There you have it.

When I wrote about the first fire alarm in my building, I didn't think things could get any more uncomfortable. Let's discuss Friday evening (why do these kids love fire?).

I was in the shower, absorbed in deep thought and deep conditioning, when I heard the familiar screeching of the fire alarm. I was not let a little smoke ruin a perfectly good shower, so I finished, put some clothes on (respectable clothes, this time) and went outside to wait for the fire department. They came. They left. It was nothing. Now here comes the fun part. It was Friday night dinner for the Jewish students, and as a Person Somewhat In Charge, I was asked to tell them to wait until everyone else went in the building before they could enter. As I shout this directive to the Chosen Children, a young man begins to argue with me. He said the food was getting cold. I told him I was sorry, but he would have to wait. He said that they were already running behind. Again, quite sorry, but tough break.

Then, he called me an anti-Semite.

Pardon?

Me, queen of the JAPs, eater of unleavened bread, an anti-Semite? Was this kid not wearing his glasses? Curly hair. Wide hips. Commanding ass. All signs point to JEW. I was so stunned that I couldn't even laugh until about twenty minutes afterwards. I had no idea postponing dinner for another three minutes would elicit this reaction. I can't even imagine the bloodshed that would have ensued had I tried to tell them to wait five minutes.

Apparently, God's Chosen People are not God's Patient People.

I don't do break-ups

After my most recent bout of crazy, my insurance company assigned me some sort of mental health case worker. I don't know what that means or how it happens, but gosh, do I feel special! I can only surmise that the cost of me offing myself is an expense Aetna would rather not incur. Anywho, "Brad" tells me I should be seeing a new shrink. Fine. The problem is, how do I break up with my old one?

I wish there was some sort of manual for break-ups. Do I have to call them and tell them it's over, or can I just cancel all of my appointments and never show up again? Am I supposed to apologize? Tell him it was good while it lasted? Do I still call on birthdays?! I just have no idea.

I thought about sending a card, because that's just what I do. I'm a card-sender. Unfortunately, Hallmark doesn't make a "parting ways with your mental health professional" greeting card. I thought about a singing telegram, but I don't think he would find it funny. Cookies? Flowers? Empty pill bottles filled with love notes? If someone would just write a book or something that tells me how to part ways, I would be really appreciative.

My favorite!

It's impossible to be in a bad mood when you watch this.

Enjoy!

Captain Obvious strikes again!

Since I watch a lot of shitty "family programming" on tv, I see a lot of shitty ads for family-oriented products. This, good friends, is by far my favorite product ever marketed to the 2-kids-a-dog-and-a-white-picket-fence demographic:

I cannot imagine a product more suitable for the most stoned of stoners than this, the Glade light show. The commercials show little Timmy thanking his mom for buying him such a nifty toy! Now, if Glade actually wanted to make money, they would air commercials aimed at college kids. Covers the pot smell? Check. Endless fun and entertainment? Check. Consumers with disposable incomes that allow them to waste their money on such useless pieces of shit? CHECK!

I thought it was a pretty ridiculous concept when I thought it was dispensing pine cone smell. Not only is it making the room smell like fake forest, but now I have to watch the lights change too?

This particular one is "Vanilla & Cream" scented. My first instinct is to vomit. My second is to laugh. My third? Get stoned and take this puppy for a spin.

Captain Obvious, at your service

I would be such a productive member of society if the Internet didn't exist in my life. I would get my homework done! I would have time to see friends! I could (gasp) go outside! Imagine that...a life devoid of a keyboard. It would be strange, that's for sure.

Right now, I am supposed to be writing an essay. I decided to update my blog instead. Why complete something that I need to have done by tomorrow and get a good night's sleep when I can peck away at my keys until sunrise? I am so connected to my computer, I feel the need to name my first child Mozilla. I need computer detox: no emails, no AIM, and certainly no Facebook (the root of all evil in the world...such wonderful evil).

Before I forget, I want to pass on a little kernel of knowledge to you all: many airlines no longer stock barf bags (oh sorry, "air sickness receptacles"). I learned this the hard way. I didn't get sick, but the kid in the row in front of me certainly did. Homeslice started to yak, and with nothing to barf into, was resigned to throwing up on the seat and himself. I had the great fortune of not only listening to him heave, but then smelling vomit for the duration of the trip. I am pretty sure the kid ate a trash sandwich with a sewage milkshake for dinner. Foul. In conclusion, if you or someone you know is about to vomit on a plane, plan accordingly.

March Madness

I have a gift. When it comes to the opposite sex, I am able to ignore fatal flaws (red flags) obvious to the rest of the universe for the sake of getting whatever it is I am looking for.

Last night, while frequenting my favorite little corner-of-hell bar, I ran into a few corporate types. They were older than the guys I normally date by about 25 years. (Let's face it, some of these guys were old enough to be my dad.) Red flag number one was when Old Guy With Tie introduced himself to me by saying "Hi, I'm Old Guy with a Tie. I have been married for seven years and I am looking for an affair." Hmmm. I should have backed away slowly, as if I had just angered a large hippo. Instead, I told him to buy me a drink. Red flag number two came when he started hugging me. I like hugs, I thought. This is fine! Apparently, the drinks he bought me allowed me to forget that hugs from strangers with wandering hands who hang out in college bars playing Golden Tee are not ok. May I never have an old man's hands on my ass again. Amen.