So. Thursday night at 8:00pm Pacific Standard Time found me sitting poised at my computer, staring intently at the monitor, waiting for Question Number 1 to pop up. My fingers flew over the keyboard as I typed in my answer and hit the "Submit" button within the 15 second time frame and continued on to Question Number Dos.
50 questions later, I completed the Jeopardy Online Test, which is given only once a year (for my time zone) in the hopes that I too would be up on that stage, giving the correct questions to the answers and winning buttloads of cash.
The only way I'll know if I "passed" is if I'm contacted by the Jeopardy people within one year of taking the test. Wait. ONE YEAR? Seriously?
Well, I won't be holding MY breath on a callback. While there were more than a few easy-peasy questions, there were also several that had me hitting the "pass" button because I knew that I couldn't even TRY to guess. And also because I remember a former Jeopardy champion advised players to never guess. If you're not 100% sure of the answer, DON'T answer and I've always taken Chuck's advice.
I guess (ha!) that I was lucky that there were very few (if any) questions in the categories I suck at: US Government, Physics, Mathematical Equations, German Literature, The Table of Elements, Poetry and World Geography. Because those categories fall under Things I Really Don't Know.
My dream categories would be Royalty, British History (sad that I'm more familiar with British, French and Russian history than my own country's), the Civil War, Opera, Religion and Celebrity Gossip. You know, the shallow and superficial stuff.
So I guess I'll know if I'm picked if the phone rings sometime in the next year and Alex Trebek will be on the line. I can only imagine the little interview during the first commercial break where each contestant relates something anecdotal about themselves. Somehow I doubt relating the time I had dinner with OJ Simpson will suffice in this case. And we can't talk about my penchant for stalking hockey players and a certain action/adventure actor who also stars in several Guy Ritchie films.
Unless. This might be my chance for Jason Statham to see that I am his one true love and he will have His People call My People (me) and we will ride off into the sunset and live happily ever after.
And all because of Jeopardy.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mMzdsUtcves
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Friday, February 11, 2011
The Stuff Nightmares Are Made Of
Oh, did I have an awful nightmare last night, the plot of which I will share with you right now:
For some reason, I was on a bus headed to the airport to go on a trip to Hawaii. My friend "Noodle" happened to be on the bus next to me and I was all happy to see my childhood buddy and excited to be going to Hawaii.
We get to the airport and it suddenly occurred to me that A) I did not have a plane ticket with me 2) I had forgotten my wallet with my ID and iii) I had forgotten my cellphone as well. And also too, I didn't know WHICH airline I was supposed to fly to Hawaii on or where I was supposed to stay once I got to Hawaii on Unknown Airways.
So I'm wringing my hands and crying and panicking over what I'm going to do since I have none of the items I need to get to Hawaii, including a suitcase with clothes for my trip to Hawaii. And Noodle decides that I'm going to be arrested as a terrorist because I'm at an airport without any valid reason and am making a scene so he bails on me (THANKS A LOT, PAL), leaving me to get out of this mess on my own.
Somehow, I find a cellphone so I can call someone and of course I can't remember anyone's phone number. Of course. Doesn't this always happen in a nightmare? You try to call someone and either you can't remember the number or you keep getting a busy signal or your finger slips off the button and you have to start all over again and you CAN'T COMPLETE THE CALL!!!
But this nightmare gets worse. Oh yes, it does. What happens next caused me to force myself to wake up from this awful nightmare, which I did, gasping with fear and a pounding heart.
In my nightmare, I told someone that I was hoping my son's girlfriend would get pregnant because, get this, I WANTED TO BE A GRANDMA.
Even my nightmare addled brain was saying, "What the hell?" because anyone who knows me knows I'm not much of a baby person. The only reason I tolerated my own babies was because a) they were the most beautiful babies ever to exist and 2) they were mine and I was kind of obligated to be their mom. But I've never had "baby fever" and I definitely don't have "Gramma fever" as I've made it abundantly clear to Thing 1 and his girlfriend of this fact.
I'm sure a Dream Analyst can analyze this NIGHTMARE and would say that subconsciously, I'm sad about my children growing up, leaving the nest (like THAT will ever happen) and not needing me anymore (yeah, right) and that I need a baby to nurture and love (Um, no).
Some friends came over last week and they had their 3 month old with them and yes, I held little Riley and cooed and did the rocking-side-by-side motion that comes automatically when you hold a baby and I was perfectly happy to pass him back to his Mama after 5 minutes and realized that nope, I don't miss having one around.
I think I need to go back to bed and start over again. Maybe this time I'll dream about something lovely, like a shirtless Jason Statham. Because he is the stuff dreams are made of.
