Burkhauser-- From Toilet Crotch to Today

One of the great things about being here in Texas is that Mike's best friends are here. Not only is there MP who became super close to Mike in college and has gone on to BFF status since, but there are his two childhood friends Travis and Jason. Travis came down this weekend for a visit and brought with him a crap load of home movies that he had recompiled, edited, and done whatever else to them that made them loads of fun to watch. With minimal equipment they stayed up all night making commentaries to these old movies. Travis has actually won several film making awards for the footage that he shot, edited, and set to a soundtrack. Its actually really great! He's the kind of guy you want to see succeed because he is truly gifted at what he does-- he just needs some big budget equipment and all the time in the world.
I had the best time listening to their jokes and commentaries, and of course watching the videos.
Mike starred as Pete Burkhauser and Travis, himself, made many cameos with Jason and friends from their high school and people they know today. I LOVE how much fun Mike had seeing Travis and his wife, Lina, this weekend. I love even more that we're ALL here in Texas. Have I mentioned recently that I love Texas?

Anyway, here is a link to the youtube site to watch one of the videos. I'll embed it in this post later, I have to get the url, first. Enjoy!

P.S. I am married to the star-- and its not the guy with the cheeto mustache, either.

http://youtube.com/watch?v=3kaCKOMEW4k

Like Moths to a Flame

Today I started my first non-online class since Christmas. Its gotten smaller since last time as this is part two of a three part series. There are five students besides myself. The cool thing about that is that we can all stretch out. Each row has three computers at them and there are two sides and four to a side... so 8 rows. Five students. Yep, we each get to have our own space to stretch out our books and maybe put a purse on the chair next to us, etc. Everyone but me. Why? Because crazy hippy woman decides that space is for suckers and sits right next to me.
I was already on the middle computer, so she could have just snuck in and took the coputer to my left, but that wouldn't do. She had to suck and squeeze her way past me and sit to the computer at my right. Maximum touching invloved in this transaction, of course.
As I'm thinking to myself, "I must smell particularly lovely this afternoon" she proceeds to make herself comfortable... in my S--P--A--C--E and flips open her text book, which conveniently covers my mouse. Since I am a gutless turd, I didn't actually say anything, but spent the entire class using the mouse from underneath the cover of her text book, which didn't bother her in the least. It also didn't bother her that her breath smelled like she had been eating out of a dumpster. How in the world do I know what her breath smelled like you ask? Well, Watson, its because every instruction that the professor gave us caused her to lean her face toward mine and watch me write out all the code first.
Annnnd, for the cherry on top, she was NOT getting it. Anything. Everything. "Ooh, Alice, one of these days: bang! Zoom! Straight to the moon!" Every simple little action from opening a new file to coding table cell data was a virtual anomoly to this woman. Every move had to be hand traced for her by the teacher. I would really like to know why someone who can't grasp the concept of opening a file on a computer has decided to become a certified webmaster. That would be like me deciding to be a professional glass blower. It just doesn't make sense.
I'm not trying to knock her or fault her for trying, I'm faulting her for invading my S--P--A--C--E when the chair right next to the teacher (a spot that wouldn't involve me sucking in my spare big rig tire and scooting the chair in so the teacher could assist in her every move) was ready and waiting for an ass to call its own.

I've gone over and over in my head what could possibly make me the lucky one to share my very important elbow space, as I have ironically found myself in this situation more than once. (I am especially sensitive to personal space at the gym and feel that unless someone has announced the other treadmills have been doused with anthrax, you shouldn't be using the one right next to me for any reason.)

Looks:
I'm not particularly fetching and I'm also not terribly strange looking. I don't think I would be an inviting option for someone looking on either end of the spectrum. I dress conservatively, I don't own bright colors, my makeup is natural tones, and my new Katie Holmes hairstyle isn't scoring me any extra points either. Nope, there is nothing there that would suggest that I should attract someone looking for a fellow Boo Radley, or a potential life partner.
Me: Wearing tan courderoy pants, brown flip flops, and a 3/4 sleeved boatneck t-shirt. My hair is worn half up in a barrett as it is too short for anything else.
Her: Wearing a floral dress with large pockets. Over a pair of grey trousers. Topped off with a purple cable-knit sweater and wild glasses. Her hair is down to her butt and wild.

