Voila la new template!

I love Blogger. This was seriously the easiest redesign that I think is possible.

The only problem I'm having is that my picture won't align in the center, which is absolutely driving me insane. I've tried all the limited HTML tricks that I know, so if anyone can help a girl out and tell me how to fix it, please do! [edit: figured it out for myself. By doing a hotsheet search for "center image html". That required a great deal of the internet knowhow, eh? Turns out you just put <...center...>and <.../center...> (minus the ellipses, that's just so blogger doesn't center the word "and" on a seperate line) around the image source tag, and it all goes to happy-ville. Hoorah! Furthermore, it was even simpler than the other ways I had tried. Blargh.]

So, the picture. Why this particular picture? No real reason. I was playing with Photoshop and I wanted to take a picture of something interesting that I like a lot, and I noticed it. I got it in Washington D.C. when I was eighteen, in Chinatown-- the only Chinatown I've ever been in. It's a jade egg, and the dragon is painted (by hand, probably by some poor child who had been working 18 hours already that day) onto it. Anyway, I think it's cool looking, and one of the pictures I took brought out the detail pretty well (for my shitty camera), so I ran with it. What was supposed to be a self-taught lesson on photoshop turned into the inspiration for this template. The vast majority of this template is from this guy (why thank you!), it's one of the available quickie templates available from blogger. All I did was replace the Title area with the image (and then recolor the image about fifty times and re-upload to flickr *cough cough*), and change a few colors around. Oh yeah, and redo the "About Me" section so I don't have to look at that picture of me any more. It's still available in the profile if you want to see me-- just click on "view my complete profile."

I dunno, I think I'd prefer some brighter colors, but for now this works fine. I am proud of my first attempt at photoshop, even though I know all the people who are, you know, good with photoshop are covering their eyes and cringing right now at this image. And it was fun to do!

Under construction.

I simply can't resist getting into blogger and fucking up this site as much as possible in the name of change. Working on a new look, so if this site is looking shitty? Well, hopefully that will change. I was going to take this post down, but... I'm not!

No longer under la construction!

Dork of the Year

Yes, yet another incident that will fill me with shame for the remainder of my life (or until I forget about it, whichever comes first). Honestly, you’d think that after a while the loss of dignity would be complete and you just would endure life’s humiliations unscathed and blush-free.

This one is truly a classic indication of what makes me such a loser.

So, Saturday night I’m working a closing shift. We finish up early, so I head back to the break room to get my stuff. As I’m heading back, I see the guy from plumbing polishing the displays for fashion plumbing (oooh, doesn’t that sound fancy? FASHION plumbing. You know what that means? Toilets. And bathtubs and sinks and vanities. My life is very glamorous, don’t you think?), and a guy from lumber and a guy from hardware watching him do it (well, and talking with him).
Of course, I just can’t resist the opportunity to make a smart-ass comment—it’s in my blood. “This poor guy does all the work, and you two just stand there and watch him?” or something to that effect. I also may have included some good-natured ribbing about the laziness of their respective departments (all in good fun, and I know everyone involved pretty well). I can’t remember the exact term because a few seconds later? Massive head trauma. Well, that may be a slight exaggeration.

So, I’ve worked at this particular home improvement warehouse for, what, close to two years? I nearly always take the same path to the break room, through the vanity aisle. You’d think I’d have figured out the layout pretty well, right?

Nope. As I’m trotting along, being a smart-ass, with my head turned to talk to them, what do I do? I crash into the huge round steel pillar that’s in the middle of the vanity aisle.
I don’t just run into it, I plow into the damn thing.

With my fucking head.

Hard enough to make a sound like a large metal gong. My head is a beater.

That isn’t enough, though. I have enough velocity going that after I run into the damn thing, WITH MY HEAD, that I rebounded off it and landed about two feet away from it.
I’m so surprised, that I say something that makes absolutely no sense.
“Oh, my gawd!”
In the most valley-girl-esque way possible. Very loudly, and sounding kind of offended. I think in some sense I was just trying to make sure that I could still talk, because I hit that fucker hard as hell, and I thought there may be some brain damage. The gong sound created by the impact of my head with the pillar is still reverberating when I bray that charming phrase.

At this point, all three of my fellow employees are staring at me with strange expressions on their faces. One of them asks if I’m okay. I don’t even remember if I responded, because I was so mortified I just tried to scurry out of sight as soon as possible. And snickered under my breath the whole way, because this really tickled my sense of the ridiculous.
They had all dispersed when I came out of the break room, which makes me nervous.

