mean granny panties, but a little coverage is way better than none at all).

And yet this girl was worried about a visible panty line.
(It killed my soul to google 'pictures of thongs.' I wouldn't recommend it)

Thongs often stick out of the top of your pants, and if you're wearing a dress, it's often noticeable as well, depending on the fabric in question. The lines just go around your hips instead of under your tush. And why does everyone freak out so much about a visible underwear line anyway? Does it affect them in the slightest? There are children starving in Africa among other places and we're worried about panties? *shudder* At least we can afford panties! *shudder* So be grateful that we have enough disposable income that we don't have to go commando (which for me is completely out of the question. Unsanitary and even more uncomfortable). Speaking of disposable income, thongs tend to be more expensive than regular underwear too. What's up with that? Less material, lighter weight for shipping, and yet more moolah just for a fancy-looking wedgie. Boooo. I can understand thongs when it comes to sexy time. Because they're decorative rather than functional and are usually discarded fairly early on into the festivities. But as for day to day undergarments, the thong is kaput!

Thong despisers of the world, unite!

Tuesday, January 25, 2011

Shameless Self-Promotion!

I completely agree with Cake Betch of the Hot Mess Chronicles, that a single positive comment on my blog will make my entire day. Hell, any comment sends me over the moon. So imagine my delight and amazement when I discovered that the aforementioned and cheekily-pseudonymed Cake Betch passed along to me the Stylish Blogger Award! I humbly and respectfully accept with a single out-of-character YEE HAW! Huzzah and good fortune!

Go me! I'm stylish!
Who'da thunk?

There are also some rules that go with this award:

1. Thank and link back to the person who gave this award to you.
I'd like to thank Ms. Betch for this award, as well as God for inspiring her to give it to me. He really does work in mysterious ways. (That was ironic, in case I wasn't being subtly snarky enough for you).

2. Share 7 things about yourself

- I am extremely lazy and would rather sit at home by myself in my pjs than actually go out and do something fun. That being said, I did actually go on a solo two month backpacking trip through Europe with only a school-sized backpack, and then did two and a half weeks through Australia. Not sure what convinced me to get off my ass, but I did it.

- I play the piano and the flute, but very poorly. I've recently discovered that my true musical talent lies not with my a cappella group, the oft-mentioned Sally Tomatoes, but playing the keyboard for Rock Band 3 in the recently formed band, Hatchetface (and by recently I mean last night me, the Bean and the Bean's boyfriend rocked Studio City with our renditions of Radiohead, the Beach Boys, and the Cure. We're nothing if not eclectic).

The muse of Hatchetface.

- I don't like being touched. I'm the opposite of a hugger. I don't even like to shake hands. I flinch when people even graze me by accident. When I studied abroad in France, every time we had to do that cheek-kissing greeting thing, I experienced an internal hissy fit. So. Awkward. The only people I will hug are my mom, my four nieces and my nephew. And no, I was never abused or anything, I just like my personal dancing space. Unless the magic is about to happen, and in that case, I make exceptions (especially my intended is of brawny, Jew-fro'd Canadian descent.)

- I am also not an animal lover. You may think that this is crazy and who doesn't love animals, but I'll tell you that the answer is me. My parents have a dog and two cats that I enjoy, but other than that, I really don't care about pets. They're expensive, smelly, messy, and entail way too much responsibility. It's like having kids that never learn how to take care of themselves eventually. I'm not a fan of zoos or other animal parks. I'm not saying I hate animals. I just refuse to watch Animal Planet, and I get pissed off at dog owners who don't pick up the poop. They're just not worth the trouble.

- I love television. Everyone loves television, or they love to say they never watch television in that pompous tone even though they secretly indulge in the Jersey Shore on occasion. But I really, honestly, truly love television. I watched far too much of it as a kid, which may have seemed like a waste of time to a lot of you, and most likely contributed to my lifelong battle with flubberness, but every second of tv watched I was learning. Learning for the day that I would become the next great sitcom writer. No one would know my name, but everyone would be quoting my lines. And that's enough for me.

Speaking of which...pickles sound super good right now.