For some reason, I was on a bus headed to the airport to go on a trip to Hawaii. My friend "Noodle" happened to be on the bus next to me and I was all happy to see my childhood buddy and excited to be going to Hawaii.
We get to the airport and it suddenly occurred to me that A) I did not have a plane ticket with me 2) I had forgotten my wallet with my ID and iii) I had forgotten my cellphone as well. And also too, I didn't know WHICH airline I was supposed to fly to Hawaii on or where I was supposed to stay once I got to Hawaii on Unknown Airways.
So I'm wringing my hands and crying and panicking over what I'm going to do since I have none of the items I need to get to Hawaii, including a suitcase with clothes for my trip to Hawaii. And Noodle decides that I'm going to be arrested as a terrorist because I'm at an airport without any valid reason and am making a scene so he bails on me (THANKS A LOT, PAL), leaving me to get out of this mess on my own.
Somehow, I find a cellphone so I can call someone and of course I can't remember anyone's phone number. Of course. Doesn't this always happen in a nightmare? You try to call someone and either you can't remember the number or you keep getting a busy signal or your finger slips off the button and you have to start all over again and you CAN'T COMPLETE THE CALL!!!
But this nightmare gets worse. Oh yes, it does. What happens next caused me to force myself to wake up from this awful nightmare, which I did, gasping with fear and a pounding heart.
In my nightmare, I told someone that I was hoping my son's girlfriend would get pregnant because, get this, I WANTED TO BE A GRANDMA.
Even my nightmare addled brain was saying, "What the hell?" because anyone who knows me knows I'm not much of a baby person. The only reason I tolerated my own babies was because a) they were the most beautiful babies ever to exist and 2) they were mine and I was kind of obligated to be their mom. But I've never had "baby fever" and I definitely don't have "Gramma fever" as I've made it abundantly clear to Thing 1 and his girlfriend of this fact.
I'm sure a Dream Analyst can analyze this NIGHTMARE and would say that subconsciously, I'm sad about my children growing up, leaving the nest (like THAT will ever happen) and not needing me anymore (yeah, right) and that I need a baby to nurture and love (Um, no).
Some friends came over last week and they had their 3 month old with them and yes, I held little Riley and cooed and did the rocking-side-by-side motion that comes automatically when you hold a baby and I was perfectly happy to pass him back to his Mama after 5 minutes and realized that nope, I don't miss having one around.
I think I need to go back to bed and start over again. Maybe this time I'll dream about something lovely, like a shirtless Jason Statham. Because he is the stuff dreams are made of.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
What's it gonna be, boy? Yes or No?
You know what just drives me nuts and pisses me off? This is where you all say, "No, Kelly. Tell us! Tell us now what drives you nuts and pisses you off!"
Well for starters, it drives me nuts and pisses me off when Blogger decides to change the font every time I hit the return/enter key. I don't WANT to use the itty bitty Times New Roman font, thank you. But that's not what this is about today.
THIS is Kelly's kvetch of the day: I hate it when I ask someone a simple Yes or No question and instead of answering with a simple Yes or No, either I get a long, involved monologue that never really quite answers the question or the person sends me on the Ho Chi Minh trail to find the answer. Just answer the question please, Yes or no?
The question "Is it hot outside?" doesn't mean you should hand me a Farmer's Almanac and suggest I research the temperatures on this day in this location for the last 100 years to get an understanding on average rainfall vs sunny days on this very date.
"Are there tomatoes in this dish?" does not require an answer that goes like this: "Well, that all depends on how much you like tomatoes and what variety of tomato you prefer and do you prefer extra tomatoes or just a small amount of tomatoes and you'll notice that we use the most freshest ingredients and can I get you a refill on your ice tea?" Huh wha?
These are not trick questions I'm asking. They require nothing more than Yes or No as their answer.
IN a pinch, you can always use the classic, "I don't know." I'd rather have an "I don't know" than a non-answer. "Mr. Hand, will I pass this class?" "I DON'T KNOW!"
Oh wow, I just noticed the calendar, did some adding and oh, okay. That explains why I'm a bit, shall we say, testy.
"That time of the month?"
"Yes."
"Outta here!"
Well for starters, it drives me nuts and pisses me off when Blogger decides to change the font every time I hit the return/enter key. I don't WANT to use the itty bitty Times New Roman font, thank you. But that's not what this is about today.
THIS is Kelly's kvetch of the day: I hate it when I ask someone a simple Yes or No question and instead of answering with a simple Yes or No, either I get a long, involved monologue that never really quite answers the question or the person sends me on the Ho Chi Minh trail to find the answer. Just answer the question please, Yes or no?
