Oh Yeah

I just realized something else that I think deserves mentioning for being completely ridiculous.

On game shows, like Wheel of Fortune, I love when people spin the wheel and are like, "Big money... big money..." clapping and all, and then the wheel lands on some pathetic amount like the lowest $150, and they clap like their big money wishes came true. Obviously, any money is good, but they weren't cheering for the $150, they were actually cheering AGAINST the $150 because they wanted a higher amount, like, oh, say $1500. Just once I wish Pat Sajak would be like, "Yo, dude, stop clapping. That's not the big money you were wishing for."

And, I hate when it's so obvious what the answer is and someone still gets it wrong and guesses a letter that could in no way be right. Like there's a "n...ht" on the board and they guess "P." These people kill me.

Also, the movie Heavyweights is on, which is a pretty good movie that I used to love as a kid because you know my affection for fat people. The only thing is, they ahve this huge roly poly guy who gets the supposed-to-be-cute nurse girl who's skinny. In real life, that wouldn't happen.

Then again, they also wouldn't put their wicked leader in an electric-shock cage, either.

Out of the Woodwork

I'm pretty much out of patience right about now. I've spent approximately nine months dealing with all sorts or morons, and with only a few more classes to go, I'm done. And lucky for me, right now is the time when all of these dopes come out of the woodwork in full force.

Here's what I mean.

First, you have the spring fashions. I already wrote something about this, but due to censorship, I had to take it down. But it's still worth mentioning and having its own place in Roomus World, so here it is again. Basically, too many girls are in denial about their size. Listen, it's okay, you gained the freshman/sophomore/junior/senior fifteen... every year, perhaps. Therefore, the clothes you bought a year ago, that were too small to begin with? DEFINITELY too small now. I'm sorry, but I don't want to see a stretch-marked gut hanging over a sweatband of a skirt. I know I'm not alone.

Second, you've got the class evaluations. And here's what usually happens. Because the professor can't read them until after the class is over and grades are returned, they ask us inclass to tell them what we think of it. This always brings up the following situations:

1. The kid who wants to better his grade. There's always someone in the class who thinks that telling the professor that he is brilliant will get him a better grade in the class. So for about five minutes, we have to hear about how this course changed this kid's outlook on his major and his life. If you have a good professor, the professor's not buying it and is just as uncomfortable as the rest of the class having to listen to this crap, but if you have a bad professor, you're in for a trip. Because here's what happens now:

1a. The professor starts asking this kid - who at this point would nominate the professor for a Nobel Prize - follow-up questions, like, "So you really DID like reading all of The Inferno in one night?" or "My lecture on the life of red African ants on the forty-first hill of the Sahara desert was really life-altering?" just to feel even better about himself. At this point, you pretty much decide that your evaluation will be scathing, just to balance this freak out.

2. The next situation is the most entertaining. In every class, there's a kid who argues with the professor. He's this mysterious kid who once in a while probably has a pretty decent point to make, but he makes his whole educational career out of sulking in the back and acting like he's superior to everyone else. Then, when this time comes, he basically bashes everything the professor did, said, and wore. It's alwasy fun to see how far the kid (and the professor) will take this debate. I once had a kid in a class who told a professor, "You were unprepared for class, your lectures made me fall asleep, and your expertise in this subject area is questionable at best." I don't think I even have the facial muscles necessary to make the face my professor made in response. I just realized, when this situation happens, I don't decide to write a glowing recommendation to balance it out. Unless I really do like the professor and hate this kid, in which case this situation becomes considerably less enjoyable. I do have a heart, I swear.

3. Here's the legitimate comment-maker, who has decent ideas to improve the class but if ever implemented, the next class would hate this guy. I wonder how many of these guys have made the horrible choices that now make us have two credit classes every week for an hour rather than every other week for two, or how many of them decided that a midterm, a final, AND two papers would really be best. Karma will bite these assholes in the...ass (yeah, that didn't really work out).

4. And now, the worst situation. This is the kid who talks about his personal tale of woe and how the professor could change the entire university system to benefit, yes, him. Here's the thing. I don't care about his pathetic existence. I don't care that he's trying to go part-time because he hates his job and he can't finish his degree in two years but has to spend seven and because he doesn't have any money, he's forced to live off tuna fish and peanut butter. Maybe I don't care is too harsh. Maybe it should just be that I don't want to hear about it.