- Speaking of flubberness, I have the most crazy random cravings. If you spend at least one hour with me, you'll be treated to a barrage of rapid-fire cravings. "I want cheesecake." Five minutes later, "Ooooh pickles!" Five seconds later, "DINTY MOORE BEEF STEW!" I'll get cravings for things I don't even like sometimes. Like beer. Every now and then a beer just sounds good, even though I hate the damn beverage.

- I tend to be a very negative and judgmental person. But I like to think it's part of my charm ; ) In real life I'm actually quite perky.

3. Award 15 recently discovered great bloggers

I don't know if I follow fifteen, but I will definitely award the ones I make it a priority to read as often as I can keep up. These people inspire me and brighten my day. They make me feel connected to a network of other silly, random nutbags instead of just standing alone like the cheese with strong odors and opinions. They sometimes take time out of their busy blogging schedules to read Sporadic Sporkitudes and for that, I salute them (in no particular order)!

TB @ Year 31
Christopher @ Netflix Stream
Romany @ Romblog

4. Contact these bloggers and tell them about the award.

Actually, no I don't think I will. If they want the award, they have to read this and claim it for themselves. Because I'm lazy. So I apologize for the chain letter aspect of this thing, but admit it. It's an honor just to be nominated. I also have more friends I'd like to nominate, but seeing as they haven't posted in at least 4 months and probably never even read blogs anymore, I guess I'll have to pass on them. There were also a few that don't need my help or a cute little award to bolster their self-esteem, so I took them down a peg too. DENIED!

Sunday, January 23, 2011

The Bad Writers Club

One of my favorite subjects to write about is how much I hate writing. Actually that's a lie. I don't exactly hate it, I just never seem to do it. How can someone who claims to love something so much never get around to actually doing it? It's one of life's great conundrums. Ever since I graduated from school, I've had no one to hold me accountable for writing. I need deadlines, structure, and pressure from external influences. That's how this blog came about. But now that work has been crazy and I haven't had a lot of free time, it's been so easy just to watch Saturday Night Live on my Netflix, drink a pink lemonade vodka tonic (a cocktail I invented and call WHITE DIAMONDS!! which is a 30 Rock reference and not an homage to Elizabeth Taylor) and go to bed early.


Luckily, the other day I was purging my spam e-mails (as I am wont to do when not writing), and I discovered a notice from (which is not a dating site even though it totally sounds like anonymous kinky sex). They send me junk mail all the time because I'm too lazy even to unsubscribe. If you've never heard of it, it's how I discovered the Sally Tomatoes, my a cappella singing group which kicks complete and total ass. Whatever you're interested in, there's a group for that. It's great for when you just move to a city and don't know anyone and therefore have nothing to do. Usually the e-mails are about groups I have no interested in. Like the West Coast Custom Grill Enthusiasts Club, or the Batty Old Ladies Knitting and Competing over Grandchildren's Accomplishments, or the Skanky Sluts in Tiny Cocktail Dresses who Get Drunk on Smirnoff Ices and Say WOO a Lot. But this group was called the Bad Writers Club for LA Television writers. Whoa (not woo)! That's me! It's for writers with bad habits. Like not writing. Or not finishing what you start. Or getting distracted like a kitten with a bit o' string. I have all of those bad habits! These are my people!


So even though I'm no longer a joiner by nature, after having burned myself out on extra-curricular activities in high school trying desperately to get into college, I joined the ranks of the Bad Writers. I might as well, seeing as I am their Queen, Pope, and Magistrate. Today is my first meeting with them at a "Coffee and Bitch" session in Westwood. But now that today is today, I'm kind of feeling over it already. After a long week which I can only describe with the terms, "Witness Protection," "Saudi Princess," and "Tila Tequila," I just want to retreat into Saturday Night Live (my current obsession and future goal to be a part of, whether it's host, cast member, head writer, sporadic contributing writer, or even just audience member). But the number one reason I don't want to go is because parking is a bitch in Westwood. I used to work there, so I know. And I won't go somewhere if I know parking sucks. Even on Sunday when I think the meters don't apply.

It's a rare occasion that I get to type these words.

