Duj-ka!

Somehow I missed this picture on Dujka's site when it was initially posted, and I felt the need to post it to compensate for the depressing picture of Britney (and my participating in the frenzy of her shearing. Keith Olbermann, as much as I love your gray-haired goodness, I'm a little disappointed she made your countdown two days in a row).


So, for a lack of motivation to actually write an entry on the decay of journalism in today's pop-culture centric world, I give you a happy picture of Dujka and me at the Dole Plantation shortly before it closed. Our visit had nothing to do with its closure. Or so we're telling people...

Rub My Head

I mean, let's all be honest here: who hasn't had the urge to shave their head?

Jimmy John's is Stalking Me

Every time I've moved in the past five years, a new Jimmy John's has opened nearby shortly after I have relocated. Case in point:

Iowa City: 320 E. Benton Street. In college, unbeknownst to us when we first moved in, our apartment was over the top of an empty business that was soon to become Jimmy John's. Michelle and I listened to construction around the clock during the summer (3 a.m.? Perfect time for using a sledge hammer to uproot a concrete floor). The construction continued after Michelle moved out, so erin was able to experience the joy of late-night construction activities. After several days of Jimmy John's being open, erin and I were dismayed to realize that three-day-old baked bread smells like vomit. We came to this conclusion after I mistakenly accused erin of being bulimic ("Um, erin, you feeling okay? I've noticed that the bathroom has smelled like puke for a week now, and I'm really concerned about you.")

Living above a Jimmy John's wasn't all bad. Erin developed a crush on one of the workers, and she was able to sweet talk him into hooking us up with free sandwiches. While a crazy party and illegal activities helped erin get over her crush on the Jimmy John's guy, we still used him for the free food. And perhaps the world's largest air freshener helped mask the vomit-odor problem.

Kansas City: 4300 Roanoke Pkwy. A couple months after I moved to the Plaza area, the first Jimmy John's in Kansas City opened three blocks away from where I lived. Occasionally I would stop by after work to buy either the #4 (Turkey Tom with no sprouts) or the #9 (Italian Night Club on wheat bread). (Yes, when it comes to Subway, Jimmy John's, and Quiznos, my sandwich preference is predictably the same; very rarely do I deviate from my sandwich choice.) After a particularly draining day at work, I stopped by Jimmy John's. I must have looked as depressed as I felt because the Jimmy John's man (a creepy sort of dude) gave me my sandwich for free. After that, any time I went into Jimmy John's and he was working, no payment was required for my sandwich. It all felt a little dirty, but I've come to realize that I'm willing to demagnatize my moral compass if it means free food.

Grand Blvd. The second Jimmy John's in KC will be opening approximately six blocks away from where I currently live. They recently removed the brown paper from the windows to reveal the familiar black-and-red checked tile pattern and the fascinating signs (such as So fresh you'll want to slap somebody or What happens in your mouth stays in your mouth). It's only a matter of days before it opens.

Frankly, I'm starting to get a little weirded out by my relationship with Jimmy John's, and I'll be more than a little peeved if I have to go back to paying for my #4.

American Fame Pt. 2: Forgetting Jonathon Brandis

This short film kind of makes me want to punch Cam Archer. And I'm usually the nonviolent type.

Prince Performing at the Half-Time Show

I think the giant basterdized Prince symbol serving as a stage says it all.

Generation Wimp

Last summer, I decided that I wanted to own a complete, matching set of the Time quartet. (When it comes to buying book series, I'm quite particular. If I buy the first one in paperback, they all have to be in paperback. If it's a certain publication, I make sure that I'm buying the same publication.)

I was able to buy three of the books at a used bookstore, and then purchased the fourth one at Barnes and Noble. I was distraught to realize that when they rereleased the series, they turned the previously ominous covers into pastel versions for the new generation.

The cover of A Wrinkle in Time when I first read it in middle school:

And then today's cover of the book:

For a generation that is allegedly desensitized to violence and all things scary, I find this cover a little...lacking. You might as well tell the kids that they're about to read a Babysitters Club book with this cover.

Speaking of The Babysitters Club, you cannot buy this series directly off the Barnes and Noble shelf (only online). Or the Sweet Valley High series, for that matter. Um, you know, not that I routinely browse the juvenile fiction section for the brain candy that filled my 4th through 6th grade reading days. (Although only 20 more shopping days until my birthday.)

