The Oscar Recap

Some random notes while watching the Oscars:

I forgot what time they started and so I missed Chris Rock's opening monologue, which was the part of the show I had wanted to see the most. This stuff always happens to me. I wait around, counting down the minutes until the show starts and I make sure I've cleared my schedule to watch this stuff, and then I totally forget what I'm doing and I show up twenty minutes late AND after Morgan Freeman's acceptance speech. Ugh.

I know that all presenters get the same gift basket, but I think that if you have to give out a crappy award, then you should get a few extra goodies in your basket just for that. I mean, they have these people introducing "Best Sound Mixing." The only thing worse than introducing these awards was being the poor recipient who had to give the acceptance speech from the audience. Seriously, can they send a more obvious message that this award doesn't matter and nobody wants to see it?

On an extended note, I can't deal with these awards nobody cares about. I would so much rather see an awards show with just the major awards, acting and directing or whatever, and then more Chris Rock stand-up. Is anbody thinking this is a bad idea? What would you rather listen to? Chris Rock making fun of Jude Law, or some guy accept his award for Best Boom Operator?

Just once, I'd like someone who says, "Wow, I can't even begin to thank everyone," to actually not begin to thank everyone.

The song choice "Learn to Be Lonely" was the most depressing part of the Oscars, even more depressing than seeing Johnny Depp looking like Willy Wonka on crack. I mean, the lyrics were just ridiculously depressingly sad and I felt like they should have run those Zoloft ads afterwards for all the women who were at those parties where they proclaim that it's "girls night" so they can chow down. That, by the way, I never understood. How can anybody watch the Oscars and see Hilary Swank's backless dress and then think, "well, it is GIRLS night, so I guess I can have that 20th chicken wing"?? Probably the same way these women can convince themselves that it is a special occasion by calling it "girls night," when really, for these women, every night is girls night.

I'm not into these speeches where the winners thank everyone and tell everybody that they were just these simple folks with a dream and a big trailer, and they made it big. It's as though they're telling folks that you can be from a trailer park, go to the local Wal Mart talent contest, and bam! you're in Hollywood with your own personal assistant. Now, seriously, isn't that a bad idea for a message to send? I think so. I'd rather Hilary Swank get up there and say, "Yeah, I made it, but it was hard work. You guys should concentrate on a smaller goal. Like a GED." I know it sounds rough, but really, I would rather have Billie Jane Wy-Trash focusing on real goals, like getting a home without wheels, than spending her days practicing her Oscar acceptance speech. Just a thought.

They have the "speed it up/shut it up" music for a reason. Granted, I get that it's a significant moment in these people's lives and Clint Eastwood deserves his thirty-second love fest. I even liked Hilar Swank's final words to him. Touching. But I'm just kind of annoyed about the whole thing already, because so many people use the extension after they don't make the most of the time they've just had. If Hilary had cut out her whole trailer park bit, she could have written a book on Clint Eastwood. That's what happens.

Did Tom Cruise really listen to that for two years, or did he hire an interpreter?

And back to Clint Eastwood for a moment: it took me the whole show to figure out that the woman next to him was his wife, not his daughter. There's a problem with that.

As a post Oscar note, I was watching the Oprah Oscar show and she had Chris Rock as a guest. So he's out there and she says to him, "The one thing that didn't work for me was the Catherine Zeta-Jones bit." Oprah thinks that she owns everything, doesn't she? I mean, is there ANYTHING she thinks can happen without her weighing in? I just think it's ridiculous that she has to deem everything good or bad according to the gospel of Oprah. You don't see her guests coming on saying, "Yeah, you've had a good career, but the one thing that didn't work for me was that whole 'Beloved' movie." No. Why? Because politeness, that's why.

Renee Zellweger did something to her face, so that it just scrunches up all the time. She's constantly walking around as though someone shot off a rubberband and it got caught streched out on her face. That makes absolutely no sense. But then again, neither does her new mask.

I feel bad for the dead folks whose pictures don't get any applause.

I used to think it was impossible for men to mess up their outfit for these awards shows, but then I saw Johnny Depp and Robin Williams.

The Roomus Awards

In honor of the Academy Awards, I have decided to come up with a list of my own awards. I would have written "The First Annual Roomus Awards," but then I realized that if I make this an annual event and am still writing in this thing as a semi-professional next year and the years to come, I will have reached rock bottom and really will have no credibility in giving out any real or sarcastic awards. So instead, they're just the Roomus Awards. Plus, what if I want to give out awards again in July? I have to think of these things before putting arbitrary titles everywhere.

Without further ado (and the cheesy comic intro monologue) the awards are:

The Roomus Award for Best Comeback: my brother, Michael, for the anti-feminist remark of the century

My brother was the clear underdog in the situational set-up for his comeback, when my friend Amanda, who has a good few inches and about six years on the kid, told my brother to "Man up" and play the card game already. My brother could have said nothing. He could have gotten upset. Instead, he said, "Woman down, Amanda," and cleared the way for this landmark victory.

The Roomus Award for Best New Television Superstar: Natalie, for "My Super Sweet 16"

Hey, at least this way people would be talking about her party "for at least a month." Ava was a runner-up for this category, especially when she pulled out all the stops for the dramatic fake-crying at Dolce when her folks didn't give her the Range Rover, but Natalie beat her out with this gem: "I think people didn't like me, like, because I am just so much prettier." Congratulations, Princess.