I’m not sure I can adequately describe in text the sheer idiocy of this whole scenario. It’s obscenely bad. If I had just not made the stupid remark (that wasn’t even very clever or funny), I would have avoided the whole thing, and the headache I’ve got right now—though I don’t think my head is going to bruise, huzzah.
Not to mention the gossip mill around the store, this will be remembered for at least a month… but hey, I deserve it for being such a doofus.

The moral of this story, kids, is that you should always look where you’re going.

But, you know, it could always be worse (there’s that optimistic side of me emerging again! Even though I had to stop about five times typing this out to rest my head on my hand and sigh at what a darkish loser I am, it could have been worse!).
Before I started working at said hardware store, a girl (that still works there, actually... she’s totally awesome) was stretching over the barrier between the returns desk and the customer service desk to get something (for reference, it’s a wall about an inch thick, and around 3-4 feet high), and… well, she flipped over the wall. Like, badly. I think she broke her arm.
But wait, cause it gets worse…
The security camera just happened to catch this graceful feat. And it made the rounds, because the LP (er, “loss prevention”) guy thought it was hilarious. Quite a few people who worked there at the time ended up seeing it, serendipitously captured by the security camera, and burned into their collective retinas. She was constantly teased about it for months. And, even though this happened quite a while before I started working there, I still heard about it eventually, which means the story is still making the rounds.
I’m nearly positive there aren’t any security cameras in fashion plumbing. For that I thank my lucky stars.

Also, w00t w00t! The perfect way to start off spring break… right?

Feel the power... of the PROCRASTINATORRRRR!

I hate physics. I'm so not good at it, and the worse thing is that it doesn't matter if I study my ass off for a test, I'm still going to get a shitty grade, which is very unusual for me.
This makes me put off studying until the last minute. Like, say I've got a physics test tomorrow morning. Which I do. And I'm doing the homework due then... right now. I've only got 1 problem left out of the 20 assigned. And he drops a test, thank god, since I haven't studied, and my first two test grades have depressed me so.

So, while trying to procrastinate, I go to the section of my gateway where he lists the percentages of the grades. I get 100% on everything except the tests (his tests are unbelievably hard-- like you know how the book has problems in black (normal), problems in blue (intermediate) and problems in pink, which are "challenging"... his problems would be red, which leads right back to the lack of motivation to study). It's only the tests that make me want to cry like a sissy-girl. So... if I got a fifty percent on the tests and the final, and 100% on everything else (so far, I've done a little better than that), I could still get a 70% overall. With his grading scale, that makes me a B. God knows I hate B's, and I really don't want another one, but... I honestly don't know if I can do any better in this class.

The point, besides me whining about my class is this: in procrastination, I have found justification for procrastinating with this class. To a degree.

Also, I will very much hate myself in the morning, so back to physics homework I go.

Even after all these years...

My. Cat. Is. Still. Trying. To. Kill. Me.

The more things change, the more they stay the same. Actually, my cat never really changes very much, so I guess he's just going for the staying of the same.
I was going to try and get a picture of him sleeping innocently on the bed, but no, he's decided that my lap is the spot to be since I've decided to get up and type. And as I'm, you know, supposed to be asleep, I'm not in the most-dressed state right now. So no picture. But I assure you, he's all about the innocent sleepy face right now.

Sure, there is a slight difference between now and that time almost exactly a year ago. He's trying to sleep on my neck instead of my head. I do try to be agreeable, I don't throw him off of me or anything, though the urge may become strong. But I've got some of that there insomnia tonight (I went to bed at 2 am instead of staying up any longer to "do my physics homework" which never seems to get done anyway), so I'm more fidgety then usual.
I managed to roll over without dislodging him completely as he's an onery little bastard. He hung on for the ride. Now he's no longer laying on my arm, so I figure I can just subtly slide out from under his paws and then he'll curl up next to me and fall asleep.
Nope. Doesn't work that way.
I wait a few minutes to make sure he's asleep, then slowly slide my entire body forward and away from him.
Guess what his response is?
He tightens his paws around my throat (yes, directly above my windpipe, the delightful little sprite), waits till I've stopped moving, then steps his back feet forward a few inches so we're both in the exact same position as a minute ago, except three inches farther from the wall.
I repeat this a few times, hoping he'll get tired of doing this and just climb off me, for pete's sake...

As I should have figured out thirteen years ago, he just doesn't work that way. If anything, he's more determined to stay right where he is, and clings onto my neck even harder every time I try (and then I choke).

All I can say is that it's good for him that I love the little [obnoxious] shit. I've heard cat tastes a lot like chicken, after all, and he sure is a pain in the ass. I mean, neck.

Too scarred to think of a title

Ugh. Had a fun day waiting for the metrolink yesterday.

I’m late (not unusual), due to the wonderful detour they have on Skinker at Forest Park Blvd. Extreme inconvenience so they can do construction on a piece of concrete 20 yards long, which incidentally was supposed to only be from Friday until Monday. Riiight. It literally doubled my driving time. Moving on.

