big fish

2004-08-05 / 10:06 p.m.

I love how there are little inconsistencies in the parts illustrating the Edward's stories. I watched it again tonight, I hadn't seen it since the first time in the theater. I noticed more the second time around.

Vikings.

2004-08-04 / 11:11 p.m.

I started reading Everything you know is wrong today. I've been curious about Russell Kick's books for awhile now. I aimed to read You are being lied to but this is the only one our stupid library system has.

I planned on adding a lenghty update I wrote earlier, but I'm too lazy to go downstairs, plug the floppy drive into the laptop, save it to a disk, and bring it upstairs.

So later I guess.

Psh. Like anyone actually cares.

Ironic day for sushi

2004-08-02 / 10:18 p.m.

Fish ownership is so full of heartbreak. So yeah, those of you who guessed Mr. Swimmypants in the plastic castle with the�um�.fishy teeth(?): you were wrong. The real killer was the stupid ghetto filter in our tank. The opening on it is not big enough to just suck up dirty fishwater into the filter, but also big enough to suck up small guppy. Go figure, that�s some sound design right there�.a filter pipe on a fish tank that can suck up fish.

So after figuring this out, and removing the lifeless corpse of Ajax from the tank, she turned the filter off until she could find something to cover the hole. Unfortunately, the water got icky really quickly, so she took her chances today and turned the filter on while she went out to buy some netting to cover the hole. After all, fish lived alongside the filter for a whole day before anyone fell victim to its current.

�.and then there were two. By the time we got home with the netting, Ajax two had also been filtered. This was a bit unexpected, as AjaxII was a good big larger than his predecessor.

By now, my mother was worried that the water quality was bad. The filter had been non-functional several times, and the water was cloudy. Worse, Mr. Swimmypants was looking the worse for wear. We changed the water once and for all, rigged up the filter so that it was fishproof, but it was too late for Swimmypants. By the time I finished with dinner, he was gone.

So that�s three fish in a couple of days. My mother�s record is looking a little shady. I�ve got high hopes for the last remaining fish though�the kid who still lacks a name. We need something inspired, something that means �survivor� or �strength� or �filterproof.�

Speaking of fish�.

Mom and tried the new Japanese/Korean place near our house, and it was pretty durn good. Not only that, but reasonably priced. I ate more sushi than I ever should have for $9.50. Tasty stuff.

Lame childhood anecdote

2004-08-02 / 10:17 p.m.

When I was a kid, I guess from the time I was about six or so and for many years forward, there was a definite pattern to my evening activities that was formed by my fear of being recruited by my father as the �chef�s assistant�. Around six or seven o�clock, when I would notice my father stirring from his after-work spot on the sofa, I knew to make myself scarce. My father really was an excellent cook; and while I loved the fruits of his labor, the labor itself really wasn�t worth sticking around for. Sadly, while out of sight, I was seldom out of mind as long as there were pots and pans to be unearthed from an inconveniently placed and seriously disorganized cabinet.

�Emily! Come here please.�

�and when beaconed, I had no choice. Dad�a former Green Beret and result of a military upbringing himself�was a firm disciplinarian, and I knew better than to try to avoid heeding the call.

I�m sure I was a helpful assistant in some capacities: I could reach the aforementioned pots and pans from low cabinets not comfortably accessible to people over five feet tall, and I had a good sense of how spicy was �too spicy� for my mother, and was therefore a (very willing) guinea pig. Still, I have no doubt that these evenings of being the �chef�s assistant� were more about my dad giving me crap, and less about assisting. My father was one of those firm believers in giving one�s kids shit to build character�Or resentment? One or the other, I forget which. Anyway.

�We�re making gumbo tonight!�

�Oh yum� I said, trying to sound enthusiastic. I didn�t want to give him reason to torment me more than usual, so I tried to appear as happy as I could about my kitchen servitude. I had been playing this game long enough to know that if I bitched about helping, it would just bring about more work, and possibly a lecture�part of that whole character building thing I assume.