The Roomus Award for Best Career Move: tie between the Olsen twins and Lindsay Lohan for turning 18

Here's the rationale: if MK, Ash, and Linds are still under 18, they can't be on the covers of Maxim, GQ, whatever - because it's seen as a little pedophiliac (word?) to be ogling a minor. Plus, they can all control their money now so they don't have their stage parents taking all their money to buy themselves Botox and can put the money towards something for themselves - like fake boobs.

Also, for Mary Kate, this move was especially important because it meant she could check herself out of her "eating disorder" clinic and continue her "non-drug" ways on the party circuit. Clutch.

The Roomus Award for Best Away Message: Mark, for spreading Christmas cheer

I came back to my room one Saturday afternoon to be pathetic and look up people's away messages when I came across the King of all Away Messages. In a plain Times New Roman font, unassumming RA Mark wrote the following: "Merry Christmas you little shits. Enjoy the noise violation." A beautiful moment, and a true triumph for the Instant Messaging world.

The Roomus Award for the Best Failed Internet Search: Vicky, for Thai food

"Ahhhh! The website for Brown Sugar cafe isn't brownsugar.com!"

The Roomus Award for Character Deserving of His Own Sitcom: Kip

I am convinced that Napoleon Dynamite wouldn't be anything without Kip. I mean, from the cheese grating moments to "Your Mom goes to college," the guy stole the show. And when LaFawnduh showed up... put this guy in the comedic pantheon of pathetic losers. Can you imagine a show that chronicles the new life of Kip and LaFawnduh? MTV should contact me.

The Roomus Award for Most Obliviously Disgusting Salesperson: CampCo cashier

This woman in CampCo rang up my Snapple and magazine, took my money, wiped her nose, blew her nose, gave back change, and bagged my items all with the same hand and without any look of apology. This, I believe, deserves some sort of consideration.

The Roomus Award for Best Abbreviation: Vicky (repeat winner), for Burrit

Apparently, the "o" on the end just isn't worth the effort. I give her this award because surprisingly (or, more accurately, sadly) it's caught on for us.

The Roomus Award for Best Insult: Joe, for El Limon

In perhaps the most brilliant moment of the year, Joe titled the Dimwit "The Lemon," (think the car) to describe the failure that she is. As we have often said now, some people should just be sent back to the factory. There's just always a defective one in every batch.

The Roomus Award for Most Random Date Requirement: ----, for the steak exception

So he took me to Longhorn Steakhouse, where I ordered chicken, and before the meal arrived, he said the following (on the first date):

"I'm glad you didn't order steak. I don't like when girls order steak."

"Oh."

"Or pizza."

"Oh."

The Roomus Award for Best Question at a Press Junket: The Tonight Show Comic, for asking Derek Jeter about his preference

"So, what's better... being in the all-star game, or Mariah Carey?" If only all journalists could be THIS good.

The Roomus Award for Best Football Cheer: Katie Long, for the touchdown climax

She claims that my mocking of her cheer has caused her to be completely self-conscious while watching the Superbowl, but you know what, I'm thinking that's okay. When the Patriots ran for a touchdown, I looked over to see an entranced KL chanting, "Go... go.. go go go go GO GO GO GO GGOOOOOOOO!" And when it was over (the, umm, touchdown), she could finally (thank god) relax.

The Roomus Award for Best Idea-in-Theory-But-Would-Never-Really-Work: Andy, for his naptime locale

I feel a little bad giving this award, but I think it's deserving. Andy came up with a good idea in theory: have a place where you can go and rent a bed for an hour so you can nap during the day. You can get coffee afterwards to wake yourself up. Actually, I'm not sure that he added that, but it's a good idea, so if he actually goes through with this (which could be disastrous, thus why he has the award) I should get some credit. But anyway, the catch was, obviously, that you can rent a bed only for one and sheets would be changed in between customers. Here's the problem: how many people do you know can just sleep in front of other people? I can't. I believe normal people can't. So he's going to have a group of total freaks sleeping in beds next to each other? Does anyone else think this spells disaster? I'm sorry to do it, but he's got to get this award.

The Roomus Award for Best Freak-out: The "True Life" groom, for bitching out his limo driver

MTV did this True Life series where they followed couples getting married, and this guy from New York told his limo driver that he was going to track him down and cut him up if he didn't show up right then. The best part was that he was saying all of this while stomping around this little suburban street in a three-piece all-white tuxedo.

The Roomus Award for Moment of the Year: The Boston Red Sox, for Oct. 17, 2004 - Oct. 27, 2004

No explanation necessary.

Real Quick: Moment of Despair

I just had this mment of complete despair, which reminded me of my patheticness. I was sitting on my bed, which is on those rackraisers so it's high up, and I was looking up stuff on the internet, watching the UConn-Pitt game (2:35 to go UConn 66, Pitt 63) and I needed to turn up the volume. I looked around for the remote control and ... there it was, across the room from me. Absolutely no way to get to the remote from my position, from stretching to my bed's furthest point, from balancing myself using the desk or shelf next to me. Nope. I would have to get up, walk about 1.5 feet, and get the remote. And when I realized it, at that moment, it was just despair.