Side Note: This paragraph on the Wikipedia page caught my eye (ahem, Gwen):

Sweet Valley Heights
This is an as yet unpublished spin-off of the franchise described by Francine Pascal in the April/May 2005 edition of Bust magazine. According to the interview, Sweet Valley Heights will feature characters from the original series living in a gated community and aged in their 20s or 30s. Some sources claim the title has been changed to Sweet Valley Confidential. The Bust interview claimed the initial publication would appear in late 2005, but as of 2006 it has not appeared.

It's like Melrose Place meets Sweet Valley High with everyone being legal to do all those dirty things that they did in the Sweet Valley High series. Phew -- I'm not sure if I can stand the suspense of waiting for this series to hit the shelves...

Just the Perverts and Your Momma

Last fall, I started attending the monthly KC Chapter of STC meetings. The meetings are rather interesting: a handful of technical writers gathering together to discuss their trade. Ranging from consultant writers to salaried technical writers to college professors that teach technical and professional writing, there's quite the representation that attend the meetings.

Well, as much representation as you can get from an average attendance of nine people. While KC has approximately 90 members living in the metro area, an average of nine of us are attending the meetings.

I typically don't say anything at these meetings, just sit and listen to everyone talk. (I'm guessing I'm the youngest person attending the KC STC meetings by about 15 years, with the average age being around 55.) Occasionally the conversation regresses into these random topics, much like when I visit my 84-year-old grandma and my 93-year-old great aunt and I try to hold a conversation with both of them. There's no logic to our conversation, and certainly no ending point. Because while I might be talking about the weather, my grandma will start talking about something she saw on TV, and my great aunt starts talking about her bowel movements. It's not a linear conversation.

Last night held a couple of the moments for me. The topic of last night's meeting was accuracy. So one of the members put together a nice handout on writing with accuracy and did an overview of the subject. In the midst of the conversation, somehow the discussion of serving on a jury came up. Suddenly the woman presenting on accuracy said "Well, you know the only time those perverts get a haircut and wear a suit is when they're on trial." Which immediately made me cock my head to the side and think Whaaa-?

A little while later, the presenter was discussing how you need to make sure that you're writing for the appropriate audience at the appropriate level. Another woman sitting at the table interrupted her to provide some real-life experience about when her coworker created a class on making sure that people write at a basic level for the targeted audience. The name of the class was Writing for Your Momma. After providing some details about what sounded like a great class, she ended her story by saying "But, of course, I reported him to HR for the name of his class. I mean, we just don't talk like that around here."

Try as I might, I couldn't stiffle my giggles. I'm hoping they don't ban me from the next meeting for being too young and immature...

Yum!

For the most amazing chili recipe ever, click here. Seriously.

Hocus Pocus Alimagocus!

All right. I admit it. When I was younger, I had a little bit of a crush on Jeff the Mannequin from Today's Special . Maybe it was the plaid hat and matching vest, or the fact that he froze whenever his hat was removed.

But, looking at this picture now, Sam and Muffy were even creepier than I remember them being. And Jodie was way hot. Jeff and Jodie definitely should have made that final sale, if you know what I mean.

Grandpa Fritz Hats

My Grandpa Fritz always wore the Irish wool caps. In fact, a huge chunk of my memories of my grandpa have him wearing either a blue or a gray version of that hat. When we were little, my brother and I had no clue as to what the names of these hats were or where they originated from. We just knew that our grandfather wore them, and that immediately made the hat something that we respected. Unsure of what type of hats they were, we referred to them as "Grandpa Fritz Hats".



When we were in high school, Brett started wearing Grandpa Fritz Hats of his own. As soon as Brett found out that he and Allison were having a boy, he started searching to find a Grandpa Fritz Hat for his son. He found one, but he's had to wait four months for Ryne's head to actually become large enough to fill out the hat. The hat's still a little big, but it looks like Ryne was born to wear a Grandpa Fritz Hat.

Grandpa Fritz would be proud.

Merry Christmas, Kid

Usually I'm on top of things when it comes to having Christmas presents bought and cards mailed, but this year I just couldn't seem to stay on top of it. Maybe it was spending a huge chunk of November in Hawaii, the other chunk of November homeless, and most of December either sick or working. So today I found myself in the crowds of shoppers trying to buy last minute gifts.

As I was standing in the toy section at Target, I overheard a couple talking. I caught the tail end of the conversation, but I was in time for the woman to say:

"...I mean, bless his heart, but the poor kid is just not coordinated. There is no way we're buying him a scooter."

