lobsterchick's Diaryland Diary


Where's the Garden Claw?

You know how when guys have longish hair, before they shave it, they have to cut off a bunch?

Someone pass the scissors, I'm shavin m'legs!

7:16 PM - 04 February 2006



I like Boca Burgers. They do not look like the "hamburger" featured on that website, but they are good. On occasion, I prefer them to hamburgers. They're high in fiber, low in calories, and as long as you don't expect them to taste like meat, you're cool.

Because they don't. Taste like meat, I mean. You can dress the Boca Burger up but you can't take it out to the Meat Lovers' Charity Ball, because it is very obviously not meat. But look at it this way: If I eat grape taffy, how convinced am I going to be that it tastes like grape? Not at all convinced. But maybe I like grape taffy for the way it tastes, grape-y or no.

Anyway, I was at my Weight Watchers meeting tonight (that's right, bitches: Weight Watchers. I'm watching my weight, and I joined a club to do it), and I mentioned Boca Burgers.

Now, on the past occasions wherein I attended Weight Watchers meetings, I chose not to participate because, well, i'm not a participator. But, I figure, if you want different results, you have to try something different. So I raised my hand during "menu swap" and said "I like Boca Burgers."

The room erupted. I am telling you, it was like the Bloods and the Crips in South Central in 1990. Half of the room cheered, all "Yay! Someone else likes my freakish soy-and-is-that-a-mushroom-maybe? food!" and the other half was like, "Boo! Hiss! Fake meat!" Guns were drawn, doo rags tied on, elaborate hand signs were fashioned. And then the woman next to me turned and said, "Have you tried Boca Crumbles?"

And then I threw up everywhere.

I kid, I kid. I only wanted to throw up everywhere. I don't know where exactly the line is that I draw between soy burgers and soy "...crumbles," but it exists. And I know for a fact that "Boca Dogs" are on the "...Crumble" side of the line. I think my "...Crumble" problem might lie in the fact that that's gotta look like dog food, right? Right? I'm sure it does. I'm so sure I'd rather not chance even seeking the "...crumbles" out.

And do I really have to give my reasons for not wanting to ever see a "Boca Dog?" Granted, real hot dogs are gross; according to my brother, who told me this in 1987, hot dogs are made of rats' buttholes. On occasion, though, after inspecting the package thoroughly until I find the little starburst that reads "All-Beef! Rat-Butthole-Free!," I enjoy a hot dog. Sue me. But soy mush, rolled into a tube? No, thank you, sir.

I'll take my soy rolled into a tube, then flattened down into a 1/3" high panel, cut into a circle shape with industrial cookie cutters, and painted with grill lines like an Applebee's "steak." And I will put lettuce, pickle, and mustard on it, and love it. It's all in the presentation, folks.

12:18 AM - 02 February 2006


Names I Hope Flavor Flav Gives to Future Women on His VH1 Show Flavor of Love, Barring the Possibility that He Meets His One True Love This Season*

  • Too-Tight Panties
  • Astonishingly Ugly
  • Snizz-Face
  • Queero
  • Tiny Dancer
  • No, Really Serious. Like, Deadly Serious
  • Fattie
  • Cover That Up
  • Unwanted Hair
  • Daisy
  • Clambake
  • Ya Man Flav(Just so I can watch him get confused during his talking head interviews when he says "Ya Man Flav wasn't feelin' ya man Flav.")
  • Pockmarks
  • Overgrown Bush
  • Yellow Fever
  • Red Scare
  • Seattle
  • Bangs
    *Yes, I fully realize that this entry is a full admission here, in front of God and everybody, that I have watched not one but several episodes of Flavor of Love on VH1. My preferred viewing time is Sunday morning at 11, CST.

    12:36 AM - 24 January 2006


    Faire du Shopping

    Purchases today:

    1. Stuff to make my niece Jamie four pairs of threader earrings for her birthday (To the salesgirl: "I don't want to put anything too big on there, do I?" because I don't understand threader earrings).
    2. A pair of pink Chuck Taylor high tops for $10, for which I have no use, but bought because a) they were $10, b) they were pink, and c) Chuck Taylors.
    3. A pair of black pants with white pinstripes.
    4. A pair of black pants with pink pinstripes.