It's pathetic, when you think about it.

Actually, you don't even have to think about it.

Major Oversight + Bonus Story from Hell

In my "For Real" post, I listed Paul as the best SED advisor I have had. Holy crap! I totally omitted Johanna, who not only was a stellar SED advisor, but has continued to be my Advisor for Life. The capital letters are deserved because there is not a life matter that I do not consult her on. Usually this takes place over breakfast at Zaftig's, or while we are driving around trying to figure out toll plazas on our way to Target, Old Navy, or the Gap outlet. She's given me advice from what classes to take, to how to apply to be an RA, to what color shirt looks best.

The one thing is, though, Johanna once fixed me up with this guy. She told me how great he was, and there was a certain reason I didn't want to go out with him, but I was too embarrassed to admit why. I thought I'd be called horrible, so I said okay, I'll go out with him. Also, she threatened me a few times. She told me she had met him at a bachelorette party she had been to (no, he wasn't PART of the party plans) and he was just so nice that she had to introduce us, because otherwise, she would have gone out with him. This should have tipped me off, because who really meets a guy in a bar (I know, I know) and then introduces him to her friend as though this is going to work? In hindsight, this idea has trainwreck written all over it.

I have no idea why I still went. Actually, I do. See, Johanna guilt tripped me into it and was like, "Ok, I will never introduce you to another good guy if you don't go out with him." Crap. So I decided to just go.

First sign of trouble. Wait, we already had this. Okay, second sign of trouble: the phone call.

She calls him up, hands me the phone, we have about thirty seconds of awkward silence/"do you really want to go out" talk and then decide he will call me and we'll set something up. I go back into the living room to watch TV and die.

We decided to go see a movie. This is a pretty safe thing, because I'm not into this guy before I've even met him, so at least I can watch a movie and then possibly have to sit through an awkward dinner, but at least there's movie conversation to carry us through. ... Right?

Bad Sign #3: When he shows up (15 minutes late) and we get the tickets ("I guess I have to get your ticket because I asked you out." "No, no, it's okay, I can get it." "No, you really can't because I'd feel even worse than I will when I'm out $6." Niiiice.)

Good thing #1: There's no time to talk to him because we're late for the movie, so it's already started when we arrive.

Things Are Getting Bad Sign #4: Movie ends. I liked it. He hated it. "I don't like things that make you think." Then, "I guess we should get dinner still." Oh yeah. Sign me up to continue this fun. But I still figure I shouldn't be horrible, so I agree and we go back to Bertucci's at Kenmore Square. On our way over, we have the following conversation. You might wonder how I remember this, word for word. The short answer is it's impossible to forget a gem like this.

Incidentally, this also moves us to our next checkpoint, Nobody Should Ever Be Put Through This Bad Sign #5:

"So, Johanna said you were transferring to BU," I begin the conversation.

"No."

"Umm, yeah, she said you were transferring to be an English major at BU this fall?"

"No... I'm at Bunker Hill."

"Oh. ... Well, are you an English major there?"

"Umm... yeah... I guess."

"Oh... okay. So, umm, who's your favorite author?"

"R.L. Stine."

"R.L. Stine?"

"Goosebumps."

"Right."

Thankfully, an opportunity to thank and say goodbye to the T driver stopped this conversation. When we got to Bertucci's, I got another repreive when I got to talk to the hostess and waiter. Things were looking up!

We order, saying nothing to each other except:

"They have good pizza here."

"Yeah."

"Pizza is so good."

"Yeah."

You Have Officially Reached Rock Bottom Bad Sign #6: After we place our order, the conversation moves to this:

"So, after this, we'll go back to my place, have sex?"

"Hahahahaha."

"Is that funny?"

"Excuse me?"

"Why is that funny?"

"Were you serious?"

"Well... I mean, I paid for the movie, I'm going to pay for dinner. I figure it's fair."

"Hahahahaha."

"Why are you laughing?"

"Umm, sorry."

"So?"

"Oh, no, not going to happen. Sorry."

"Okay. Well, I'll be right back."

And here, folks, is where we reach our finale. (As in, yes, it can get even worse, even when you think you've had all you can handle.)

You Thought You'd Had the Worst But Haha No Bad Sign #7: After I disappoint him with my laughter at his request, he gets up for a moment. And then another moment goes by. And a minute. Then a few minutes. And then it hits me: this guy's not coming back. I look for a coat, but it's summer and 85 degrees, so there's really nothing to come back for. Finally, like a huge saucepan right across the face, it his me hard: I. Am. A. Loser.

When the waiter came back with the food, he just looked at me sadly. I explained what happened to him. His face literally went from shock to sad when he first heard what happened to when he reacted to my patheticness at not only having a horrible, horrible date but being stood up WHILE out with him. It was like, "Oh my god, I can't believe this happened" to "Oh my god, I can't believe this happened to YOU" in about two seconds flat. So sad.

In a move that I have yet to determine is nice or "I'll take pity on her," another waiter I've seen there several times came over and ate the guy's abandoned meal with me on his break and then didn't charge me for either. It made me feel better I suppose, but the real satisfaction came after Bertucci's, on my walk home.