I stood around for a few minutes, while he picked the desired herbs and spices from the shelf and gathered other ingredients out of the refrigerator. Plunking a dewy plastic bag on the countertop, he directed me to de-vein and prepare the shrimp. I gingerly pulled one of the large pink and gray crustaceans from the bag. There were not only veins to be removed, but also antennae, legs, and beady little black eyes.

�I don�t know how to do it, Dad� I replied, hoping that my ignorance would excuse me from the task, but he just scoffed and answered in his typical gruff manner:

�Use your brain, Emily. You�ve eaten shrimp before; you know what parts you don�t eat. Take the legs, shell, eyes, and antenna off, and then pull this vein out� while indicating to the nerve cord running down the length of the animal. He deftly prepared the first shrimp, while I watched, then scooted the bag closer to me and told me to get started. I have to give him some credit: tasks such as these made me into the relatively non-squeamish woman I am today; but somehow the nine year-old version of me, plucking eyeballs off ugly sea animals didn�t appreciate the values that were being instilled in me.

After a few minutes, I was deemed �slow as Christmas� and my dad returned to the sink to work alongside me. Once the shrimp were lying prepared�immobile and without sensory organs�in a colander, I returned to standing out of the way, and waited for my next commission. Without looking up from the pot of rice he was starting, he said:

�Get me the French chef�s knife�

�The what?�

�The French chef�s knife�

�Which knife is that?�

�You�ve seen me use it a million times. It�s the big one I�m going to use to cut these vegetables� while indicating to onions, peppers, and garlic sitting on our big wooden cutting board.

It should be known that at the time, we owned about four thousand cooking utensils, and half of them were knives. Furthermore, �big� and �used to cut vegetables� could probably describe about half of them. While he undoubtedly did need the French chef�s knife, he was obviously purposely giving me grief at this point.

I plodded over to the knife drawer. The knife drawer was a nightmare for anyone with the slightest bit of common sense, narrow and unorganized; it was pretty much just a sliding pit of sharp objects haphazardly tossed in. With a silent game of �eeny, meeny, miney, mo� (and if you correctly know how to spell the title of this childhood rhyme, please enlighten me), I pulled a knife from the drawer that was big, and also looked like it could easily cut an onion.

�That isn�t the French chef�s knife� my father said, not looking up from the pot of rice.

I went back to the drawer of very sharp objects, and pulled out another.

�The French chef�s knife isn�t serrated�

Thanks, Dad. That would have been a great initial clue to discovering the great French chef�s knife. Another try resulted in simply another huff, and the declaration that we were going to be there all night if I didn�t �sharpen up�. An older, more smart mouthed me would have made a pun with that one, but at the time, I just wanted to find the damn knife and be done with it.

After various tries, I choose the correct one. We still own that very same knife, and I will never forget the name for it. Lesson two for the evening. Henceforth, I could correctly identify a French chef�s knife, and mercilessly tear the eyes of shrimp. These were valuable life skills, I should have been glad for my father�s gracious teachings.

As the kitchen filled with the delicious and spicy tang of Cajun cooking, I continued to fetch various pots, pans, utensils, and ingredients according to the authoritarian orders barked out by my father. Big pot, small pot, trivet, Tabasco, fork, cayenne pepper, all the way to a fresh sprig of mint from the herb garden in the backyard.

�Mint?� I asked incredulously.

�It�s for my drink, but don�t question me again until you�ve been promoted past �chef�s assistant�� he answered.

A true lover of eating, and especially spicy food, I was happy to be called away from setting the table to taste a �chef�s bite.� Dad held out a spoon of the fire-red broth, and said �blow on it, it�s hot.� Taking the spoon, I smelled, and then tasted the sample. Seconds after putting the spoon to my lips, my eyes were watering, my nose running, and my lips numb. I had to admit, it was tasty, but was a little strong for even a spice enthusiast such as myself.

�You think it�s too spicy for your mother?�

Working to regain my composure after the five alarm test bite, I vigorously nodded, indicating that yes, it was too spicy for my mother, and was probably hazardous to anyone pregnant, nursing, blonde, northern, sane, or with heart problems.

Dad just laughed, �That broad needs to toughen up anyway� as he spooned the lethal gumbo over the rice.