    I am really proud of having two new pairs of pants. This is why:

    That's one sad excuse for a closet. My new year's resolution is to buy more clothes. So far? Three new pairs of pants and two v-neck shirts. Way to go, Sandy!

    8:26 PM - 22 January 2006


    Brace Yourself

    It's 2006. I graduated high school in 1996. There is only one person from high school I am even in REMOTE contact with, and I do mean remote, only because I am the world's WORST EMAILER/PHONE CALLER. I'm bracing myself for a reunion invitation and have, in fact, been scouring the Internet for news of the reunion.

    But will I go?

    Eh. Maybe. I don't know.

    Jamie: "Why not? You have a great place, a good job, good stuff going on the side? You're doing well."

    Me: "But I am fatter than ever."

    Jamie: "Well, there is that."

    Also, I have the angry black hair that occasionally turns up on my chin. I say occasionally because if I forget to scan the area for like, a week, I'll check it out and the hair will be like, an inch long. But if I am vigilant, it NEVER TURNS UP!

    Also, according to my research at classmates.com, "In a committed relationship" is the new "married." As in, every time I clicked on the name of someone I remember from high school, I steeled myself for "married." But most of the people aren't; they're all in "committed relationships." Even the few who were married don't bother me. Because really, we're 27/28. Who wants/needs to be married now? I kind of feel sorry for them. But "committed relationships"? GOD! That makes me feel worse!

    Then I check my profile. Hm. "Committed relationship." I must have last updated it during the Vince Days. It stays.

    I'm a liar, I know. But fuck. Throw me a bone.

    11:19 PM - 21 January 2006


    Radio Radio

    Like a lot of people, I listen to my morning show (Phillips and Co.) every day, and after a while, like most people, I developed a relationship in my head with the people on the show. It's not a "Morning Zoo" or anything horrible like that, it's just four people telling stories and being funny, but not too funny, and generally being likeable. I kind of imagine I could be friends with the girls.

    As all of America was doing this morning, Guy and the gang were pondering the question "Are those American Idol people for rillz?" I had to toss in my tuppence, and here's where it gets ugly.

    They picked up within four rings, which almost never happens. The Cosmos was gearing up against me, WANTING to see me make an ass of myself.

    "Hi, I was just calling to say that some of those people are real, they just never had the benefit I had of a sister who relentlessly mocked until I figured out I couldn't sing."


    "I can't sing. We all know I can't sing. But every once in a while, I'm like, 'Hey, not baaaad!' and if it weren't for my sister, I'd be on American Idol, and not because I'm good."

    "Oooooh, can you hold?"

    "Yup." Just on my way to work, not like I'm behind the wheel of a two-ton killing machine. Besides, they'll probably leave me on hold until I walk in the door at work and have to hang --

    "Are you there?"

    "Yup." I get nervous. They're having me redo my little bit so they can put it on the air. Suddenly, the entire morning show is listening in. I get my cue.

    "If it weren't for my sister relentlessly mocking me for 27 years straight, I'd be one of those idiots on American Idol. 'Cause sometimes? I'm like, 'I can sing! I can!' and I really can't. My sister reminds me of that."

    "How do you know you can't sing?" This can't be going anywhere good.

    "Ta-rust me."

    "Sing us something!" Nooooooooooooo.

    "What? Noooooooooooooooooooo!"

    "Come on!"

    "Why not?"

    "Because I've been conditioned not to!" This gets a big laugh, and for a split second, I think, Home free. They'll drop it.

    But it wouldn't have been funny if they'd dropped it, so they egg me on. "Come on, if you've thought about going on, you have a song in your back pocket."

    They're right, I do. It's "Somewhere Out There," from the Disney Film An American Tail, but right at that moment, I can't even conjure up one note, let alone words to string together.

    "I can't think of anything! I'm blank! I feel like I'm in front of the panel!"