It dawned on me, as I left the restaurant, that it really wasn't my fault all this had happened. No no. Johanna was going to hear from me. Luckily, she was there and picked up her phone. I told her what happened.

"What???" she asked. "You're kidding!" I hear her relay the story to her fiance, who in turn laughs in the background.

"No," I say. "I'm not even exaggerating."

"I'm really sorry."

"It's okay."

"I guess I was more drunk than I thought." (Incidentally, Thing She Should Have Said Much, Much, Much Earlier Bad Sign #8)

Anyhow, I don't want this to seem like I don't absolutely think the world of Johanna, because I do. And I would still go out with a guy she recommends. There's a catch, of course, which I told her that night.

"Next time, you have a party, invite me, invite the guy. This way, if he's horrible, you have to deal with him, too."

"Okay, it's a deal," she said. And she's stuck to it. Sign #5890234109 why I think she's the best.

Oh, and a quick side note here: Raph and Doug win huge points for being Roomus advocates. When someone wants to make a T-shirt in your honor, and when someone tells random people how much they like reading what you write, you've got it made. They always make my day, for real.

Get Ready to Ramble

A few random ramblings of the morning:

I have a major dilemma with NutriGrain bars. They kind of drive me nuts, because the thing is, I don't think I like them at all, but I eat them for breakfast or lunch because they are quick and easy and come in boxes that I can pick up at CampCo. Here's the real weirdness: when I actually taste them, I think, hey, these things are pretty good. But, whenever I think about having to eat them, I get a little nauseous. I wonder why that is.

Jennifer Lopez and Marc Anthony's duet had to be the weirdest moment at the Grammy's, even weirder than Loretta Lynn's dress. Who thought of that peach colored bedroom set? A., I hate the color peach and it reminds me of cheap Spanish soap operas or the faux decorating high class period of the 80s and B. I think Marc Anthony looks like a mutant. Seriously, who chose that (the set and Marc Anthony)? Jennifer Lopez lost all credibility with me (the little shred that she had) when I saw her hubby. Who would choose that guy over Ben Affleck???

Also, on the note of Ben Affleck, I've been reading these reports about his hairy back or whatever. Apparently with his last gf in Boston, she complained about it to her best friend and then now Jennifer Garner's been complaining about it to her best friend. My question is this: what kind of best friend then goes and tells a NEWSPAPER? Does that not qualify you for the Worst Best Friend EVER Award? I think so. Also, Ben is hot. I don't care what anybody writes about anything.

I never really was into Snoopy or Winnie-the-Pooh. I remember in the sixth grade, Winnie and his friends were really big, but the truth is, I never watched Winnie-the-Pooh and when people are like, "Awwww, Winnie the Pooh!" I kind of have to pretend to be like, "Yeah... awwww," when in actuality, I'm just wondering where the thing's pants are. I just don't really get the whole fascination with this bear who wants some honey. I liked Charlie Brown and company, because I really liked his patheticness. I really did, so I guess I can take him out of this category. But recently it seems like everyone's into bringing back all these characters from their childhood. It's a little sick if you ask me. I don't want to see all these grown-ups walking around with Care Bear t-shirts, however much you liked them. (By the way, I had the most awesome Care Bear ever. It was Milkshake Bear and it was lavender with a picture of a purple milkshake with a pink striped straw, and I still think it was the most original thing ever. I sold it at a neighborhood tagsale for about 25 cents, which kind of depresses me now.)

I used to have these stretch jeans that I wore when I was in fourth grade. They weren't real denim material but they had the whole jean washed look. My mother told me they made me look like a major dork, but my friend Carrie had them and said they were the best things ever, so I also had to have them. Turns out, Mom was right.

Hmm. When I think about it, Carrie had a lot of things I wanted. I always liked her name, for one, and also she had a pretty cool room. She also had this stuffed animal dog, Oreo. I just thought this was the best dog ever, so I asked her where she got it and she said Ames. I remember being a snot and thinking, "Ugh, maybe I don't want it that much," but I guess I still did because I went to Ames and saved up my money and bought it. I still have it, which makes me feel even worse about selling Milkshake Bear.

I had a near-breakdown last Wednesday morning in class. My professor had us come in early at 8 AM to hear these guest spekers, and then he said he'd let us out at 10:50. We usually have class from 9-11:50, so this seemed fair. Well, 10:50 rolled around and no sign of stopping. In fact, at 10:54, the TA went into a whole new discussion and actually turned on her computer and started up a powerpoint presentation. Let me just say that this is, like, the biggest offense I can think of anyone doing to me. Seriously. Making me sit and listen to garbage past the time that the garbage is supposed to officially end should be outlawed. OUTLAWED. As in, stop double-spacing the ten commandment tablets and add room for this number eleven.

That's enough of that though.