To the moon, Alice.

2004-07-31 / 4:27 p.m.

This morning, I woke up from a particularly vivid dream. While I only remember parts of it now, it was still really fresh in my mind when I woke up. As I brushed my teeth, I decided not to post it in my journal. As I recall there was something too weird in it for me to want to publish, and it wasn't very interesting anyway. I do remember one part of the dream, and the more I think about it, the more I realize that it's a really common event in my dreams. I've had several dreams where I've hit someone--either out of anger or self defense--but I can never throw a decent punch in my dreams. I'll miss my mark, or end up just smacking them rather than popping them squarely with my fist as intended. Any eager psychoanalysts out there want to guess at the significance?

Finished Lamb: The Gospel According to Biff, Christ's Childhood Pal today. It was really good, and I hope to write more about it later. Because of the subject matter (the life of Christ) the end wasn't as funny as the rest of the book--I guess it's hard to make good jokes out of a crucifixion, but the book overall was just hilarious.

Oh, one more quick note...In addition to writing about "Lamb" later, I also need to fill you in on the death of Ajax. The mystery has been solved, and the killer caught.

bored

2004-07-30 / 7:34 p.m.

Sweet crap. It's been awhile since I've been this bored and lonely on a friday night. Is there anyone out there? Hello-hello-ello-lo-lo-lo (read that like there's an echo or something, dig?)

Home improvement

2004-07-30 / 5:28 p.m.

Worked on my grad-school focused resume today; and by working, I mean that I read a handout from the career center, looked at the current version of the resume, and wept for a solid 45 minutes. Anyway, I was deeply inspired by the career center�s help materials, and I shall write this entry employing�often incorrectly�an extraneous number of the (bullshitty) �action verbs for a dynamic resume.�

Coordinated a trip to Lowe�s today to initiate obtaining the necessary equipment to induce my paper lanterns actually emit light. It should be a pretty easy project to assemble; stupider folk than I have constructed tacky lamps out of seashells and the like to make me confident that I can surmount the difficulties and flourish in this venture. I have yet to encounter a long enough bit of cord, though I think that the Ace near my house sells cord by the foot. I bought two switches, and two of the little thingies that you put light bulbs into. There�s that technical jargon coming into play....

Oh, and I have also acquired a very cheap futon for my kickass new dorm room. So if any of you hot male readers are interested in collaborating in some sinning in the coming semester, there will be ample room.

One fish, two fish, red fish, missing fish

2004-07-29 / 7:19 p.m.

There was a message on the machine from my mom, so I called her at her friend's house--she's there watching John Kerry's speech. Plesantries were exchanged, and then she says "did you see the new fish?" So I walk over to the tank, observe the fish, and say: "yeah, he's nice."

... . . . . ... . ..

.. .

.. . . . . .

"He?" she says.

"Yeah, he. Why?"

Apparently my mother bought two fish and added them to the existing two...for those of you lacking good computation skills and/or a majority of your fingers, there should have been four fish total. Only three remain. There is absolutely no trace of Ajax as far as I can tell.

Well, he's no Rusty, that's for sure.

2004-07-29 / 8:39 a.m.

There�s been an addition to our family...two, actually. Yesterday, my crazy mother adopted some fish. I think she�s starting to think realize that she�ll never have any grandchildren, and she�s filling the void with various pets.

So anyway, she got the tank a couple of days ago�sunday I suppose�and yesterday morning I went with her to get the fish. The highlight for me was Joe (no, different Joe) who works in the fish department of the Pet superstore. Joe looks to be about my age, and absolutely adorable. My first interaction with Joe was several days ago when my mother was browsing fish, and he happened to be there again when she went to get the fish. I flirted with Joe with gusto...I was as charming as one can be while conversing over a bin of live crickets ::shudder::. Unfortunately, like all the other guys I�ve tried flirting with lately, Joe didn�t give me a second look; however, he did provide something interesting for me to look at while my mother interviewed several guppy and tetra for the position of official household fish.