    Again, more laughter. Every time they laugh, I breathe a little easier. I feel like Naomi Watts in King Kong. But I should not be so lucky.

    "Sing... 'Since You've Been Gone,' by Kelly Clarkson!" Courtney suggests. Oh nooooo.





    Just two lines, but enough for Guy to put on his worst British accent. After my post-song disclaimer of "See? I told you! Horrible!" Guy says "Yew sed it wos horrible, and yew weah right! Eet was ghaustly!"

    And in the space of 30 seconds, I am shamed twice. That's a record, folks. I urge someone to break it.

    5:51 PM - 19 January 2006



    I am so proud of myself. For the first time since I started my new rate plan, my cell phone bill is under $55. This is a big achievement for someone whose cell phone is her ONLY phone. Yay me!

    10:41 PM - 16 January 2006


    Piper Down!

    Usually when I fall it's kind of funny, and you know, a little embarrassing. But tonight was the scariest fall ever, because I swore for 30 seconds that my nose was broken.

    I was walking up to my mom's front door, carrying my hamper, which held in it my laundry, two pairs of pants for her to hem, a DVD of Bringing Up Baby (which I hated, bring the mocking), and my mom's crock pot. On top of the hamper's lid sat a glass baking dish I was returning.

    And then I went down. When I did, that glass baking dish hit me square in the nose, and at first my mom was all "Are you all right?" and all I could say was "The glass! Is it broken?" Then I started crying not because I was hurt (which I was), but OH MY NOSE! OH MY NOSE! OH MY NOSE!

    Anyone who's ever seen that ep of The Brady Bunch knows that a football to the nose results in said nose growing what appears to be a bruised knuckle. Also? Wacky hijinks ensue.

    Fortunately, there's a small red bump (at the bottom of which is a tiny horizontal line, my mom pointed out. "I've had that for 20 years. It's from pushing my nose up so it wouldn't be hooked"), and nothing more. If I wake up bruised, I wake up bruised, but my nose has refrained from eating my face, so huzzah!

    Next entry: Skinned knees, not just for 5-year-olds anymore.

    11:53 PM - 13 January 2006


    Welcome Welcome Welcome Interstate Interstate Interstate Managers Managers Managers

    I've bought this album three times now. I borrowed Jamie's copy, then lost it, and purchased two new ones, one for me, and one for him. Then I lost mine. I downloaded it this morning from iTunes, and unless my computer goes missing, I should be able to hold onto it this time.

    By the way? "Hey Julie" -- perfect pop song. PERFECT! Okay, now I'm worried someone will break in and steal my computer, since I've obviously tempted Fate, and am clearly not meant to own this most awesome album.

    6:41 PM - 11 January 2006


    Pick Me! Pick Me!

    Should any of my 20 readers a day care to nominate me for "Best American Blog," "Most Humorous Blog," or "Blog with Best Rotating Random Masthead Design," they need only go here.

    Edited to add: I think the best category for me is "best-kept-secret weblog." GO! VOTE!

    6:32 PM - 09 January 2006



    Traffic ticket, again.

    Not speeding, again.

    Last time it was running a stop sign, this time it was running a light.

    Also? NO PROOF OF FUCKING INSURANCE. This incenses me, since I know that tomorrow when I clean up the colossal mess I made LOOKING for those asstastic cards, they'll be sitting pretty, right on the pile of crap.


    12:24 AM - 07 January 2006



    Oh my Lordy Lorderson is it cold in my apartment. Resolution #9 for 2006 was to quit bitching (#10 being "quit cursing," so wrap your brain around THAT, Einstein!), so I'll just pause to ask why the heat isn't going on. I prefer it this way, and GOD how I'm sick of calling my landlord ("Hi, yeah, it's Sandy in 1 south again... the fire alarm in the hallway is chirping like it's running low on batteries. I'd change them, but I can't reach it." I know that technically outside my door is his responsibility, but by Day 3 of the Smoke Alarm Debacle of '05, I was ready to build a trampoline just to get up there and shut it off -- I kept hoping it would just die already. Safety schmafety).