I took like a two hour break between that paragraph and this one to go to Newbury Street and try to find some jeans at the Gap. My favorite jeans died. I can't bring myself to throw them away, but I also can't bring myself to wear them and frighten the world with their gaping holes everywhere. Sad. I can't find a replacement because the Gap hates me and stopped making my favorite jeans. I went back though, because the website said that they were now making my jeans again. I was real excited, too, but when I got there, they only had the new kind that I don't like. These things depress me. Also, the black shirt I had my heart set on had weird puffy sleeves. When the Gap fails me, there's not much hope left in life. But I continued on to American Eagle, where I tried on their jeans which were too short or too low, and I realized the entire journey was spiraling horribly down into unsalvagable doom faster than Britney Spears' career (that's a tough sell, that joke, and I realize it). And as it always turns out, the person who had no intention of buying anything - my good buddy Taldus - she found a cute shirt and her shopping day was complete. What did I end up buying? (This is after convincing myself that I have no money to spend on stupid stuff, only on essentials like new jeans and work clothes) I bought "While You Were Fucking Off" memo notes and a Magic 8 Ball. Oh, and a cool Believe poster about the Red Sox. And I wonder why I'm broke.

The Gnome

This happened to me. Exactly as it appears. Sigh.

Thursday morning, I was at the high school where I'll be student teaching. The classroom was empty except for me and my cooperating teacher. For privacy purposes, in case this story can be found and get me fired, I'll call him Mr. Helpful. Anyway, we were in the classroom and talking when this guy enters the room. He looks like he's at least 65 years old. I'm not talking a Michael Douglas 65 either; I'm talking a Mini-Me Grandfather (with a bit of Albert Einstein crazy hair) 65 years old. A real specimen.

So he comes in and says to me, "Hey, I've been meaning to introduce myself to you." And he does.

I introduce myself and ask how long he's been teaching at the high school.

"Oh no," he says. "I just started last week. I'm a student teacher."

Hmm. Okay. "Wow," I recover. "So, what are you teaching?"

"English."

"Right... what books? Grade level?"

The ironic part here is that I really didn't care much about either. Larry David, in Curb Your Enthusiasm does this great bit about the "stop n chat" which forces people to stop and have a meaningless conversation with each other just for the sake of politeness. It's so true. Think about how many times you've asked somebody how they're doing. You know the truth? Nobody cares. Do everyone a favor. When someone says hi, end it there. No need to ask how anyone is doing. No need to pretend like you're interested.

Anyway, so I'm standing there awkwardly trying to make conversation and pretend to be a socially-capable person. So I asked him where he was enrolled or whatever, and then totally ignores the question and says (and this has to get its own paragraph):

"Wow, I'm so glad you've shown as much interest in me as I have in you."

Thinking: "What the hell kind of creepy comment is that? I am so glad that Mr. Helpful is here in the room so that I have a witness to the weirdness that is this gnome."

Facial Expression: Completely twisted in shock.

But I decide to keep with the polite "ignore his creepiness and mental illness and balding and fact that he is the size of my leg" and continue to pretend that this is a normal exchange.

"Oh." I look over at the computer, where Mr. Helpful is now checking his emails and I notice his shoulders moving up and down, but he doesn't look at all ready to get up and save me. Thanks, pal.

"Great," the mutant continues, not sensing the heaving shoulders of Mr. Helpful, or my pained expression, which I'm sure I just can't help by now. "So, I was thinking, you know, we could go for coffee some time and discuss student teaching."

If my life had a soundtrack, there would be one of those abrupt stops right here, when the track just gets to messed up that you hear that screeeeeeeeeeech. Sadly, that sound never arrived. Instead, I could now hear Mr. Helpful laughing quietly over by his computer.

Thankfully, the laughter was just loud enough for the creep to look over at him.

"Oh!" said Mr. I'm-Never-Going-To-Help-You, "Funny email, sorry!"

Yeah. Thankkkk you.

"I don't drink coffee," I tell him. True.

"Oh, well, even better, what about getting dinner on a Saturday.... night?"

I could feel myself begin to vomit. I really could. It's like one of those instances where you can swear that this isn't happening, that this is not your life. No, it cannot be that I am being asked out by a 65 year old mutant dwarf who I can't even say would easily be my grandfather without stifling the need to puke at the sight of my now-deformed family tree. No no no no.

"Well, what do you say?" Mr. Wonderful presses on, clearly reminding me that sadly, yes, this is my life. Die. Die die die die die.

"I have a boyfriend," I lie. Yeah. I don't even care.

"I'm not as old as you look," says the Moses gnome.

"Right."

"So if you know any friends..."

Who what? Would like to talk about student teaching with Albert Einstein's long lost dwarf brother? Who want to find out if the pot of gold is truly at the end of the true original rainbow? Who want to exprience the same humbling that I am? Who want to have a suicide motive at 8:30 in the morning? Oh yeah. I'll send them all right over.

He finally left, and Mr. I-Would-Leave-You-Buried-in-A-Ditch-To-Be-Eaten-by-Wolves just laughs for about fifteen minutes about the exchange. He tells me that if it got much worse he would have helped me, which is pretty much like Michael Jackson's accuser's parents telling their poor kid the next morning that if it had gotten much worse, they would have come to pick him up from his Neverland Ranch sleepover. I mean, really, the damage's been done.

So that was my day Thursday. I was telling my friend about it, and this is what she said:

"Wow, and like three days after Valentine's Day."

"What's that have to do with it?"

"Well, did you have a Valentine?"

"I could hate you."

"See? This is the closest thing you had to a Valentine. That has to mean SOMETHING."