So being lazy is preventing me from going to a meeting about lazy people. I'm procrastinating the meeting of Procrastinators Anonymous. I'll probably end up going because I made such a big deal out of the Bad Writers Club and how this is just the thing to get me off my ass and start writing. And I'd hate to disappoint my public (*waves condescendingly).

Tuesday, January 18, 2011

What's the Opposite of an Ode?

Whatever it is, I'd like to write the opposite of an ode to beer. Beer is gross. One whiff and I get bitter beer face so bad I'm literally afraid it will freeze that way and I'll be stuck with a twisted, screwed up mouth and a scrunched up nose and eyebrows for life. Once I tried to take a sip of my friend's brother's super dark ale and nearly threw up in his authentic souvenir German stein. I hate beer. I know everyone says it's an acquired taste, like coffee or wine. But I fail to see the purpose in an acquired taste. Why bother acquiring it if the process is so yucky? Now I understand that some people require coffee just to survive. And though it took me several months of living in France, I finally understand why people like wine (red anyway. White is just a waste of time.)


I drank my way through Europe, sampling the best beers that Munich, Prague, and Brussels had to offer. I was determined to acquire that taste so I could be a normal college student. Blech, blech, and more blech (with the exception of Belgian cherry beer. Droooool...) I made it all the way to the Guinness Brewery in Dublin, where I gave beer one last ultimatum: If I didn't like it by Ireland (one of the last stops on my trip), I was giving up for good. And sure enough, after touring the factory (and learning that eggs are the single best cure for a hangover, thanks Guinness!), I went up to their sky bar for my free (well, included in the extravagant ticket price) pint. Dirt. Dirt and poo was all I tasted. So screw you beer! Also, it has a ton of calories (not that I really care about that), and it takes a lot of it to really take an effect (expensive and inefficient).

But last night when me, the Bean, and the Bean's boyfriend went out on the town (and by town I mean the Universal City Walk), we came across a beer garden. And while I loathe the sight, smell, and taste of beer, I love what it symbolizes: hanging out with your friends, relaxing over a pint. And anything consumed outside tastes better for some reason. Plus, it was happy hour. Three fifty a glass? Happy hour indeed! We had some time to kill between getting frozen yogurt (sidebar, I am the queen of Yogurtland), and going to see the Green Hornet (more on that later). So we decided to go for it. I ordered a Belgian Wheat Heffeweizen (I think), simply because the description mentioned something about bananas, vanilla, and cloves, and that it was 7% alcohol (I'm all for more bang for your buck). And you know what? It wasn't terrible. I didn't get bitter beer face. I didn't love it, but I didn't want to regurgitate my digesting froyo either. So, progress. I should also mention I was able to stand Bud Light with the lime juice already in it. It tasted like water and from what I understand, doesn't count as beer.

So yes, I celebrated Martin Luther King, Jr. day with an exercise in tolerance. And while I still don't really like beer, I do like the way it makes you feel. As with wine, for some reason it gives you a happy, warm feeling. You appreciate everyone and everything around you. Not in a sloppy, "I love you, man" kind of way (at least in moderation). But still, it enhances the good times. Unfortunately, it had been a really long time since I'd had any alcohol, and frozen yogurt does not a substantial dinner make. So that 7% kind of hit me harder than expected and by the time we walked to the theater, I was laughing hysterically and awkwardly cha-cha'ing to the crappy world music being performed on the promenade. It was quite a performance, if I do say so myself.

Pretty good poster actually.

And now, on to the somewhat rushed and vague review (I have to finish getting ready for work. I just felt bad that I went so long without blogging.) THE GREEN HORNET!!!! I had been so excited about this project ever since I first heard that Seth Rogen was attached a few years ago. I love him as a writer and I thought he would make an interesting choice as an action hero (since Pineapple Express, like Bud Light with Lime, doesn't quite count). I was also stoked to hear that Michel Gondry was directing. Another unusual choice, and who would have ever paired those two up as a team? Anyway, the whole reason I got scammed by this extra company was that they were advertising for background players for the Green Hornet. Any chance to catch a glimpse of my beloved Seth was worth the exorbitant sign up fee. But that didn't exactly work out and I developed a slight resentment for the Green Hornet (even though it was just a pawn in Actorsonset's nefarious scheme).