So we left said Pet place with some dun aquarium decor and two fish: A �tequila sunrise� guppy and a yeller� one. Mom asks in the car: �What should we name them?� and I let loose with a 10 minute list of possible fish names. Ultimately, she decided to adopt two of my suggestions and combine them...one of which was to give them names of Greek heroes, because the aquarium ornaments we got for them look like Greek ruins. I listed out my favorite sounding names from my copy of Edith Hamilton�s �Mythology.� The other was to give one fish a serious name, and the other something really, incredibly, stupid for a name. And so, my mother is now the proud caretaker of Ajax and Agamemnon Swimmypants (the latter who prefers to be called by his surname (that�s Mr. Swimmypants to you, sir)).

Hillary's visit

2004-07-26 / 8:05 a.m.

And oh what a weekend it was...

That's right, bitches. A good old fashioned weekend recap just like the days of olde (raise your hand if you love extraneous "e's"). A recap that is un�neces�sari�ly looooong, full of errors and run-ons, and no one reads to the end. Cheers!

The �Golden Four� of Marietta Night Life.

Hillary got in Friday night. Factoring in delays and navigating the airport parking deck, we left the airport around 11:30. Hungry and bored, we tried to think of something to do, but it didn't take us long to remember how few and far between good, economical, non-shitty, late night options there were. Furthermore, once you exit the perimeter, options drop by 483920483%. We started from what we knew... what all the lame suburb kids know: the things at home that are always open are Waffle House, WalMart, Kroger, and Steak n' Shake. The Steak n' Shake sign beaconed us from the highway. While supremely shitty, the actual food is probably a step up from Waffle House (depending on location), and poor HVB had barely eaten all day. So we pull in, only to see the parking lot and be reminded of what Friday night at a Steak n� Shake is like....no parking, and enough stupid teenagers to build several armies: one of sluts and jocks, another of angst-y goths, and maybe a small militia of emerging emo kids. I turned the car around faster than you can say �oh mah gawd, let�s get out of here.� We ended up buying supplies at Kroger and happily returning to casa Bliss. Assume moderate tom foolery in Kroger. �Casa Bliss� would make a good name for a sex-n-go motel...but I digress...So we went back to her house, ate, and I ended up going home an hour later. Wal Mart would have topped off the evening nicely (as I was way caffeine buzzed), but her mother stamped that idea out pretty quickly.

She comes bearing gifts!

Yay! A gecko antenna topper from the company that Hillary works for (the company that has a popular gecko as its mascot). Also, Hillary has a barcode font at work. She made me a tee-shirt with a transfer of a barcode that actually spells �Emily Rocks� and reads the same underneath the barcode in regular letters. Now anyone who forgets can just read my shirt and remember that I �rock� (ego much?). Also, if you can�t read, but have a UPC scanner handy, or are a super robot-human who can translate barcodes with your super-half-man-half-machine eyes, you would also know that �emily rocks�.

Fotograf�a

Saturday morning, after Hillary had spent quality time with her mom, I was called to meet her at WalMart for an impromptu $2.88 photo shoot. .... . . ... . ... Hillary, not her mom. While there, I discovered that I�m getting a wrinkle near my mouth, and what�s more: it�s only on one side of my face. Woe, woe, woe. We�d been eating our special ed kid wheaties that morning I suppose, and opted to take the picture for the $2.88 package wearing feather boas. Then the photographer posed us for other ones which you can choose to buy (but never do) later. They came out okay for WalMart pictures; I�m making stupid faces in most of them, but Hillary looks nice. The photo guy really started to push it with the homo-erotic posing near picture number five or so. Granted, two people in front of a small background have to be close to one another, but it just got silly this time. In front of a cheesy nature background, Hillary�s hands clasped, he puts one of my arms around her, and my other hand on top of hers. �Isn�t this a little much?� I ask him. He replies: �You guys are friends, right?� and doesn�t seem to think it even looks a little too girl-on-girly. He takes the picture. I was right...it�s absurdly bad. It's lesbography. Through the magic of the internet, you too can see the photo that looks like it�s right out of some proud Lesbian couple�s wedding announcement. Unfortunately, I am befuddled by gehennom at the moment, so I put them on Yahoo. All of them are uploaded here: Lesbography, and number 5 is the picture in question. yikes. Boa pictures are one and two. I feel the sudden need to affirm my heterosexuality to my reading community.