"Shut up."

"It's just so weird... this stuff only happens to you. I mean, bad stuff happens to me, too, but like horrific stuff like this? It might be you."

"That's what I'm afraid of."

"Hmm. I might be too."

The Roomus Guide to Valentine's Day

Everyone seems to be giving out their advice on how to celebrate Valentine's Day, or how to avoid it, or what it all means. Every time I've tried to read a newspaper or magazine, it seems like they've taken up the same argument: either how to make your Valentine's Day original or how to avoid the holiday all-together. It seems like there are two types of camps out there: those who want to make Valentine's Day the official national holiday, or those who want to make it like Arbor Day. And even those articles are simplifying the whole problem, which, if you ask me, has become like an epidemic. So I'm going to have to put a stop to all these Valentine's Day shenanigans. No more of this overboard "I LOVE EVERYTHING RED AND PINK AND HEARTS!!!" crap. No more of the "I hate everyone and everything associated with February 14th!" (notice, by the way, the avoidance of naming the holiday. These people sometimes even refuse to wear red or pink on any of the 28 days. A cry for help, if you ask me. But more on that later.) And definitely, DEFINITELY no more of the "I'm going to take the day to appreciate my friends" bullshit. I've had enough.

Let's start with the people who love Valentine's Day. I love these people because most likely, they are in a new relationship or they are in a relationship for the first time on Valentine's Day. Either way, the day has now become their personal national holiday. It's actually kind of comical to watch these people. It's like you're watching someone who's stuffing their face at a lousy all-you-can-eat Hometown buffet because it's their first time there and they haven't realized that the food will make you sick in about five minutes. You want to warn them and all, but it's too good to just watch their enthusiasm fade quickly into one of those "I'm going to die" sad faces. You can't help but watch. Anyway, as a side note, these are also the people who buy those stupid stuffed animals at CVS that say things like, "I Wuvvv Youuu" when you pull the string in their back. Now I have nothing against regular stuffed animals, as all my friends know, but these things are just ugly, and so I'm figuring that the makers are capitalizing on the fact that the intended buyers don't care at all what they look like, because they're too blinded by the fact that when they buy them, they shout, "I AM BUYING THIS PURPLE SPOTTED MONKEY FOR MY HOT NEW BOYFRIEND WHO LOVES ME AND WILL MARRY ME," to the CVS clerk.

My guess - and really, this has nothing to do with bitterness - is that by maybe, oh, next month, that these people are throwing away the crappy stuffed animals they got from their now ex-boyfriend/girlfriend and acknowledging how ugly they were in the first place. It's a sad existence for these stuffed animal, just like the Hometown Buffet. Once you've gone overboard there, you never go back. I'd be interested in knowing the percentage of these Valentine's Day stuffed animals in the national stuffed animal graveyard, and the percentage of first-time-only diners at Hometown Buffet. My guess is that both are astronomical.

Now that we've sort of touched on it, we can go next to the people who also need to stop. These are the bitter faction of Valentine's folks. These people really wish they were celebrating, but they pretend to hate the holiday. And, in the worst display of patheticness, they blame a card company for their sadness. I mean, have you heard a more pathetic scapegoat than the HALLMARK Company? I haven't. Aside from blaming them for some horrendously cheesy jokes (which, I mean, I personally can't really call anyone on), you really can't blame a greeting card company for anything witout seeming horribly pathetic yourself. Also, these people go around complaining about every single Valentine's Day display they pass. You don't see Jewish people doing this at Christmas time, do you? No. Jewish people aren't pathetic, that's why. They just go around and say, "Oh, what a nice Christmas tree," even though they don't have one at home. Sure, they might wish they could buy some ornaments for their own, but they don't get all bent out of shape about it and try to stomp on all the Christians' parades. Really. The ironic thing is, the more these people complain about Valentine's Day - to anyone who has the audacity to suggest that they are celebrating it, anyone who is wearing red, anyone who happens to be on the same T as they are - these folks really just seem like pathetic wannabes. Interestingly, girls are really the only ones in this category.

And lastly, I'm sorry to do this, because many of these people I know, but this category belongs to the people who claim to love Valentine's Day even if they don't have their own Valentine because (get your gag reflexes ready), "All of my friends are my Valentines." Gaaaag. Okay. These people really want to scream, "I HATE VALENTINE'S DAY BUT I WILL PRETEND TO BE OKAY WITH IT BECAUSE OTHERWISE I WILL END UP IN THE CATEGORY ABOVE." So really, just make some room in the paragraph above and shove these folks in there. I'm tired of hearing that they are going to make the day about their friends, or even (gag) worse - about themselves! I mean, have you ever heard anything so absurd? "I'm taking the day to celebrate myself." In case these people haven't noticed, they have a BIRTHDAY already. Nobody is so great that they need to take two days to celebrate themselves, and let's face it, anybody who claims that they are "taking the day" intended to appreciate someone else to appreciate themselves? I might as well tell these people. With an attitude like that, they're going to be spending many Valentine's Days celebrating themselves. I want to know if they buy themselves chocolates and those ugly stuffed animals. In fact, I bet that these people are the only ones who keep those ugly stuffed animals, but that their strings are all pulled out from saying over and over again, "I Wuvvvvvvv Youuuu." It's sad, really.