The question "Is it hot outside?" doesn't mean you should hand me a Farmer's Almanac and suggest I research the temperatures on this day in this location for the last 100 years to get an understanding on average rainfall vs sunny days on this very date.
"Are there tomatoes in this dish?" does not require an answer that goes like this: "Well, that all depends on how much you like tomatoes and what variety of tomato you prefer and do you prefer extra tomatoes or just a small amount of tomatoes and you'll notice that we use the most freshest ingredients and can I get you a refill on your ice tea?" Huh wha?
These are not trick questions I'm asking. They require nothing more than Yes or No as their answer.
IN a pinch, you can always use the classic, "I don't know." I'd rather have an "I don't know" than a non-answer. "Mr. Hand, will I pass this class?" "I DON'T KNOW!"
Oh wow, I just noticed the calendar, did some adding and oh, okay. That explains why I'm a bit, shall we say, testy.
"That time of the month?"
"Yes."
"Outta here!"
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Typhoid Mary is alive and well
I'd like to thank my darling daughter, Thing 2, aka "Typhoid Mary" for passing on her sickness and illness to the last person who needs to be sick at this time: her father.
As any married woman knows, there is nothing worse than having a sick husband because they instantly regress from a mature adult to a whiny, cranky toddler who demands to be coddled and woe to anyone who forgets the bendy straw in their juice.
Thing 2 has been a snotty turdy head all week, coughing, sniffling, wheezing and she feels the need to "Share the wealth" of germs with the rest of the family. She wants to cuddle and snuggle with me, all an evil plan to get me sick I'm sure. So far (knock wood) I have resisted her attempts to infect me but unfortunately, TheManTheMyth has fallen victim. Goody.
I found this out when he rudely shoved me awake in the middle of the night and not because I was (allegedly) snoring. As I sat up all, "What? What's wrong?" hereplies demands "Aren't you going to get me something?" and I'm all "For what?" and he snivels, "for my cough" and he coughs for emphasis.
Oh. How rude of me. Obviously I'm a terrible wife if I'm able to sleep through his coughs and wheezes instead of springing to action to pour Night Time Coughy Sneezy Achy So He Can Rest medicine down his throat. I guess I won't be getting something special for Valentine's Day (not that we observe that day but still).
So I drag myself out of bed and head to the kitchen to rummage around the medicine cabinet and find something toshut him up help relieve his discomfort and cough.
I find the bottle of the Good Cough Syrup, the one that contains a narcotic but it's almost empty with no refills and I prefer to save that for when someone is coughing hard enough in the middle of the night to pop a rib out of place so I continue to rummage and finally find a bottle of over the counter "night time" cough syrup along with some cough drops, which seemed to work. I guess. I don't know because I fell back asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow (after shoving Gracie Lou off of it first).
This is a really crappy time for TheManTheMyth to be sick because a) he has a 100 mile motorcycle race this weekend and will need all his strength and breathing ability and 2) he's supposed to go up to Northern California next week for a job and the last thing he needs is to be sick.
The last time TMTM was sick, I spent a week sleeping on the couch and I really don't want to do that again. Because it sucked. And was uncomfortable. And I didn't sleep so much as doze fitfully while TMTM snored happily, LOUDLY away in our warm and snuggly bed in his medication-induced sleep with no thought whatsoever to MY discomfort.
SO inconsiderate.
As any married woman knows, there is nothing worse than having a sick husband because they instantly regress from a mature adult to a whiny, cranky toddler who demands to be coddled and woe to anyone who forgets the bendy straw in their juice.
Thing 2 has been a snotty turdy head all week, coughing, sniffling, wheezing and she feels the need to "Share the wealth" of germs with the rest of the family. She wants to cuddle and snuggle with me, all an evil plan to get me sick I'm sure. So far (knock wood) I have resisted her attempts to infect me but unfortunately, TheManTheMyth has fallen victim. Goody.
I found this out when he rudely shoved me awake in the middle of the night and not because I was (allegedly) snoring. As I sat up all, "What? What's wrong?" he
Oh. How rude of me. Obviously I'm a terrible wife if I'm able to sleep through his coughs and wheezes instead of springing to action to pour Night Time Coughy Sneezy Achy So He Can Rest medicine down his throat. I guess I won't be getting something special for Valentine's Day (not that we observe that day but still).
So I drag myself out of bed and head to the kitchen to rummage around the medicine cabinet and find something to
I find the bottle of the Good Cough Syrup, the one that contains a narcotic but it's almost empty with no refills and I prefer to save that for when someone is coughing hard enough in the middle of the night to pop a rib out of place so I continue to rummage and finally find a bottle of over the counter "night time" cough syrup along with some cough drops, which seemed to work. I guess. I don't know because I fell back asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow (after shoving Gracie Lou off of it first).