You know what, no. I don't care, that's the truth of the matter.

I'd write more, but I don't really feel like it anymore.

The Marathon/Red Sox Mess of Masses Test

An entry or two back, I had this idea about The Driving Test, as a way to see if people were depressed. Here's the follow up to that test:

Take someone that you've treated for depression, as diagnosed by The Driving Test. (I've got to copyright this stuff.) This person should be, at this point, being considered for out-treatment, or whatever it's called when you're cured for now/let out of the treatment center. What you do is, you drop this person off in the middle of Kenmore Square, at the very moment that the Red Sox crowd gets there after the annual Marathon Monday game gets out, which coincides perfectly with the arrival of the runners in the Boston Marathon. At this point, you have two giant masses: the drunken Sox fans, plus the drunken Marathon fans, all lined up along the same street. The object is this: the patient has to make it from one side of Commonwealth Avenue to the other. Basically has to cross the street.

This is a pretty tough test, because just about every freaking street is closed down for the Marathon, and every place you think to go as a shortcut is the same place that about fifty billion people also think will be a good idea. Plus you have strollers and old people everywhere slowing up the whole process, and you have drunk people stumbling and spilling beer all over the place, and you have some whiny kid who thinks it's just adorable (so do his parents) to play that "don't step on the cracks, just step on everyone else" game. The biggest trick is to go through the Kenmore T station to get to the other side, so that's always the basic plan, which means that everyone tries it and so everyone waits about ten years to get through, risking your life and sanity in the process. Can you imagine being stuck underground, in a tight tunnel with very little air/circulation with about five thousand other sweaty people? I'd rather shoot myself. Which brings me to why this test works: it's a brilliant real-life application method to see if a person is mentally stable. If the patient doesn't end up hanging from one of the traffic lights, you pretty much know he or she is solid enough for the real world.

Can you imagine a one-two punch of The Driving Test and then The Marathon/Red Sox Mess of Masses Test? Why doesn't the DSM think of this stuff? All the real world applications are really invaluable, if you ask me. (For the record, I did make it; it took me 2.67 hours and $100 in Gap purchases to cross the street.)

And as a last note, to acknowledge the Boston Marathon for what it is: a pretty amazing opportunity to witness some pretty amazing displays of human greatness. I mean that, because if you think about it, all these people are publically acknowleding the commitment of about 20,000 people - most of whom are running for causes other than just personal goals, which in itself would be a pretty cool goal - and indirectly, all the cheering people are also acknowledging the importance of stuff like this. I mean, nobody's cheering because they think running is such an amazing talent and they're such fans of the Kenyans who win this. People who don't know each other are cheering just because they're acknowledging that someone is trying to do something worthwhile and great. I really like that idea.

Still, though, and I swear, this is my last note (can I really end on a good note ever?): The truth is, someday, when I am in charge of the world, I'm making a law that prohibits having a home Red Sox game on the same day as the Boston Marathon, even if it means costing me my psychological test fortune, and if anybody violated that law, they'd be beheaded in the middle of Kenmore Square, and that would be that. Partly because of the ridiculous crowd clusterage it causes, and partly because the idea of a ballpark opening at 9 AM is offensive, but mainly because watching someone wolf down three Fenway hot dogs before 10 AM is just disgusting.

Don't Even Ask

Here's a quick tip: if people have to re-introduce themselves to you, if they have to then give you their last name, and then have to tell you exactly how they know you, just so you know who they are, then it is definitely, without a doubt, no question, NOT okay for them to ask for your employee discount. Ever.

And I'm putting an official end to the following situation. People are always doing this, and it drives me nuts. They ask a question, like, "Have you EVER heard of something so ridiculous?" And then they'll just continue, "Of course not," or "Neither have I," like they MUST be right. Listen, you don't know what I know. Maybe I have heard of something just as ridiculous. Maybe I did realize whatever you didn't. Don't assume I'm stupid. It's a small thing, yes, but this entry was small and besides, I figure if I have the time and space, I might as well put everything out there.

I also happen to think people who ask you to walk barefoot in their homes are annoying. Buy a mop and a vacuum, freak.

The Request

This conversation took place today:

"Do you know what would just make my day?" asked some random lady at Fenway Park.

