vampire knees

What a nerd this guy was. I sat and stared at him, though he couldn’t see me staring. He sat one row ahead of me on the other side of the aisle, so I was back and to his left just a bit. I watched him and thought to myself, *snicker*. He sat there, wearing, and I’m not even kidding, one of those doctor’s masks. The disposable kind. I felt a little bit badly for my imaginary snickering. Because, really, he may have had a kidney transplant recently, or maybe just had some sort of immune system problems, but I just didn’t think so. I guess I just really thought he was a hypochondriac, so even though I felt just a little bit badly doing it, I still thought, *snicker*.

He had his laptop perched precariously on knees that looked like they had never actually seen the sun. I began to think of them as Vampire Knees, but the beige plaid shorts that came just to the knee-tops didn‘t help the vampire image really get completely fleshed out. I saw an iPod resting on the beige plaid, in front of the laptop, and decided it was probably playing the soundtracks of cheesy 1950s sci-fi movies that were billed as electronic tonalities rather than music in order to avoid the hassle of the musicians’ union.

An external hard drive dangled off his lap, and hung against his lower leg by the USB cable. It had a Volcom sticker on it whose edges were peeling back a little. I suspected that he idly picked at the edges as he wrote code or some such nonsense. Huh. The Volcom sticker threw me a little, as this guy didn’t strike me as a skater type. So I worked it into my scenario, thusly: he must have a stoner computer hacker friend who maybe shared his sad little nerdy apartment and liked to annoy him by sticking skater stickers on his junk.

As he shifted a bit, to adjust the mask, the laptop teetered precariously on the Vampire Knees. He managed to right it before it toppled, but in doing so, the mask hooked on his digital watch and the ear loop ripped clean off. And I laughed. Out loud. Without intending to. A sort of a “bwah haha!“ He turned and looked at me. And I thought, “fuck, I’m a bitch.” I smiled at him, hoping it didn’t come off as a sneer, and shrugged my shoulder as if to say, “yeah, flying sucks, huh?” He glared a little bit and turned around to examine the mask. I wondered if he’d try to fix it or just go back to whatever code he was writing. I actually had no idea if he was writing code, or really what "writing code" even meant, but it is what fit into my scenario.

I decided that I didn’t need to know if he was going to try to fix his mask, and instead went back to my book and my own iPod, which was not playing electronic tonalities, but rather, the Police. And maybe Vampire Knees would be a good name for a band. Or a bar.

© 2008

let's mate organization-speak with bubble talk

If you can...try to imagine all the typical corporate conference-ese coupled with, say, Pig Latin, for instance. So instead of trying to decipher something like, "synergistic randomized logistical support systems", you get something like "inergisticsay andomizedray ogisticallay upportsay ystemssay". Or let's mate organization-speak with bubble talk. You rebemebemeber bubbubble tabalk, ribight? Caban youbou sabay "lobogibistibicabal"? No? Try this: "fribick". See? I knew you could do it.

Anyway. Abanyby Waybay.

I'm at a conference in Washington DC that is being thrown (makes it seem like a party, right?) for military types. Which I? Am not.

And here's the thing about the military. They don't use actual words. They use lingo and jargon along wtih acronyms (acros), abbreviations (abbr.) and word melds (WoMels) (or MelWos, because they don't always go in the same order as one would actually say the words when, like, speaking).

So this is what my day was like (all TWELVE hours of it):

We will be collaboratively creating LoJaks within the OIF/OEF vet communities without regard to the DOD and VA where concerns PTSD and TBI, with the synergystic assistance of the I.A.V.A. and NMFA (pronounced "enemeffay"). We'll use strategic spherically-focused IDot methods coupled with SubPac support and CIAV (pronounced "seeahv") involvement. Once we've implemented this at CentCom and WestPac and KpemraHidaen within the parabolic, eliptical HimBGSELAWienam we can expect to see her head explode. The end.

Oh, except wait, that isn't The End. Right after I got myself tucked into my bed tonight, and finally quieted the MiliSpeak voices? The fire alarm went off.