So I realize this has made me seem anti-Valentine's Day, but really, I'm only Anti-Valentines People. If you can understand that. The best way, in my opinion, to approach Valentine's Day is to approach it like Christmas: if you're Christian and celebrating, then go ahead and buy what you want. Get yourself a big old Christmas tree. I mean, don't be one of those crazy overboard people who wear Santa sweaters and reindeer headbands (can those be outlawed?). But my point is, you shouldn't feel bad about it, and you should just celebrate it like the holiday it rightfully is. Similarly, if you are not Christian, you can still partake in the spirit of Christmas and just feel good about it all. You can like the displays and look at all the decorations for sale, and if you find an especially good one, you can buy it. Go ahead. Nobody cares. And nobody really wants to hear about why you're buying it, or who you're buying it for, or how your last relationship didn't work out and so you're still kind of in relationship rehab hell. Nobody cares about you. (It's hard to hear the truth, isn't it?) And if you don't like any of it, okay. Make it like Arbor Day. It's a holiday. Some treehuggers go out and hug trees. You don't have to. But you also don't have to burn a pile of blank paper, either.

Oh, and a few leftovers for final notes: I'm also tired of reading about how roses and chocolates are unoriginal and should be avoided. Riiiiight. Are these people telling me that if they got a bouquet of red roses they'd be disappointed? Give me a break. And last: no more of this "It's dumb to have just one day a year designated to tell the person you love them. You should do it whenever. Like February 12th or something." Total bullshit. February 14th it is. Last I checked, Caesar was dead and buried.

The Entourage

Did I mention that I nicknamed Dimwit "The Lemon," as in, "This person is defective just like cars are defective and therefore should be able to be sent back to some factory so that we all get a refund"? Well, if not, that's the new name. My buddy Joe came up with the Lemon moniker. I sometimes switch it up and call her El Limon, just for fun. It makes it all better, I must say, to picture her walking around with a big lemon as her head.

We have a few other stars in class. This one guy apparently said that he is afraid of girls in his student teaching classes coming onto him. I seriously think that Michael Jackson has a better chance of being acquitted than this guy does of being hit on - by a cafeteria lady. This guy is just like a cross between the Hunchback of Notre Dame (he's not a hunchback, he just looks like he might smell like he's been holed up in a 3x5 closet for the past twenty-five years) and Kermit the Frog. The truth is, he's worried - not because that would be awkward if a student hit on a teacher - but because he's gay, so apparently any attention from females is just too much for him to handle. Riiiiight. I mean, really, in the time we've been in class, approximately two people in class have spoken to him, and that was only out of absolute necessity (I believe one might have been on fire and he had a bottle of water, for instance). My point is that there's not really a line out his door. Nobody's waiting on his stoop. He should spend more time finding alternate uses for all the grease in his hair, or how to speak without sounding like an incompetent pompous asshole - both worthy endeavors.

I'm probably going to hell, ps.

Oh! But my whole thing was, we nicknamed this guy Rico Suave (suav-ay, if i could figure out the accent key) just for fun. So now we have Rico Suave and El Limon. It makes me happier.

There are more characters from class, but we haven't thought of any other nicknames, and, quite frankly, I think it might be best to limit my rants on these people to one an entry. Let's face it, it's not pretty.

Brotherly Love

I was talking to my brother tonight. "Hey, I've got an idea," he said.

"Yeah?"

"You should write an entry about all the bad pictures you've taken."

(Silence)

"I mean, remember that eighth grade picture you took? You should definitely write about that one!"

(More silence)

"Don't you think that would be funny? Remember how they made you say 'peaches' and your face got all screwed up?"

"Right."

"No, don't you remember that?"

"Yes."

"Wasn't it funny?"

"No."

"Oh. But don't you think that would be just great?!" (Laugh laugh laugh) "I mean, you could write about that one, and all the others... like everyone has their bad pictures, but you had, like, tons of them. You could write all about all of yours. Isn't that a good idea?"

"Oh yes, it's a great idea."

"Cool! I came up with such a great idea!"

"Yeah. Remember the time the camera actually REJECTED me?"

"What?"

"Nevermind."

"So you'll write about it?"

"Oh yes."

"Great!"

"Great."

The Boz

Today I think is a good day to discuss my Aunt Brenda. First off, she insisted when we were little - and, let's face it, even when we got older - that we call her Boz. This is probably all my fault, because the nickname came from me. When I was too little to know what I was doing, I couldn't pronounce Brenda so I called her Boz. Unfortunately, it stuck. This woman would make me call her Boz all the time, even when I was in the sixth grade and in front of my friends. It was horrendous, it really was.

I think the reason she had me do this - and she had everyone do this, really - is because she had this weird disorder in that she refused to grow up. I'm not talking like the normal complex where people maybe dress too young or play video games all day or whatever. No, this was one of those twisted cases where you just had to be like, "This is not my aunt," and try to convince yourself that just because she's family doesn't mean you have to a. be like her or b. even like her, but you do have to do c., which is deal with her.