    Resolution #1 was to clean out the craft closet and give my extra crap to a woman at work (to whom I keep promising that this will happen). This endeavour began tonight, and then I got distracted by a yearbook of my high school that I bought at a yard sale once. It's from 20 years before I graduated, and is totally wicked awesome. Also? I found my pastels to do my art project. The craft closet lives to see another day.

    Other various and sundry resolutions are to find a voice agent, get published, and do my top secret trivia project. So... when did I get ambitious? Was it before or after Dance Dance Revolution made me break #10 at 12:00:39?

    12:37 AM - 04 January 2006


    A Cry for Help

    Is anyone looking to unload a pair of iPod earbuds? My iPod crapped out, and my totally awesome ex thoughtfully purchased the replacement plan, so I can get a new one, but I have to send back all the accessories with it, and I'm terrified that they won't honor it if I don't have the earbuds (I threw them out because they were too enormous to fit in my ears - lesson learned). If you have an extra pair lying around, I'll pay shipping.

    Lemme know, thanks!

    11:49 PM - 30 December 2005


    Yo I'm a Leada, No I'm Not a Followa

    Okay, I'm in.

    Four jobs I've had in my life (2 cool, 2 notsomuch): Counter girl at Baskin-Robbins (adorable coworkers, didn't eat ice cream for a year afterwards), bartender at The Fabulous Fox, office manager at the DMV, receptionist at a nursing home.

    Four movies I will make you watch over and over: Shag, Peggy Sue Got Married, Steel Magnolias, Dawn of the Dead (remake).

    Four places I've lived: St. Louis (MO), Kirksville (MO), Concord (MO) ... I don't have any more. How sad.

    Four TV shows I would love to make you watch: The Office (British), The Daily Show, Arrested Development, The Colbert Report

    Four places I've been on vacation: Jackson, WY; Orlando, FL; Chicago, IL; Washington, DC

    Four websites I waste time at work on, and recommend that you do also: Dooce (duh); You Can't Make It Up, McSweeney's, Television Without Pity.

    Four of your favorite foods (Special holiday edition): Deviled eggs, 7-layer dip (minus the guac layer), mostaciolli (for some reason, a holiday food in my family), my mom's sour cream garlic-y mashed potatoes (total health food).

    Four places you'd rather be: Moscow, Anchorage, Paris, or Rome.

    6:21 PM - 28 December 2005


    I Am Neither Hip Nor Cool

    The barf-o-rama ended December 26, of course. If I'm going to get a 24-hour virus, it's going to be on my favorite 24 hours out of the 8760 the year contains.

    Recommendation from Netflix That I Don't Understand: Aqua Teen Hunger Force, Vol. 1. I assume this is because Futurama Vol. 1 is next on my list, and I also assume it's because both are on Adult Swim, but that seems like a pretty big stretch. Besides, I don't really understand ATHF. There, I said it. Let the scorning begin.

    Update: I just realized that Trapped in the Closet is number 10 on my list. AWESOME!

    7:38 AM - 28 December 2005


    Merry Fucking Christmas!

    I spent all day yesterday throwing up.

    10:22 AM - 26 December 2005


    Poor Little Erica

    I've restrained myself from going into great detail regarding my distaste for most Christmas songs (have you heard that United States soldier bullshit? HAVE YOU?!) this year, and the commercials are mostly just noise, but I have to say this one thing:


    Have you seen that Queen Latifah Wal-Mart commercial where her mom totally shuts her down and shits all over her holiday by smugly picking up a stack of gift cards? Thanks, Mom. You just ruined it.

    But this does not happen before Latifah runs through her list aloud, saying how Auntie Angel wants an MP3 player (If Queen Latifah was my niece, that fucker better goddamn well be an iPod Nano 4GB, or else bitch is getting schooled with the business end of an American Music Award), she thinks someone else should get a GPS system (Uncle Lost Jim, one would assume), and "we always get little Erica a Barbie."

    Now, Christmas isn't about the gifts.