So, I get to the station just in time to miss the train. I listened to Fall Out Boy for a few minutes (really enjoying their album, but I’m only on the third day of listening to it, so we’re still newlyweds), then decide to go on the platform so I could read my physics book without worrying about missing the next train.

Unfortunately, someone is already on the bench, so I figured I’d just stand there and read (the book only weighs 10 pounds or so...). Around this time a metrolink police officer tells an old man further down the platform that he can’t smoke on the platform (a rule that is rarely enforced, to my chagrin). While hobbling down the platform, he says something to the effect of, “That’s a really big book.” Since I’m the only person with a book, I smile politely and go on reading. I have a physics test next week, and I was not really in the mood to talk to anyone, what with the unbelievably shitty traffic, and the need to read my damn book.

Since I obviously want to be left alone, he stand about six inches away from me (though I am ON THE PLATFORM) and smokes. Anyone who knows me also knows how I love that delicious carcinogenic cigarette smoke. And asks me what I’m studying. I just say, “Physics,” and go on reading with the futile hope that he can take a hint and leave me alone. And possibly walk OFF the platform so I don’t have to stink like second-hand smoke. Nope. He introduces himself. His name is forever lost in the memory of what happens next.
I hate to be rude. I guess that’s true for everyone, we are socialized to be polite. That’s why I didn’t walk away from him when he talked to me, or when he’s blowing smoke in my face. So I say, “I’m Chloe.”
He’s holding out his hand, I thought so we could shake hands, so I reach over for a quick shake and then hope I can continue reading my physics book, and that he’ll go away.
No, he didn’t try to shake my hand. He kissed it. Twice. And he would have continued doing so if I hadn’t (as politely as possible) yanked my hand away from him as fast as I (politely!) could.

Now, there is a bit missing in this description.
This man is completely toothless. Ever been kissed by a person who doesn’t have a tooth to their name? I’ve got a minor fact to share with you. It’s very wet. No, that doesn’t really describe the feeling that overtook me at that moment.

THE BACK OF MY HAND WAS COATED WITH A TOOTHLESS STRANGER’S SALIVA. A creepy toothless stranger who kisses the hands of random girls who he meets on a train platform; girls that obviously just want to read their book quietly without being disturbed. God only knows where else that mouth had been.
At this point, I was almost frozen in shock. Who does that? I desperately continued pretending to read my book. I thought it would be really rude to wipe the back of my hand off on my pants (though it’s probably a faux pas to slobber all over someone’s hand, too), and I was trapped between a crazy toothless man and the glass area around the bench (if you’ve even been on a metrolink platform, you know what I’m talking about), so I couldn’t walk away without being really obnoxious about it. Also, if I wiped my hand off, I’d have to burn those jeans. This old man was getting skeevier by the second.

About that time, a kid occupying the nearest bench asked me which school I went to. I was so very happy to have someone else there! So, I talked to him for a minute or two, hoping creepy old man would take the hint and go away. Which, of course, he didn’t.

Creepy old man decides to assure me he’s “a gentleman.” This would have been more believable if he wasn’t ogling the front of my v-neck at that moment. That slightly caused me to yank closed my coat—there is a limit to politeness, after all.

Then creepy old man started mumbling incoherently a rant about the police, so far as I could tell. I was still trying to read my physics book, and ignoring him. Of course, he seemed to want confirmation that his incoherent rant was absolutely correct, because he started saying, “Right? The police *something something something blah*,” and staring at me. Afraid he would nudge me or move closer (if that was possible), I said, “Yuh-huh.” I can be coherent too. Satisfied with this, he continued mumbling.

I’ve never been so happy to see a train arrive in my entire life. This includes the time it was snowing and I was wearing a tee-shirt. And all the other times where seeing the train coming made my heart leap out of my chest with sheer joy. That train pulled forward with a chorus of angels singing.

I got on the train and went as far back as I could (I normally sit or stand right at the front because it means less of a walk when I get to the campus, which means I may be marginally less late). He followed me back, at least until I hid behind a tall guy, at a place with no additional places to stand.

And my hand was still wet with the bodily fluids of a stranger.

Very glad he had a different stop than me, though he still kept smiling at me creepily and trying to edge closer.

Later that night, after washing my hand vigorously several times, I noticed there were two small red spots on my right hand’s middle knuckle (the local of the main attack). I couldn’t figure out what the hell they were until this morning (I hadn’t skinned my knuckle lately, or anything that would cause swelling and redness).

Are you ready for this?



He gave me hand hickies.

I shit you not. Hickies. On my hand. From a strange, random, creepy, crazy, toothless, black, old man.