This is a really crappy time for TheManTheMyth to be sick because a) he has a 100 mile motorcycle race this weekend and will need all his strength and breathing ability and 2) he's supposed to go up to Northern California next week for a job and the last thing he needs is to be sick.
The last time TMTM was sick, I spent a week sleeping on the couch and I really don't want to do that again. Because it sucked. And was uncomfortable. And I didn't sleep so much as doze fitfully while TMTM snored happily, LOUDLY away in our warm and snuggly bed in his medication-induced sleep with no thought whatsoever to MY discomfort.
SO inconsiderate.
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
When I take a shower (Where are you taking it? Ha. Ha. An old family joke that NEVER fails to elicit either a snicker or a disgusted Heavy Sigh), there are two things that are paramount to my shower experience:
1. Hot water
B. Good water pressure
Unfortunately, I get neither of these when I shower here at home. For reasons I don't understand, the water in the shower just never gets quite hot enough for my liking. And several times a year, it just stops being HOT and becomes a cross between lukewarm and semi hot. Which is unacceptable. TheManTheMyth says the temperature regulator thingamajig that prevents scalding seems to like to reset itself. Without asking permission. Which, again is unacceptable. And it requires him listening to me bitch and moan and kvetch about not feeling clean because of the lack of HOT water. And also because the water pressure sucks.
I like my showers to have serious water pressure.
I want to feel the layers of both grime AND skin blasted off from the force of the water. Only then can I feel really and truly clean.
Instead, the flow from the shower head feels more like this:
I hate my shower head. Hate. It. And I seem to be the only one in the family that feels this way. Nobody else complains about it. I've removed the flow restrictor thingy in order to get a more forceful blast and was all proud of myself for dismantling the shower head and putting it back together minus ONLY the flow restrictor thingy yet it didn't work. Oh, there was a teensy weensy more pressure but not much.
We actually have a great shower head in the master bathroom but unfortunately, the shower is unusable because after the master bath was 99% remodeled, we ran out of money for a shower door, which has to be custom made (read: $$$$) due to the odd shape of the shower stall and the fact that the vanity, toilet and doorway are all inches away so I have no idea where a shower door will fit without hitting said toilet and vanity but whatev.
TheManTheMyth absolutely REFUSES to have a shower curtain ("they're tacky!") until we can come up with the $$$$ it would take to have a shower door custom made. And because the master bath fixtures are all Oil Rubbed Bronze and the other bath fixtures are Brushed Nickle, it offends TheManTheMyth's delicate sensibilities to have (GASP!) Mixed Metals! So whenever I get all sneaky and switch out the shower heads, he goes behind MY back and switches them back.
Yes, yes, I know they sell shower heads, BETTER shower heads at hardware stores but that's not the point. If I were to go out and purchase a better shower head, I wouldn't have something to blog and kvetch about today now would I?
1. Hot water
B. Good water pressure
Unfortunately, I get neither of these when I shower here at home. For reasons I don't understand, the water in the shower just never gets quite hot enough for my liking. And several times a year, it just stops being HOT and becomes a cross between lukewarm and semi hot. Which is unacceptable. TheManTheMyth says the temperature regulator thingamajig that prevents scalding seems to like to reset itself. Without asking permission. Which, again is unacceptable. And it requires him listening to me bitch and moan and kvetch about not feeling clean because of the lack of HOT water. And also because the water pressure sucks.
I like my showers to have serious water pressure.
I want to feel the layers of both grime AND skin blasted off from the force of the water. Only then can I feel really and truly clean.
Instead, the flow from the shower head feels more like this:
We actually have a great shower head in the master bathroom but unfortunately, the shower is unusable because after the master bath was 99% remodeled, we ran out of money for a shower door, which has to be custom made (read: $$$$) due to the odd shape of the shower stall and the fact that the vanity, toilet and doorway are all inches away so I have no idea where a shower door will fit without hitting said toilet and vanity but whatev.
Yes, yes, I know they sell shower heads, BETTER shower heads at hardware stores but that's not the point. If I were to go out and purchase a better shower head, I wouldn't have something to blog and kvetch about today now would I?
Monday, February 7, 2011
What a weekend!
Wanna see what my plans were for this past weekend?
Test drive the new Kia Optima in exchange for a $25 Visa gift card.
Shop for some vintage costume jewelry on 4th Street, aka, "Retro Row" because I'm all about the vintage costume jewelry these days.