When I finally saw the trailer (after the film was pushed back a few months, not boding well for its quality), I was severely disappointed. It looked really stupid, honestly. And not in a good way. Britt Reid's sidekick Kato seemed like such a horrific racial stereotype (which probably wouldn't have bothered me as much if it was genuinely funny). And I just didn't buy Seth Rogen as basically a male Paris Hilton. But after reading The Sassy Curmudgeon's surprisingly good review, I decided to take a chance. I rarely see movies in the theater, so this was a big deal. I trust Una, and Seth has rarely let me down before.

As for the movie itself, I think it helped that I was still a bit tipsy from my Heffeweizen. It took a while to really get going, and only in the last half of it did I really laugh out loud. But homeboy looks startlingly good in a suit, even if I maintain that he looked better 30 pounds heavier. The relationship between Kato and Britt was adorable and complex, even gleefully addressing the unintentional homoerotic subtext a few times. And as much as I love Seth, it was really the Kato show. Britt didn't really do anything except bankroll the operation and be snarky. He was more often the damsel in distress than the hero. Cameron Diaz was just awful, and her character seemed to serve only as conflict between the guys, and as exposition for the plot. And while Christopher Waltz was amazing in Inglorious Basterds, he was a bit wasted in this. He only appeared in a few scenes, and his whole bit about not being scary enough as a bad guy was underdeveloped. He had such potential as a supervillain, but really just seemed to phone it in. But he did have one of the best lines, "I'm UNGASSABLE!!" There were some great action sequences, but since I really only cared about the dialogue and the characters, I was perfectly 'whelmed.' A few great lines, clearly improvised, but for the most part, it seemed a little superficial. I know it's not trying to be more than an action comedy loosely based on an old timey radio show. But it had the potential for a lot of heart.

I think I'd give it a solid 5 or a 6. Maybe more because I am hopelessly devoted to Seth, even if he is engaged (*heart breaks). But the point is, beer is still gross.

Thursday, January 6, 2011

Zombie Hutch

I didn't want to leave my last angry, whiney, and worst of all generic post up at the top of the blog for this long, so I'll just write a quick explanation as to why I've been so MIA lately.

Hutch is now...a zombie. You may send flowers and donations in her name to the charity of your choice. She died of complications following a brutal month-long battle with what seemed like the common cold, only with super-duper powers of resistance, soul-sucking, voice-stealing, and mind-numbing. As far as doctor's can tell, she choked on a globule of mucous and never recovered. This unfortunate incident was made even more tragic as, despite her death, Hutch lives on. Slowly dragging, making strange gargling throat sounds, waving her arms spastically (a trait that carried over from her short but profound life).

Hutch as portrayed by an Asian lesbian
in the upcoming bio-pic "Zombie Hutch:
If she were an Asian lesbian"
It's a reimagining. Like the Wiz.

The most devastating thing about her passing and yet not passing, is that she no longer has the energy or brain power to create words, much less the motor function to sit down at a laptop and type out witty platitudes like "Beware of exposed vajayjay." Her massive and merry band of followers have scarcely had the strength to go on without their daily (sometimes weekly) dose of Sporadic Sporkitudes.

While Zombie Hutch has shown no interest in consuming the brains in others, she has had the pleasure of passing on this super-strain of cold to others, including family, friends, and co-workers (who may or may not have started it first). So beware if you hear shuffling, Queen Latifah in Last Holiday pre-makeover heels, the nose-blowing that strongly resembles a classic mustang engine firing up, or the asthmatic donkey-like voice as she attempts to go about her human job as a customer service associate. In this position she is able to infect a vast sum of unsuspecting customers who are clearly unaware that they are being serviced by a slowly decomposing corpse. One such client was even gracious enough to provide grapefruits to Zombie Hutch's office, in an effort to cure her and her fellow undead co-workers. They were delicious, but the violent strain lives on in the former blogger and couch potato-enthusiast.

Here she comes in her spiffy but ill-fitting suit and working-mom heels! For the love of god, save yourselves!!!!!!!!! (Might I recommend bathing in Purell and Airborne?)

But seriously you guys. So much mucous. But hopefully I'll fall into a routine at some point with this job and being undead, and I'll resume my regularly scheduled BS-ing.