That, my friend, explains why there's thousands of us uncoordinated adults still alive. Parent interference. This explains why most of my toys didn't have wheels. Thanks, Mom.

Get 'Em While They're Young

Today Tommy and I visited the Liberty Memorial Museum, the National WWI Museum. Originally built in 1921, the museum was partially closed in recent years for renovations. It reopened on December 2, and the place is incredible. This now tops my list of recommended activities for people visiting (or living in) Kansas City.

The museum is almost overwhelming with all the memorabilia, information, and interactive displays.

But my all-time favorite interactive display I saw at the museum is the one simply entitled "Create Propaganda". Yes, using a laser pen and high-tech computers, people of all ages can select the color of their propaganda's paper, pictures, and wording. To top it all off, you can then e-mail the propaganda to yourself or to anyone you choose. After all, what good is propaganda if you can't spread it?

2, 4, 6, 3.8...

...I survived my first earthquake!**


**The earthquake on Sunday registered in at 3.8 on the Richter scale. The shopping center Dujka and I were standing in was so structurally sound that we didn't feel it. Claudius did, however, and text messaged Dujka to let her know that another earthquake kinda-sorta shooke Honolulu. The news covered it as well. I'll let that count as my first earthquake.

Back to the Stone Age

For those of you who have been e-mailing me requests to send pictures of the Hawai'i adventures so far, stop it. I'm still using an archaic 35mm camera, so you can expect to see pictures 6-8 weeks after I return to KC. Unless I don't get through my last role of film, and then you can expect to see pictures some time in August.

Brett and Scott, before you start mocking my camera, I do want to point out that Baikie let me borrow his sleek Cannon camera. So it's not the shoebox of a camera that you've mocked at prior occasions. This one at least fits into the palm of my hand and, when the camera rewinds, it doesn't sound like a bomb timer counting down. (Although I will admit that when I asked a tourist to take a picture of Dujka, Claudius, and me, she became very disoriented when she couldn't find the LCD monitor and I had to explain to her how to use a camera that requires film. And then she mocked me.) But at least my camera size is getting closer to modern times. :-)

SPF 45...and then some.

I've spent more time in the sun in the last week then I have in the last four years. The last time I found myself exposed to the sun this often was the summer after my junior year of college, the last summer I worked at the Sioux City Explorers ballpark. While I didn't exactly have a golden tan that year, I could pass more for a living body than the deathlike status I've evolved into since starting to work in Corporate America.

I can always tell when I'm starting to get sun because a) I suddenly become more freckle than skin, and b) my previously existing freckles turn a funky shade of green. Think Gumby developing the same skin disease that Michael Jackson allegedly has. Despite a bottle of SPF 45 and my forcing Dujka and Claudius to lay in the shade of palm trees any time we go to the beach, I shall be returning to Kansas City green.

At least I'll match the Christmas decorations.

Sand People

Hawai'i is beautiful. Beautiful...and hot and humid. Despite surviving an entire month of 100+ degree weather in July in KC, my body is still cringing at the temps here. So I'm clad in tank tops and skirts, exposing people here to the blinding whiteness of my midwestern "tan".

Between Dujka's work schedule, we've managed to squeeze in quite a bit. The Dole Plantation, downtown Waikiki, the set of Lost, North Shore, the Ala Moana Center. Phew. Today we're headed to another beach and town and a macademia nut farm. Tomorrow is Pearl Harbor and the Flea Market.

While at the Lost set, we decided to lay out on the beach. All the beaches in Hawaii are public, so at no point in time can the Lost security guards kick you off the beach. (Although the one security officer that was there watched us the entire time, like we might suddenly rush the church that Mr. Eko built or something.) The section of the beach is in a residential section, but the beach was pretty quiet with only a handful of people scattered across it, unlike the beach in downtown Waikiki or the beach images of Hawaii that seem to accompany the brochures that travel agencies use.

I'm not sure how this happened, but by the end of the laying out on the beach portion, I was caked from head to foot in sand. Claudius and Michelle just had a few pieces of sand wrapped around their feet and ankles. You know, from where they had actually touched the beach, unlike me, who only stepped on the beach, yet found sand plastered across my hips and chest. Maybe it's because I had slathered myself in SPF 45 a few hours before, but regardless, sand everywhere. I couldn't brush it off; it clung to me in all the uncomfortable spots. Which reminded me that I don't like to be dirty and beaches make me slightly uncomfortable. Uncomfortable like I've-got-sand-in-my-eye sort of way.