"You mean besides being at Fenway for the home opener, where you'll see the Sox get their World Series rings and you'll get to see them play the Yankees?" I responded.

"Umm, yeah."

"Well no, then, I guess I don't know what would make your day. Please, tell me." Now, let me just say, that when I said this to the woman, I was sincere in tone. Do you have any idea how much talent it takes to fake tone?

A lot.

"Well, my boyfriend, see, he just loves Ben Affleck."

"Wait, your BOYFRIEND loves Ben Affleck?"

"Oh yeah, he just loves him." (Umm, lady? Your Boyfriend? I think he wants a boyfriend.)

"Okay..."

"So, I was thinking, could I, like, ask Ben if he'd drive home with me so I could have him meet my boyfriend?"

"I'm sorry, can you say that again?"

"Sure. I was thinking, I live like, five minutes away. Could I just ask Ben to come home with me for oh, only, say, 5 minutes, just to meet my boyfriend, because he just loves him, and he'd be getting home from work by then?"

"Umm, you want Ben Affleck to drive to your house - "

"No, I'd drive him."

"Oh, okay. You want to DRIVE Ben Affleck to your house - "

"Actually, it's my boyfriend's house."

"Right. So you want to drive Ben Affleck to your boyfriend's house, so that he can meet him, because he just is his biggest fan?"

"Yes!"

"No."

"No?"

"No."

"No."

"No."

"No?"

"No."

"For real?"

"Yes."

"So 'yes' may be a 'yes' to Ben?"

"No, the 'yes' was a 'yes' to 'Is this 'no' for real?' "

"So you're saying no."

"That's right."

"Even if he just lives around the corner?"

"Even if he lives just around the corner."

"Even if I TELL him that it's for my boyfriend who just loves him?"

"Honestly, ma'am, that might scare him even more."

"So I can talk to him?"

"No, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to imply that."

"So to recap - "

"No."

"I can't recap?"

"You can. But even with the recap, the answer is unequivocally no."

"Does that unequivoc whatever change the meaning?"

"No."

"So..."

"So to recap, no."

"Wow, that really woulda made my day."

These people exist. Like it's not enough that she is at Opening Day, that she's going to see the Sox get their rings, that she's going to see the Sox vs. the Yankees, that she's at the toughest ticket in town. None of it matters, apparently, because her boyfriend can't meet Ben Affleck, at their home, after the game, after he's driven with her five minutes down the road. Sometimes I wonder, what goes through these people's minds before they ask the question? I mean, is it me, or do people usually think about the questions they are going to ask employees? Because not only did she mean to ask me, but she asked a ticket-taker to find their supervisor/manager, and then she asked me. She went through TWO LEVELS to ask if she could give Ben Affleck a ride to her rundown apartment in the Fens! Let me take a stab at this answer: no! AND, she got annoyed at me that I wasn't going to go ask Ben, just to make sure that he wouldn't want to do it. Listen, lady, I can figure this out on my own. Ben's got his own car. He's got Jennifer Garner waiting somewhere for him. Do you really think this is going to be a tough decision for him? "Hey Ben, this woman out there, she wants to know if you'll go in her car and drive to her house to meet her boyfriend, who claims to be your biggest fan. And umm, yeah, I have no idea if you're going to be held hostage or sexually assaulted, but the ride's only five minutes. And, plus, you'd just be MAKING HER DAY!"

Give me a break.

The Driving Test

I came up with this idea a few days ago. Here's how it goes: you know how people sometimes think they are really depressed? Like clinically? Yeah, well, here's the thing: sometimes, people aren't sure if they're just having a bad day or if they're truly at the need-help stage, so I devised a plan to help them (and their friends) figure it out. What you do is, you have these people who work for a driving company. The possibly depressed person gets in the car with one of the drivers, and they drive through mid-day traffic, almost getting into accidents. Most of the time, they wouldn't even have to try hard, because there are so many morons on the road. So the key is that somebody would be watching the reaction of the possibly-depressed passenger. If the person gets one of those "holy shit, we are going to die" faces, you know she's not that depressed. Because she doesn't want to die in a car accident. But, if she's got some pasted-on grin or weird blank face on as a mack truck pulls up in their back seat, then you know you're in serious trouble and you can go the second route: straight to the ward.