For example, Boz kept all of her stuffed animals from when she was a kid. Even as a kid, she must have been a nut because she had these elaborate necklaces for her bears and lions and all and they each had a nametag pasted on. She couldn't just write the name tag; no, she had to find it written in a newspaper or magazine, cut it out, and then glue it to the necklace. I have to give her credit for having some very cool stuffed animals though. They were totally old school. She had Lola and Lamont, these two weird purple things and then she had two lions and two monkeys. She also had this blue bear... I forget the bear's name. The bear itself was kind of freaky because it had like a doll's face, but she liked it. In fact, she liked it so much that she never let me take that one home. That was the thing with Boz. She had all these stuffed animals set up on two twin beds in her guest room, and she would let me take home one, or, if I was really really lucky, a pair of them (the ones that were a matching set), but I had to sign them out and basically sign my life to her in case I lost one of them. I remember once I lost Peanut Butter's mittens and she yelled at me and my mother because now Jelly, the matching bear, would be very upset for her poor Peanut Butter. My aunt was about 30 years old when this conversation took place, ps. A total nutjob. This woman was just so meticulous about keeping her stuffed animals lined up so perfectly, it was insane. Even when I was like five, I had more maturity about the whole thing, but to my aunt, those were her kids and we better not mess with them. When I lost that Peanut Butter's mittens, I heard about it every single time I wanted to even touch another stuffed animal. (You can see I haven't really gotten over all of this.)

Anyhow, this all would be bad enough except that my aunt insisted on animating them. She made them talk and talked about them like they were real. Like that whole Jelly bit. She made everything real. She would talk to her car. Now, people name their cars and love them and all, but my aunt put a whole new spin on it. She named her car Silver Bell or Blue Bell and she would make us say hi to the car and basically wine and dine it before she even put the key in the ignition. But she was a zillion times worse with stuffed animals. It's all good when you're like three to have stuffed animals talking to you, but by what, age seven, you're done. Well, apparently not my aunt. Two quick stories:

1. When I was in the seventh grade, she took me to the Crystal Mall. We went to this store and saw a bear wearing a blue plaid dress that was a pretty cute bear, so she decided to buy it for me. She basically knocked down about three people who she claimed her aiming right for the bear - "and Penny looked so scared!" she said (Penny, of course, being the bear's new name) - and she bought it. Well on the way out of the store, we run into this whole group of kids who are my age. My aunt, totally oblivious to the rules of cool, picks the bear up out of the bag and says in this little kid voice, "Thank you, Elana for buying me and taking me home and giving me a nice place to live!" And then she proceeds to shove the bear in my face and make all these weird sounds the bear is making out with my now-beet-red face. The kids just looked at me like, what a loser. What a loser. And I really had no comeback. I mean, what do you do with that? Really, what can you say?

2. One afternoon when my aunt was pregnant with her twins, we went to see her. I was in her bedroom and I saw this list of names, so I asked her if those were the names she was considering for the babies. "Oh no," she said, completely serious and even more disturbing, with the conviction of a completely sane and unembarrassed person, "those are the names of the stuffed animals. See, every Saturday night, when Elliot (her questionable husband) and I watch Dr. Quinn Medicine Woman (I know, I know) the animals fight over who gets to watch with us, so we have a rotating list."

Wait, WHAT??

I mean, in that moment, it was all clear to me: my aunt is psychotic. In the past, I gave her the benefit of the doubt. Sure, she's a bit daffy and all, but I always thought that was because she had some twisted view of how to relate to kids, like she thought they never really evolved past the age of four. But no. Apparently, SHE never evolved past the age of four, because she was making these lists for god knows what reason, and I mean, I had to seriously consider the possibility that she actually goes into her spare room and picks out two stuffed animals, brings them to her family room, sits them down, and converses with them about the plot of her favorite TV show. Is this for real? There's too much to deal with there to even begin to start thinking about her choice of entertainment (I mean, who actually WATCHED that show??). I think this little anecdote is enough to get her classified as some sort of DSM candidate. Either that, or those people who write it need to be talking to me, because they are definitely missing something.

Also, just in case you aren't convinced that she's a nut (though after that, I'm not sure what else I can add to the entry to top that), here are a few random pieces of evidence of her freakdom:

1. When she got married (finally), she had me, at age seven, be the official photographer. She also sat me and my four year old sister at the head table. My parents? Nah, they sat at a side table. I mean, I guess if you're into stuffed animals, we were your perfect dining companions, but I think this still adds to my case. The woman has about four grainy, out of focus and off-center pictures of her looking just... odd.

2. I never, ever heard my aunt swear. It doesn't surprise me, but if you ask me, a sane person lets a good "fuck" slip out every now and then. It's good for the soul.

3. Her most prized possessions - besides her stuffed animal friends - were these Madame Alexander dolls, which she kept in a glass case and proudly displayed in her living room. Those were her two main loves: stuffed animals and Madame Alexander dolls. Oh, and she also had hundred and hundred of video tapes of General Hospital.

I do have to end this with the one thing I do thank her for: she showed me, at age three, the movie "The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas" and it remains my top musical. I guess it goes to show you that even the crazy ones are useful in their own weirdo ways.

Sometimes I wonder if these people are only found in my family, if I'm the only one who deals with this shit. I'll tell you what. If nothing else, it makes life interesting.