Tangent

I read an article in the Argentine version of one of those horrible young women's magazines...I believe it was Cosmo Argentina...that was talking about how women are purposefully being kind of quasi-bisexual in public places because they know it drives men nutters. In a poll, an astounding number of women admitted to kissing other women in public places just to get attention. Am I the only one who finds this almost creepily manipulative?

Melonomanaic

Then we went swimming! Yay! I was excited to get outside, and I haven�t been to the pool in ages. It was good to get some sun too, as I had this weird, uneven, one-shouldered tan from sitting outside reading the other day. Michelle came, brought Brie (Bri, Bre, Brianna I never remember how she spells it). We just hung out there and talked and stuff for several hours. I wish I had a pool, man. And a hot cabana boy....but we�ve been over this fantasy time and again. If wishes were fishes.

Saturday Night�s All Right for (Monkey) Fightin�

After the pool, Hillary went to NCB with her family. I was dog tired and declined the invitation to come along, and instead went home, read a bit of Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix (despite having things I�m supposed to be reading for work, as well as grad school prep to be working on) and took a nap. �Round 10:00, Hillary called me, and I went back to her house to play Nintendo and �exist� in compliance with EmilyHillary tradition. We played Monkey Ball�a few rounds of monkey target, followed by some monkey fight�while taking breaks to read passages from the informative (yet awkwardly written) book about Mennonites. Afterwards, I made her play Melee with me, but she proclaimed it �stupid� and �retarded� (blasphemy) and wouldn�t play it anymore. ::Weep:: Someone should come and play smash brothers with me!

???

Emily tells her story about bowling in Buenos Aires, and doing really well despite consuming moderate quantities of Alcohol

Hillary: I haven�t been bowling in ages.

Emily: Yeah, before I went a couple of weeks ago in Argentina, I hadn�t been in years myself...Probably not since the last time we all went Sophomore year of High School.

Hillary: humm, did that bowling alley near Kroger close?

Emily: No, pretty sure it didn�t.

.....

And then we went bowling. Didn�t see that coming, did you? Other than my strike in the first frame, and Hillary�s in the 5th or so, we did pretty crappy in the greater scheme of bowling, but REALLY REALLY good for our standards! Yay for scores in the 60�s! Hillary won...but that�s not what�s important. It isn�t whether you win or lose, it�s how hard you laugh at the losers around you.

c'est quelque peu cher pour le petit d�jeuner, non?

Hillary and Michelle and I met at LeMadeline or whatever it�s called for Breakfast. I wasn�t all that impressed, but it was okay. Then I took TheBliss to the airport, and all was sad and woeful. The only good part about having your best friend move away is having her come and visit. That was terrific. It was spectacular to have Hillary in town, and I think we had a lot of fun for less than two days of quality time. I miss her, but perhaps the wheel of grad school fortune will move me closer. Also, Independence Air flies between Dulles and Hartsfield for a happy sum, so I hope visits won�t be too infrequent.

Dude, that wasn�t cereal!!

That heading has nothing to do with the rest of Sunday afternoon.

My mom came home later. We were both stir crazy and bored, so we went out. Looks like I might end up getting futon for my HUGE AWESOME dorm room, as we found one really cheap at Wal Mart, and my mother would like to give away my bed, and put a futon or couch-bed in this room after I move out. That would be nice, as I�d have something to sit on (other than the butterfly chair, which is torturously uncomfortable) on the lower floor of my room, as I imagine that it�s just going to be the bed in the lofted part. I got the supplies to supply actual electric light to my paper lanterns, and mom bought a fish tank. Yeah, I don�t exactly get it, but she�s really fired up about getting a couple of fish. My mother needs to find a boyfriend or something. She already talks to the cats too much, and I�m terrified that when I come home for Thanksgiving break, she�ll be chattin� it up with the stupid fish as well.

The End

That last section seemed like a really random and uninteresting way to end this entry. It isn�t like I have anything else to say, but a heading reading �The End� ties things together nicely, no? It was a good weekend.