You know, this idea sounded waaaaaay more PC when I didn't add that part about the ward.

But still, I think it's got genius written all over it.

Time For Spring

This hasn't been like every other year. Had this been any other year, on October 28, the countdown would have begun. I would have been trying to get over the Sox breaking my heart (think 2003) and anticipating them repairing it, beginning in early April. From October to April, I would wait and wait and wait, and check the websites and read up on everything and analyze what went wrong and try to decide what has to go right next time. I would do this painstakingly like a total freak until Opening Day, and then, like some sick addict, I would get my fix. All the way through October.

Last year, though, I got lucky. The Sox, they did it. And on October 28, I wasn't thinking about what ifs and if onlys. Instead, I was in lines to get World Champions t-shirts and hats and sweatshirts and shorts and whatever else they had that screamed the news. I vaguely remember going to some Outback restaurant and walking around in a complete stupor. I probably scared half the patrons, but when I think back, it's doubtful: I think everyone else was also wearing Red Sox shirts, also going around like this was paradise, also smiling at every single person that walked by, also just in complete catatonic shock. But maybe that's just me, I don't know.

My point is, I didn't have the same sense of urgency that I had last year. No Red Sox fan did. The urgency? That went to Yankees fans. We got to have the parade and the shirts and the tv shows. They got... A-Rod, and a steroids scandal. I'm telling you, this whole thing has renewed my faith in some higher power.

I know, I know, I'm sick.

(By the way, I am watching "Boy Meets World" on ABC Family (great channel, fyi) and the mom's pants are hiked up waaaaay past any place of common decency. These things always kill me. Oh, and! I just changed the channel and got the MTV repeat of "The Inferno," right at the part where Jon is about make the holy sacrifice at the inferno challenge and Julie gets to cry and wail on camera. "Just as Jesus sacrificed himself for all of us, maybe this is a chance for me to do that for my team. The inferno could be like the hell, and then I could, you know, step up and take the place of somebody like Christ did for us on the Cross." An actual quote from Jon, a.k.a. Jesus of Reality Television. This day is shaping right up. Here is a get from Jules: "They [her teammates] let him go. The world needs more Jons in the world, needs more people that are willing to save other people in their own way. ... They don't even understand the symbolism in all of this." Earth to Julie?? Nobody does. Except you. Where's a warning buzzer when you need one?)

But back to the Sox.

There are few things I enjoy more than the Red Sox, and everyone knows this. It's so bad that I've made requests that when I die someday, the only thing I want people to say is "She liked the Red Sox," and I want people to just leave it like that. I mean, there IS more to me than liking the Red Sox. At least, I hope so. But regardless of my issues trying to put the Sox in perspective, today's a big day. It's time to move on.

I wrote back in January about saying goodbye to THIS year, having to get past the fact that it will have to be "The Sox won LAST year" rather than "THIS" year, but I think I still got to hang onto it ...

(Wait, here's another Inferno goodie: "I'd rather look like a slut, I'd rather look like a whore, than a liar. Call me a whore, call me a slut, don't call me a liar." That's Tonya. And my father wonders how I can watch shows like this. Tonya just threw all of Beth's stuff in the pool. She literally dumped all of her suitcases into the water. You can't write this stuff. And, my favorite part? Tonya's from Walla Walla, Washington. She's like a human caricature!)

... until today. (Yeah, sorry, random thought in there.) Okay, I'm going to get serious now. Tonight, the Sox are no longer the current World Champions. So I'm a little sad about the 2004 season officially being last season. I've got to admit that. But then I think about the new season, and the opportunities about to be there, about every night having a baseball game to watch and going to Fenway Park and having it be summer, and you know what? I realize that even though I haven't been counting down the day anxiously to help get over the heartbreaking end of the season like every other year, I've still been looking forward to tonight anyway.

(Sorry, one more: Mike, the Miz: "Is that a real Louis Vuitton bag?" to Beth, who's fishing her stuff out of the pool. Then, the whole cast is taking pictures. Then the Miz says to the camera, "This is like, I'm a psycho. This is amazing. This is the coolest challenge ever, and I love the Inferno Part Two." Good god, this is amazing television.)

So in about six hours, it'll be time to move on (in some ways, we'll never move on, I know) and begin THIS year. I can't freakin wait. It's time. Let's do it all over again.