Clean off the hasn't-been-used-in-over-a-year Bowflex in the garage so that I could take pictures of it so I could list it on Craigslist.
Take pictures of my curio cabinet so I could list it on Craigslist.
Wash my car and clean the interior and make it all pretty.
Wanna know what I actually DID this past weekend?
None of the above.
Instead, I dozed on the couch, did some housework (did too!), watched TV, took a load of stuff to Goodwill, took Gracie Lou for her walks and um, yeah.
That was just Saturday. Exhausting, no?
Yesterday (Sunday) I took Gracie for a walk, napped on the couch, watched Supercross, waited to hear from Thing 1 who was racing up in Bakersfield and watched the Superbowl.
And witnessed a murder. And by that I mean I, and millions of other people, were witnesses to Christina Aguilera murdering our National Anthem. It was awful and gruesome, along with her facial contortions, and made me wonder why these celebrities/entertainers are completely incapable of singing the National Anthem correctly. Why must they insist on singing their "interpretation" of the "Star Spangled Banner?" Why do they insist on adding not just extra notes but also extra, incorrect lyrics? How, how I ask, do they not know the words and the correct order of the words to their own National Anthem?
One year, the guy who played "Carlton" on "Fresh Prince of Bel Air" sang the National Anthem at a NASCAR race and the only way I knew it was the National Anthem was the words. Which he sang to a tune I had never, ever heard in my life.
In the future, I think Whitney Houston's pre-recorded version for whatever Superbowl should just be played and whatever celebrity tapped to "sing" can just lip-synch along.
And I was happy that the Packers won even though I really don't give a rat's behind about pro football but I didn't want to see the Steelers and theirrapist quarterback win and also because I was so effing sick and tired of people on Facebook posting nothing but Steeler crap to the point I unfriended someone because I was so sick of her ad-nauseum Steelers posts. And because of her suggestion that I "like" Sarah Palin because she does was the nail in the superficial friendship coffin.
Twit.
Test drive the new Kia Optima in exchange for a $25 Visa gift card.
Shop for some vintage costume jewelry on 4th Street, aka, "Retro Row" because I'm all about the vintage costume jewelry these days.
Clean off the hasn't-been-used-in-over-a-year Bowflex in the garage so that I could take pictures of it so I could list it on Craigslist.
Take pictures of my curio cabinet so I could list it on Craigslist.
Wash my car and clean the interior and make it all pretty.
Wanna know what I actually DID this past weekend?
None of the above.
Instead, I dozed on the couch, did some housework (did too!), watched TV, took a load of stuff to Goodwill, took Gracie Lou for her walks and um, yeah.
That was just Saturday. Exhausting, no?
Yesterday (Sunday) I took Gracie for a walk, napped on the couch, watched Supercross, waited to hear from Thing 1 who was racing up in Bakersfield and watched the Superbowl.
And witnessed a murder. And by that I mean I, and millions of other people, were witnesses to Christina Aguilera murdering our National Anthem. It was awful and gruesome, along with her facial contortions, and made me wonder why these celebrities/entertainers are completely incapable of singing the National Anthem correctly. Why must they insist on singing their "interpretation" of the "Star Spangled Banner?" Why do they insist on adding not just extra notes but also extra, incorrect lyrics? How, how I ask, do they not know the words and the correct order of the words to their own National Anthem?
One year, the guy who played "Carlton" on "Fresh Prince of Bel Air" sang the National Anthem at a NASCAR race and the only way I knew it was the National Anthem was the words. Which he sang to a tune I had never, ever heard in my life.
In the future, I think Whitney Houston's pre-recorded version for whatever Superbowl should just be played and whatever celebrity tapped to "sing" can just lip-synch along.
And I was happy that the Packers won even though I really don't give a rat's behind about pro football but I didn't want to see the Steelers and their
Twit.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
I don't get it Round IV
More things I don't get/understand:
1. The term "assless chaps." Do chaps come with the butt part covered up? If so, I've never seen them.
B. Why entire families go grocery shopping. It's not Quality Family Time when at least one child is crying and/or screaming because mom won't let them have Ring Dings. So why drag the whole family to the supermarket is what I'm asking.
iii) Those stupid stickers people put on their rear windows that symbolize how many people are in the family. Including pets.
1. The term "assless chaps." Do chaps come with the butt part covered up? If so, I've never seen them.
B. Why entire families go grocery shopping. It's not Quality Family Time when at least one child is crying and/or screaming because mom won't let them have Ring Dings. So why drag the whole family to the supermarket is what I'm asking.
iii) Those stupid stickers people put on their rear windows that symbolize how many people are in the family. Including pets.
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