Personality:
I have never been told that I look like the kind of person you could just sit down and have a conversation with. Infact, my 6'3", 200lb husband found me intimidating when we first met. I'm not proud of it, but years of working retail has left me jaded and bitter and generally unimpressed with the evolution of the human species.
Me: Loner, rebel.
Her: Hippy, Close talker.

Intelligence:
Lucky for me, I usually am perceived as smart... but the kind of smart person who will make you cry, not hold your hand and convince you that one day you'll be able to tie your shoes all by yourself.
Me: Can read at least an eighth grade level!
Her: May or may not see literacy as an important goal in life.

Aroma: I must have a fabulous musk.
Me: Wearing Dior's Addict II.
Her: Wearing the smell of victory over large rodents at feeding time.


I admit it, I feel bad about being SO cruel toward this lady... but did I mention that this class is FOUR HOURS long? And hey, its all entertainment folks. And its all for you.

10 Skeletons

I seem to have gotten this a few times now, so I'm taking the hint. People love me. What can I say.

The rules are: Once you've been tagged, you write a blog/bulletin with 10 weird, random things, facts or habits about yourself.

10. I broke my right wrist twice. The second time resulted in surgery and now its made of 50% metal. If certain fabrics (or anything else) brush across my wrist in the right spot, I lose feeling in three fingers and my thumb for several minutes.
9. The scariest thing a doctor has ever asked me was if I had recently swallowed any small metal discs. (I hadn't, it was an error on an x-ray)
8. I recently stole two onions from the grocery store. And it was sort of on purpose.
7. I used to put really... really... obscene amounts of butter oil (as in small animals could drown) on the free popcorn for the people that came to the forget-me-not shows at 7am at the Fenton Cinema. I still think they deserved it.
6. I once survived several months on only beef consumme, twix bars, and green powerade. Which, by the way, should be the next weight loss revolution.
5. When I have had a bad day, the following things almost always give me some sort of comfort: pugs, the opening credits to Gilmore Girls, Snoopy cartoons, a white blanket with more holes than fabric, hot tea, music that reminds me of my parents washing the car in the driveway, and reading lamps with low wattage bulbs.
4. I am allergic to Mr. Bubble.
3. It has always bothered me that I lost a superball in a tree outside my grandmother's house and I never found it. Where the hell could it have gone. I'm fairly certain that there is some sort of vortex there.
2. I sucked my thumb until I was like 25. The dentist always knew. I hated him for that.
1. I once got my lip stuck to an A&W root beer bar. My mother finds this extraordinarily funny and makes sure to bring it up every couple of years. I'm pretty sure the story will be printed on my tombstone.

I Shoplifted Onions.

I suppose today started as a normal day. I got up. I let the dogs out. I wasted a ridiculous amount of time on the Internet and then I went to the grocery store, loving called "He-y-b Buddy" by my husband and his friend. It is actually called H-E-B. Three letters all pronounced seperately. Not to be confused with Heb. or Heybuddy. Ironically, the town I grew up in had a grocery store called VGs. Also letters only, not to be pronounced... however you would pronounce a V and a G as a word.

Anyway. I hate Heybuddy. It is THEE place to be for the hip and happening of Georgetown. You pick a time of day, any day, its packed. We're talking World War III food rationing in the middle of a Category 5 hurricane prediction packed. I hate it. I try to get the produce out of the way first because that is where everyone likes to cluster. One of the nice things about heybuddy is that it provides a little UPC machine, so if you have a bag of onions, you can set them on the scale, type in the provided code and get a label for your crap so that you can self-checkout: my favorite.

So anyway. I had a hand basket full of mostly produce and I head to the check-outs, where the lines are naturally that of an immigration office or the DMV. I am behind this woman and her son at the self-checkout and she is, of course, having massive problems, which in hindsight, would be the reason why that line was by far the shortest. In her defense, her main "problem" was her retarded son who kept pushing buttons and playing on the bag spinner which is programmed to detect the slightest change in weight to catch you from stealing packs of gum. Every two seconds the machine would sing out: "PLEASE HOLD FOR CASHIER" because this kid was screwing around. The mom would swat at him and giggle at how "funny" he was. After about the 6th time this happened she laughed and swung her head over her shoulder giving me a "isn't he SO cute and funny!" smile. I gave her my "eat shit and die" face and she went back to trying to ring up a zucchini.

Minutes later, when she and her future glue sniffer left the store, I was ready to check out. For those of you who don't believe in Karma, it may be time to start. All those terrible thoughts about what an idiot the lady in front of me was and whether or not I planned to run her over with my car immediately came back and smacked me repeatedly in the face.