    Okay, yeah it is.

    But even if it weren't, giving little Erica a Barbie while everyone else is getting iPods and portable OnStars and stacks of what I hope are $2000 Wal-Mart gift cards (we can buy the dignity of 250 underpaid employees for 1 hour with this card!) is kind of a smack in the face. "We like you, but we LOVE everyone else. Here's a ten-dollar piece of molded plastic with newly flat feet and still-too-big tits. Merry fucking Christmas." Poor Little Erica.

    We haven't even gotten to the part where we "always" get her that every year.



    Because I think Barbie is a good gift for five years, tops. Even by ten years old, you're stretching it, because at that point, she's playing with them only when she's alone because it's embarrassing. She still enjoys them, though what she enjoys doing with them is less "dress-them-up-for-a-date-with-Ken" and more "Ken-has-Barbie-bent-over-the-arm-of-the-couch-and-Barbie's-yelling-'oh yeah, Ken, faster faster, stick your underwear-molded man-lump in me!'"

    Just me?

    Okay, then.


    One more note for the holidays: Rent the 7 Up movies and watch them in reverse order, noting how dirty you feel when you see little 7-year-old Nick Hitchon (oh my GOD, how hard am I finding it not to invade his privacy and email him?) and remember how you lusted after him in 42 Up.

    Just me, again?

    Merry Christmas, you big pack of pervs.

    10:09 PM - 24 December 2005


    And His Dad Has No Clue

    At poker night tonight(nickels, dimes, quarters, and in the case of my sister in a desparate moment, pennies), I got to know the man who is now one of my favorite people ever.

    He's my brother-in-law's brother. He lives in Minneapolis, and he regularly goes to see Prairie Home Companion live. He and I have quite a few of the same movies in our Netflix queues, AND HE SPEAKS RUSSIAN. Better than I do (which really isn't saying much, but still). He is hilarious and adorable and is a fun drunk and of course is absolutely as gay as a Sunday picnic.

    Because if he wasn't, I probably would never have even engaged him in a conversation.

    I have issues.

    On the good side, he's looking to move back to St. Louis, so this could be the gay friend I've been looking for. Cross your fingers!

    12:46 AM - 24 December 2005


    Just Another Writer Still Trapped Within My Truth

    This is something I remember so well now that I think about it, but had somehow managed to repress until my sister brought it up this past weekend. For this, there can be no forgiveness.

    I would venture to say that at least half the people who read my diary on a regular basis (that is, 5) have, at one point or another in their life, had the misfortune of either walking in on their parents having sex, overhearing their parents having sex, or having had to sit, silent and mortified, as one of their parents confided too much about sex.

    This may be worse.

    When I was 12, my father finally sought help for his depression. Not only did he go to therapy, but he and my mother went together, and the entire family went together. It's hard to believe he had time for work.

    I don't know if this was a therapist-sanctioned move, but my parents picked... a song. As far as I can tell, this is the first and only "our song" they had throughout the course of their 30-year relationship. And no, it wasn't something you might hope for, like Captain and Tenille's "Love Will Keep Us Together," or even "Muskrat Love" (which, Google tells me, was also recorded by Captain and Tenille. A fine outfit, I assure you. They sing lots of wholesome, not-cringe-worthy songs, any of which my parents could have chosen. But no).

    It was as horrifying as you could ever find your parents to be. Worse, even, than if they'd chosen Paul Lekakis's "Boom Boom Boom (Let's Go Back to My Room)." It was... Dan Hill's "Sometimes When We Touch."

    That's right. There were cassette tapes for their cars, then later, CDs. Had this happened 15 years earlier I'm sure there also would have been record albums and 8-tracks. It was a musical train headed straight for my head, especially since it appeared that, listening to the song, my parents were headed for divorce. I mean, just read that first verse! It smacks of being sat down in a restaurant to ensure that you won't lash out and make a scene. I lived in fear of the day when they said "Sandy, your mother and I love each other very much, BUT..."