Parking lot. Pajamas. Wet hair. Yeah-huh.


New label for this post: Fribick

uptight cable knit sweater guy and my boss the ceo

As soon as I walk onto an airplane I fall asleep. Immediately. I’m lucky if I can make it to my seat before lapsing into unconsciousness. Today, I flew from San Diego to Washington DC for a conference, and compounding and complicating this Falling Asleep Issue (because you knew that if there was an Issue it would be compounded and complicated with me, right?) were the following:

a) my flight left San Diego at 6:15 a.m., which meant I had to leave my house at motherf**cker:00 a.m.
b) I have a cold, requiring some fairly substantial doses of cold medicine
c) the line at Starbucks was motherf**king long, and
d) I had a center seat

I made it to DC today, but barely, because these factors came together in the sort of Perfect Storm of Embarrassing Incidents.

There I was, sitting in the center seat between Uptight Cable Knit Sweater Guy and My Boss the CEO. And let me tell you, if ever there was a daythat I did not want to be seated right next to My Boss the CEO? It was today. Because picture me, all ready for a cross-country flight, in my usual iPoding, James Patterson reading, coffee-slurping, Gummi Bear eating way. Totally professional, right? Add to that the Falling Aspleep Issue, being compounded and complicated by the sniffling, coughing and sweating, along with the drinking plenty of fluids and having a human-sized bladder thing, too with all the “excuse me, can I just get by you one more time for the restroom?” along with the head sagging over onto my seatmate.

So after perhaps the third or fourth time that my head lolled down onto Uptight Cable Knit Sweater Guy‘s shoulder, I had the clever idea to put my hair in a ponytail deal, except off to the side a little bit, so that when my head lolled over (because there wasn’t any real hope of being able to keep it from doing so, because of the Falling Asleep Issue) perhaps the ponytail, the sheer mass and bulk of it, would keep my head from slumping over onto Uptight Cable Knit Sweater Guy. This worked really well, but the unintended consequence was that, instead, the massive, bulky ponytail just caused my head to drop right onto My Boss the CEO’s shoulder.

Awesome. Frick.

Oh, and. Apparently? They don’t actually offer any, say...FOOD on these flights anymore. The vegetarian entrée was a chocolate chip cookie that cost me five dollars. Expense account who?

we're getting married and moving into his airstream at pacific beach.

Dear Mom,

I know when I left Colorado for California, you worried that I'd fall in with the wrong people. I know how you worried that I'd be swept up in the big city scene.

Do you remember when I was 16 and was hanging around with that heavy metal band, and I was getting into all that trouble? Do you remember how you lied about my age, said I was 18 and shipped me off to a gigantic pit mine in the Nevada desert for the entire summer to catalog core samples in a 12,000 square foot rodent-infested warehouse, with no protection from the mice (or the Mormon miners) except a Golden Retriever named Jasper?

Oh, you do remember? Yeah, me too.

Well, I've fallen in love with tattoo artist named Aristotle (it's supposed to be ironic). Just try to have an open mind. He's enlightened and brilliant and a real artist. And, Mom? I'm 35 and you can't send me away to work in a gold mine to try to tear us apart the way to did with me and the lead singer of Riff Raff (who, yes, turned out to be gay, as I understand it, but that's neither here nor there, and does not justify your interference in what could have been a true, deep and moving love affair, uh, if he'd have EVER even tried to kiss me).

The thing is, Mom? This time, I'm pretty sure he's probably not even gay. I think. So we're getting married and moving into his Airstream at Pacific Beach.

And, Mom? Can you tell Dad for me? Okay, thanks, bye,

Kate

PS. Actually, those are just pretend tattoo sleeves that my friend, Mary Ann, sent me. None of the above is true, but, also? I don't have that money I owe Dad yet. Could you let him know? Okay, thanks, bye.