Don’t you envy my life? Don’t you wish you could have memories like this haunting your dreams?
I thought so.

Lesson learned: Don’t make eye contact with creepy people at the metrolink station.

I come off a little ageist in this entry, but I normally like old people. They’re so cute and wrinkly, and they are normally very polite and have adorable facts about the past. It’s only the scary ones that disturb me and give me nightmares.

Things you'd never expect to find in a hardware store.

So, as we all know, hardware stores sell... hardware. And, you know, large pieces of wood (ooh, think it's getting dirty now... just wait!) And... uh, hammers, and tools, and such things.

There are, however, some things that sound... unlikely as a hardware store product. Admittedly, it's mostly just the name of the product, not the function.

I sadly lost the piece of paper that I had this information written on, so I'm going from memory here. Please forgive inconsistencies.

1. CRAB-EX.

Now, when you see a product named CRAB-EX (yes, all caps), maybe those of y'all with a cleaner mind think about... well, something other than public lice. Me? Right to the pubes. This sounds like a product sold in a drugstore... that you buy while wearing dark glasses, a large hat, and, if at all possible, a trench-coat. And you pay cash, so it can't be traced back to you.

2. 1 inch shaft with 2 balls.

This is actually a genuine item description. I accidentally typed in an item number wrong once, and this popped up on the screen. I suppressed my immature giggles, and told the customers I had to write something down, just a second. Then I removed it and typed in the item number correctly.

Then, cause I can't keep something so hilariously immature and amusing to myself, I shared with a few people over the course of the years. Who find it so amusing (I only show people of similar maturity levels) that they write down the item number and share it, you know, with a few people. The first time someone showed me the item was a little bizarre. I said, "Hey, I discovered that!" To which they replied, "No, so-and-so showed it to me." Pbbbt. Well, I showed them (I really had). I guess I can live without the credit for this awesome discovery, but I may cry and throw the occasional fit.
I think this will eventually become an urban legend of the home improvement warehouse, possibly with an additional storyline of revenge against a cheating ex with a not so large tool ifyaknowhatI'msayin'here. Just a thought. Feel free to elaborate.

So, honestly... just two examples. Lost the rest.
Now for the boring truth:
CRAB-EX. Merely a crabgrass preventative/killer. With a little fertilizer thrown in. That's not so sassy or interesting, huh?
1" shaft w/ 2 balls. Doorknob. I know, I was dissapointed too. You can go get one out of hardware right now-- aisle 17.

Well. It's been a very long and interesting day. And now it's six am, and I'd say it's time to go to fucking bed. (The use of the word "fucking" probably seems unnecessary in this case... However, I just went this entire entry without the gratuitous use of the "f" word, and I simply COULD NOT live with that.)
G'night!

Jesus fresh!

Oh my fucking Jesus Christ, it is REALLY hot in here.
It’s hotter than it was in P. Chem Lab yesterday, and we had a thermometer (it measured temp in Celsius, though, of course, so I had to convert to Farhenheit… bottom line, it was 89.6 degrees in there). Sweet lord of mercy, I think I’m going to die in here. So hot. I’m actually sweating. It’s gross.

Speaking of Jesus Christ (I am also the queen of segues), while I was bombing my Physics test this morning (I HATE physics 2, I feel like a complete moron), a song kept playing in my head. Busy trying to figure out… something… da da something (UGH), I just tried to ignore it. Then, while walking to my English class (where I had a paper due, because I must never be allowed to dedicate my full study potential to my physics test), I evaluated what the fuck it was, since it wouldn't go away.
That brought up a whole memory.
Here we go.
Back when I was a wee good little Christian girl (ah, the… er… good ol’ days), there was a kid in the youth group named Ryan, I believe. He was real tall and gangly, and he wore a long black trench coat. Now that I think back, he came off kinda manic, but at the time I thought he was absolutely hysterical.
So, sometimes, he’d get up in front of the youth group (he was a real ham too), and he’d sing a little song.
Picture a gangly 16-year-old here.
Singing in a high-pitched girly happy voice…
“I wish I had a little white box to put my savior in! I’d take him out and hug his neck and share him with my friends!”
(Then he’d run over to someone and hand then an invisible, doll-sized Jesus and say in a Weird-Al-Yankovic kind of voice, “Here, take him.”)
Then he’d change to a deep demonic voice.
“I wish I had a little black box to put the devil in. I’d take him out and STOMP HIS FACE (imagine said gangly 16-year-old stomping vigorously on the floor, hard enough to make it shake) and put him right back in.”

Yeah. Youth groups. Hard to believe we were all only high on life, huh? Well, okay, most of the kids there probably weren’t as innocent as I was, so maybe they had some booze or cigarettes in the car.