Sunday, January 2, 2011

Allow me to rant a bit...

Today has just sucked (other than spending the first part of it with my wonderful Mama Hutch and fellow gang members). I feel like whining because I should be ironing my new suit and I think I'll avoid that by throwing a colossal hissy fit. A hissy fit, in list format.

1. My throat feels like "death shat on me." (Thanks to my friend Kirsten for that little nugget.)

2. I'm still achey and weak from this dragged-out cold, but I don't have insurance so I'm hoping it's not something more serious than laryngitis.

3. I have no voice because I used what was left of it debating with my dad last night about heteronormative gender roles and feminism. It was already going, and now it's gone. And I have to go to work tomorrow and spend a large portion of the day rasping into the phone.

4. My plane was late, and check-in/security took way longer than usual.

5. Confession: the seat belts on airplanes just barely fit me. I am that reviled, disgusting creature who is so large, she will soon probably be asked to purchase an additional seat which I so can't afford. It's humiliating fighting with the seat buckle, just barely getting it to close and then have it snap open again. When I switched to the seat next to me, it closed just fine. So it wasn't me! But in the meantime, this was mortifying. It's like the time I couldn't get the seatbelt on a roller coaster to close and they had to stop the whole ride to help me. My face was bright red and sweating from the effort. Kevin Smith, I feel your pain. Pray you never have this problem and stick with your new year's resolutions.

6. Because I still am harboring this cold like a fugitive, my ears still refuse to pop, giving me a massive headache and echoing in my ears.

7. Baggage claim took forever. Taxi line took forever. It's 39 degrees in Burbank, not exactly the kind of weather you want to stand out in a thin, joke of a pea coat.

8. When I arrived at work to pick up my car, they told me they almost towed it. Wonderful, thanks for the heart attack, security.

9. Thankfully Stan started (which he doesn't like to do after several days of being neglected), but then when I got out of the front gate, this ditzy soccer mom in an SUV backed into my bumper, literally all up in Stan's grill. I honked at her, but she claimed she couldn't see me. Well you can't see something if you're not looking, honey. Luckily this was like 1 mile an hour and neither us, nor our vehicles were harmed. There will probably be an incident report tomorrow morning waiting for me since it took place on company property, but we didn't want to deal with the hassle.

10. I was so shaken from the accident that I almost rammed into someone else when turning onto the street. And I never am that careless. I hate being honked at. I take it way too personally.

11. So I get home and it's 54 degrees in my apartment and my heater is barely good for raising the temp 3 or 4 notches. Ffffff-reezing!

12. My friend is coming to stay with me for a couple of days until she finds an apartment. I'm happy to have her, but I fear that I will just be a big, old, frozen solid block of crankypants who can't talk and can't listen because her ears have still not popped. Not to mention, I'll be working like crazy to prove that I'm not a slacker at my new job. And there are dishes in the sink and trash piling up and I really don't have the energy to deal with them right now.

13. Oh, I'm still depressed about my grandfather's funeral during which Papa Hutch gave a heart-wrenching eulogy that haunts me to this day.

14. OH and Mama Hutch and I went suit shopping on New Year's Eve, which was miserable because I'm two different sizes and completely out of proportion in many areas. Shopping for something specific as a plus-sized woman at her holiday heaviest is not fun, let me tell you. You'd think every store would carry a plain black suit in every single size, but nope. No they don't. And even with extensive tailoring, the ones I ended up with are both snug and pouchy.

15. One final thing: I'm exhausted because I kept having to wake up to go pee in the middle of the night because I was good and drank buckets of water to get over this black death. Whoever said "Drink plenty of fluids" clearly had an iron bladder the size of the hoover dam.

Ok, I think that's everything that's irritating me. Other than fighting the scam website which totally screwed me out of 200 bucks and AT&T for charging me a massive late fee when they never sent me a bill in the first place. Bollocks bollocks bollocks. 2011 was supposed to be different, Universe. You better get'cho shit together. On the plus side, I did spot a little kid wearing a tin foil hat at the airport, presumably so aliens couldn't read his mind. My team.

Hopefully I'll be in a much better mood for my next post, but in the meantime, Happy Friggin' New Year.