PPS. Just to be perfectly clear, the parts where my mom lied about my age and sent me off to gold mine? Totally true. Yeah-huh.

turkey meatballs not turkey testicles

And then the "food" was served. At the front of the buffet line, laying flat on the table, next to the Crystal Light packets, was a hand "calligraphed" menu on a sheet of leftover Christmas paper with a border of holly boughs and chickadees clutching red ribbons. Near the menu, holding a dirty slotted spoon, stood a Bunyanesque woman who looked every bit the school lunch lady, from her sensible black shoes, to her black, poly-blend, elastic-waist pants, to her stained white chef's coat. She was the quintessential Marge, everything except the hairnet, which, as it turns out, is an important piece of the uniform.

The menu included "Real Turkey Balls" which I was relieved to find out described turkey meatballs not turkey testicles. And the "Country Cole Slaw"? It was yellow, but not a yellow that could plausibly be linked back to mustard, but instead, based on the smell, seemed to be the ghastly result of some combination of ginger, cumin and lead-based paint. The dessert, or "desert", as the menu announced, was watermelon, served on the flimsiest, almost transparent, paper plates available. Based on the saturation level of the plates, I surmised that the watermelon must have been placed on said paper plates (now paper pulp) sometime in late February.

I cautiously backed away from the "food" and claimed that I was fasting in order to have blood drawn later that day. The Lunch Lady looked suspicious, but was quickly distracted when the brontosauri became excited upon hearing talk of medical procedures and began regaling me with stories of rolling veins, papery skin and draining goiters.

And then I passed out. And my head exploded.

Okay, yes, fine, I made that part up, but it could have happened. I can picture them all leaning over my lifeless body, a circle of gray-haired heads, with the water-stained acoustic ceiling tiles and flickering fluorescent lights framing them, in a circle above my lifeless, headless body:

Brontosaurus 1: Is she dead?
Brontosaurus 2: Of course she's dead, Jim, her dang head exploded.
Brontosaurus 1 [scratching his grisly gray chin stubble, flakes of dried skin fluttering down onto me]: Last time I got my blood drawn, I got that hot little Vivian at Public Health, and we were there fer what musta been an hour, what with how my veins roll around.
Brontosaurus 2: Heh, yeah, Vivian, mmm mmm. She drained one a my goiters once.
Brontosaurus 1: Vivian, heh.

Lunch Lady: I'm not cleaning this mess up, dang liberals with their exploding heads.

And then I gave a presentation and then they. did. not. donate. Boo-yah.

And also? An equation to answer your questions:

I was not drunk+ it was not a dare + I did not lose a bet + there really was an ass pat + I did not slug the old guy + they did not try to sell me something + yes, my head did explode (squared) + turkey balls - a discussion of rolling veins and goiters = 1 Rotary Club meeting.

an encouraging bump on the elbow and a startling pat on the ass

Choose one:

a) Rotary
b) Kiwanis
c) Elks

I crossed the threshold and was immediately assaulted by ugly and tacky and cheap and crooked and unmatched. My black heels went from a pleasing clack on the cracked linoleum of the drab lobby to a soft shwoosh on the stained, mauve, 1980s-pattern kitchen-type carpet. Four lopsided tables, dressed in ill-fitting wrinkled tablecloths and paper place mats, sat haphazardly here and there as if they were dollhouse furniture set up by the Kindergartener.

There were water-spotted silver forks and knives on either side of the paper place mats and clear plastic dessert forks laid out landscape style at the top of the place mats. The grease-spotted pine green tablecloths hung down to graze the floor on the north and south ends of each table but left the chrome edging and scratched wooden tops of the folding tables slightly exposed, with the thin bent legs fully exposed, east and west. The chairs were hard maroon plastic church basement castoffs, except the ones that were scratched aluminum folding chairs with either FHS or EHS stenciled on their backs.