    On top of that, it's so damn gross. What 12-year-old wants to hear (repeatedly, on the way to school, on the way home from school, to the grocery store and back) about her parents holding each other until they die, or until they cry? GROSS!

    I brought this up to Jamie on the phone last night, and, through squicked-out laughter, we sang the chorus together. When we got to the last word, subside, we made the same comment at the same time about how subside is the worst word ever to be ham-fistedly inserted into a pop song, and is clearly just fishing for a rhyme.

    Then he told me what his dad and step-mom's song was. He began the story as, "When he met her, she was working as a waitress in a cocktail bar."

    "No!" I said.

    "I'm afraid so."

    "You win."

    7:35 AM - 22 December 2005


    Woe to Thee, Oh Crafton

    I got the marbles. And the magnets. And the (I think) right kind of glue. And a stack of big-time magozines (if you know that one, you're a big neeeeerd). Everything I needed to make these snazzy magnets.

    I get home, ready to camp out in front of the television, crafting away at my coffee table when....


    My damn overhead light in my living room is out! And I own no light bulbs! My first thought is that all the lights in the place are out (they don't call me "Worst-Case Sandario" for nothing), which would have sucked, but no, just the only light I wanted and needed.

    All is lost.

    10:40 PM - 16 December 2005


    Sparkle Season


    Lots of Christian people (namely Jerry Falwell) have been stirring it up, bitching about how their Christmas has been taken away. Hm. Tell that to Soft Rock 102.5... Based on their 720 Hours of Christmas-travaganza, I think they might have some notion of where it's gone.

    I have other people at work extolling the virtues of their Jefferson County hometowns (in St. Louis, JeffCo=redneck), pleased that the kids still have Christmas pageants, and there is still a Christmas tree in the town square. I guess when they see Hindu people or Muslim people, they put their hands over their ears and close their eyes and scream "LALALALALALALA!"

    When I say "Happy Holidays," having been raised Catholic, I mostly mean "Merry Christmas and Happy New Year, as the two are a week apart, and I feel this greeting has gotten too long already, so here's where I end it."

    As a generic, homogenized (for better or worse) American culture, the majority of us identify with Christmas as our one major Winter holiday. Fair enough, that's fine. Feel free to sing your songs and say "Merry Christmas," and, no, I don't think anyone should be offended by the sentiment. Certainly they have a right to, but I find that getting offended by what is clearly offered as a friendly tossed-off one-line is like turning your back on a forest fire to yell at the guy behind you for smoking a cigarette. You're missing a chance to get pissed at the big picture.

    You can try to be as inclusive and politically correct as you want. I won't stop you. But there are hundreds of cultures around the world that celebrate Winter holidays, and they all do it differently, and most of them celebrate them right here in America. YOu can't call them all, though I'd be first in line to see you try.

    First and foremost, these holidays celebrate light in all its forms, and fall on or around December 21 or 22, the Winter Solstice. Most Biblical scholars agree that Jesus was most probably born in June, so, yeah. Christians didn't invent it, nor did they really even get it right. They just put it where it was most convenient to convert the Sun-worshipping pagans.

    But okay, it's been celebrated that way for almost 2000 years, and separate from the religious meaning of the holiday, it's a cultural one in America. I accept this.

    I am all for learning about other cultures and accepting them and embracing them, and teaching them to our children. BUT, saying "MERRYCHRISTMASHAPPYCHANUKAHHAPPYKWANZAAWHATEVERRAMADAN" doesn't cut the mustard (because for real, dude, Ramadan's in late Summer to early Fall; closer to Christmas is Eid ul-Adha), and that's what passes for "religious tolerance" in most communities. You can't act like Christmas doesn't exist if it's what you're celebrating. You can't point to perfunctory mentions of other religions and claim that you're being sensitive.

    Either leave it like it is, where you are clearly just celebrating Christmas, or, I don't know, learn about other cultures' Winter holidays. I know; I'm a crazy liberal, out to steal your Christmas.

    I'm gunning for Easter next, so hold onto that bonnet, Grandma.

    11:11 PM - 12 December 2005


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