The self-checkouts are for 20 items or less.

I assumed that I had 20 items or less, but didn't count. BIG MISTAKE.
I was mostly done with my items when my transaction came to a screeching halt. I was trying to ring up some mushrooms but the computer wanted to know if I was paying with a check and if I had any coupons.

I'm sorry, but if you can pay with a check at the damn thing, having 21 items shouldn't send all computing functions to a grinding halt. It ends at 20. so now, with a line gathering behind me and my brain fumbling to catch up to what has just happened, I felt and looked like a neon colored ass. I hurried to pay for my 20 items and tried to quickly start another transaction for my leftover onions and cilantro. Yes, two items over. Two. Well, in my haste to hurry and swipe my next item and jam it into a bag, I upset the bag spinner which made me then remove all my bags, dig out the rogue cilantro, and place it in a new and uninhibited bag. That's probably when I started to notice the annoyed whispering behind me. I think I was sweating even...
So, I am trying to reconfigure the bag situation when one of the friendly neighborhood heybuddy cashiers comes over to see if I need assistance... or a helmet. I assure him I'm fine and he goes back to his little watch post.
Naturally, at this point, I'm not all right. The label has gotten wet on my onions, no doubt from the constant cold shower that the celery is subjected to in the produce aisle. I can't scan the effing onions. So I hit the button that says; "no barcode" hoping that it will give you a list to choose from or something, but instead it alerts the cashier boy who tells me that "all [I] have to do is lift the onions off the scale."
Really? That's what I have to do? That's going to ring up the onions?
I no longer cared. I paid for my stuff, grabbed my bags, grabbed the onions, and grabbed the handbasket... I never put the onions in my bag... I don't know that I consciously planned to 5 finger discount two onions... but I did.
I am an onion thief. It didn't even completely hit me until writing this that I feel really, really bad about this! But at least I'll have something for confession if I ever go to church again...
Wow, I'm really going to hell. And I'll probably be an onion farmer. This sucks.

In case anyone still had any reason to believe that it was safe for me to be in a store, let me go on:
Last weekendish Mike and I were at Sam's Club and they had this sliced pineapple there. We decided that it would be great for juicing and I reached over to get a package and that's when it happened.
My motor skills failed me.
The lid, which was not securely fastened, shifted ever so slightly, to which I overcompensated and somehow, beyond any reasonable comprehension of mine, the pineapple launched out of my hands and took flight, resulting the only way it possibly could: crash landing.

What would a situation like this be if it didn't have an audience. Shocked old people looked at me incredulously as the temperature in my face and ears shot up 80 degrees. Mike, who would later tell me that he saw the whole experience in slow motion, was doing a hearty pirate laugh and thankfully helping me pick up the naked, shivering pineapple chunks who found themselves so unexpectedly on the filthy floor at Sam's Club. I barked at Mike, Mr. Funny, to guard the spill while I found a government funded disaster relief organization.
I sought out the very first employee that I could and confessed my crime. I had catapulted a pineapple through their produce section and it was now in need of a mop. I was really sorry. And really stupid. And really sorry.
The employee, who was obviously going for some sort of employee of the month award, told me to tell "that guy" and pointed to a man working over in the butcher's hut. He was wearing a bloody white lab coat. This didn't seem to me like the man for the job, but who was I to be making these sort of assumptions, I can't even hold a container of pineapple.
So I told him.
He told me to tell "her" and pointed to someone handing out samples.
This little game went on and on and on until I finally ended back up at the sample lady who had been replaced by TWO sample ladies doling out shellfish in dixie cups. Mmmm. I once again recanted my tale... which is fun because I come out looking so good in it. The first girl informed me in a serious of "noises" that she didn't speak or understand English and if I would just take her little cup o' shrimp, her day would be much brighter.

SUPER.

The second girl told me to tell the butcher man.

I realize that this whole situation is my fault and mine alone, however, in cartoons, this is the point where steam comes out of your ears or you develop a comical tick.
I took a deep breath and without pausing for any sort of response yelled: "I have already told NINE different people and not ONE of you can be bothered to a.) clean it up, b.) find someone whom YOU KNOW can clean it up, or c.) hand me a mop. It is my opinion that I have officially gone above and beyond the call of duty for a consumer and I don't care what happens, have fun with your shellfish and avoid breaking a hip in the fruit aisle!"

After all that, we still haven't made any juice with the pineapple and now I am an onion thief.