The only conclusion that I can draw is that I am a novice beach goer, while Michelle and Claudius are professionals. Either that, or they have struck a deal with the sand devil and have become exempt from sand sticking to the weird body parts.

Aloha, Baby

I made it to Hawai'i.

Not only did Dujka lei me at the airport, she made me a fabulous welcome poster that is prominently displayed in her apartment (and she cut out the letters by hand!).

You don't get a welcome like that at the Four Seasons.

Eat the Megan

Looking through some of my previous posts, I'm surprised that I have neglected to discuss Subway.

The women at Subway love Tom and me. There's Debbie, who is probably in her late 40s, early 50s; the cute blond girl, who is probably in her early 20s and is dating a guy who works at the same place that Tom and I do; and the man who Tom and Mike have deemed Chips-and-a-Drink Guy (because he usually runs the cash register during the lunch hour and never neglects to say "Do you want chips and a drink?" before taking your money).

If Debbie likes you, she teases you. If she likes you and you're female, she calls you Missy because it gives some familiarity without having to remember your name. If the Cute Blond Girl likes you, she smiles while she adds the toppings to your sandwich; if Chips-and-a-Drink Guy likes you, he tries to guess what sandwich you ordered. Tom and I are so in with them.

Tom and I go to Subway at least once a week. We didn't discover how much they liked us until the week the toaster oven broke. When people found out that the toaster oven was going to be out of commission for a few days, they decided to go elsewhere for lunch. Tom and I are dedicated -- we eat our sandwiches toasted or untoasted. The place was deserted during the middle of the lunch hour, which rarely happens, so we had a chance to talk with Debbie and Cute Blond Girl (Chips-and-a-Drink Guy was mysteriously absent for several weeks, leading Tom to worry as to what sort of fate had met Chips-and-a-Drink Guy). Debbie and Cute Blond Girl referred to us as being "some of our favorite customers" because apparently we're polite and always smiling when we come in. Cute Blond Girl told me that I was the first unsnobby girl she had met from the company where we work. They then proceeded to give us free cookies.

Anyway, this past Friday, Tom and I made a stop at Subway. We walked in right before the rush started, making us the head of the line.

Now, I have to preempt what I'm about to say here with the statement that I realize that my taste buds are not five star. I've been known to eat the same thing for dinner weeks in a row with no variance. Just like my Subway sandwich: I've found something that works, and I stick with it. Tom finds this a little odd, and occasionally he'll poke fun at me for doing so. The Subway women think this is hilarious.

On Friday, I ordered what Tom now deems "The Megan": turkey on six-inch wheat bread, provologne cheese, toasted, with lettuce, green peppers, black olives, just a few onions, mayonnaise, and salt-and-pepper. I order it the same way, in this exact order, every time; it just makes sense as this is how the condiments are arranged from left to right in the topping line.

Debbie and Cute Blond Girl know that I order the same sandwich; I like to think that they think it's endearing. But Tom turned to Debbie on this particular day and said "Hmm, I think I'll have The Megan as well." And proceeded to order my sandwich, which immediately set me into a tizzy for him mocking me, and caused the Subway women to burst into giggles.

The chaos held up the lunch line, and we started getting dirty looks as Tom ordered my sandwich and I shook my fist at him. When he finished, I told Cute Blond Girl that this was what I had to deal with all the time, and she reassured me by saying, "It's okay; he didn't order it as well as you do." Because I say "please" for every topping I ask for and "thank you" once she finishes.

So, really, I have no conclusion for this little story other than the Subway women know Tom and me too well; I could eat the same thing every day; and Tom often eats the veggie patty sandwich, which makes me gag a little. I'll buy your next Subway sandwich if you're the first person to order The Megan and e-mail me to tell me what you think of it. If you can get Subway to name the sandwich after me, I'll buy you two sandwiches from Subway.

Numbers

8 days until Halloween and Allison's birthday.

9 days until I have to be moved out of my apartment.

3 boxes packed.

10 days until Tom's birthday.

11 days until I leave for Hawaii (and see Dujka!!).

18 consecutive days I will have off from work starting November 2.

22 days until Thanksgiving.

24 days until I can move into my new apartment.

27 days since my last post.

6 minutes I spent trying to come up with some incredibly witty number to end the post with, but failed.

Ryne

I always thought my ability to bore men to sleep only impacted men my own age. Apparently I can make anyone fall asleep.