To say I was overdressed in my taupe, wide-legged plaid trousers, black school boy blazer and black heels would be to strikingly underplay the reality. Surrounded by men whose average age was brontosaurus, and whose average outfit was of the "nothing compliments brown corduroy like plaid flannel and Wal-Mart" school. I was guided to one of the maroon church castoffs at the front table and told that I would be introduced to the other members later. I risked a tentative sip of the lukewarm, slightly tan-colored tap water in the flimsy plastic cup because my throat was beginning to close up. My eyes kept landing on the centerpieces, silk (plastic-y silk) crayola-colored daisies in chipped plastic pots, surrounded by Starburst jelly beans scattered on the table top. I got up to introduce myself to a few members, but was ushered back my maroon castaway seat and reminded that I'd be introduced later.

The meeting was opened with a) a prayer b) a rousing round of God Bless America and Smile and the World Smiles with You (during which I received one encouraging bump in the elbow and a look that said "Sing! Sing with us, young lady!" and one startling pat on the ass and a look saying, "If you're not going to sing, you better be ready to dance on the table.") c) the Pledge of Allegiance and d) a horribly sexist joke that was also may have included references to communist liberals (depending on whether he really said what I think he said).

And then my head exploded. The End.

it would seem that he wasn't full of shit

Dave left his first ever comment yesterday. He claimed that the verification problem in the post below would likely reduce to 1 or 0. But he also said he was full of shit, implying we shouldn't count on it. It would seem that he wasn't completely full of shit (about that).

He emailed this to me this morning after having no luck explaining it to me, with me saying things like, "but what's the thing with the 7s then?" Also? I guess thinking that it might help me understand, he proceeded to graph both equations. And sadly, the only thing I thought when I saw all of this was that Dave knows how to make the symbol for pi in an email.

From Dave:

The original equation is the following sine function. We want to find the first derivative (We do?): the equation for the slope of the curve at x. (Okay, what slope? How does he know there's a curve?)

Notice that when x=0, the slope of x is just a horizontal line (Do you all see a horizontal line in these graphs? Because, me? I don't see any horizontal lines.) , therefore, whatever the equation for the derivative is, it must evaluate to 0 at x. We'll use this fact to check the equation for the derivative. (Yes, I was just thinking that we could check the equation for the derivative that way.)

After looking at Wikipedia, I gathered that you have to solve the combination of two functions, sine(x), and the equation inside, f = 7x - π/2 (I usually look at Wikipedia to find out things like Kal Penn's astrological sign (Taurus) but okay. (And also? When Taurus (Kal Penn) and Libra (me) come together in a love affair it can be like the unification of two halves of a whole, i.e. he completes me, per Yahoo.)

d/dx sin(f) = d/dx f * cos(f)
and
d/dx f = d/dx 7x - π/2 = 7
and putting the two equations together...
7 * cos(7x - π/2) ...

This passes our sanity check: the value of the derivate is 0 when x=0. (Um. Wha...??)

(And then my head exploded. The End.)

Is it vvspurw4? Or wspurwq? Or motherf***ker?*

I am a human being. Even if your effing word verifiers don't believe me.

I've had it with these mothers. Without fail, it takes me three tries to be verified. Always. Unless it takes four. Or fifteen. In the words of Mary Ann (who, ohbytheway, does not verify my humanity in her comment section and still sort of wants to marry me): F-ers.

Is it
a) vrinmnmta
b) vrimmta
c) vnirmta
d) vrawe;rianrlitnlaouvsdlkjfh


Is it
a) vvspurw4
b) vvspurwq
c) wspurwq
d) motherf***ker



Also? There is no rhythm to these words. Even when I know what the letters are, like this one, which clearly says glfqxeep or qlfqxeep or glfqxeep, my fingers? They do not move in this order.

My fingers do not go from q to x or from l to f very easily, but they do go pretty smoothly from fu to ck. So that's good. Because, that's maybe what I'll be leaving in the comment sections of word-verification-enabled blogs from now on. (If I can get past their word verifications.)



Here's my new verification system, compliments of my friend striker:




And probably only Dave will be able to comment now. (Which is a problem because he has never, ever commented.) (Whatever. That's cool.)


*This post was brought to you by Bad Mom whose word verification almost had me ending my comment with "And then my head exploded. The End." on her post today after my third try at being verified as an actual human being didn't yield results.