Pumpkin Ball

I've started to refer to basketball as Pumpkin Ball. And, not to bury the lead, let's face it, I hate Pumpkin Ball. Who wants a pumpkin thrown at them anyways? It's scary.

That being said, I've created a list of reasons why I hate basketball. Did you know that my boyfriend's family is in love with basketball? I only bring this up because one, blogging is my only outlet for what should remain unspoken irritations, and two, I will be meeting them again next week. We will probably even go to a pumpkin ball game, too. Not that I have a problem cheering, it's just that high school games don't serve beer, then again it is Montana, so here's hoping.

Reason # 1. The squeaking shoes. Nuff' said.

Reason # 2. The technicalities. So many rules! I always scream at the tv when watching football (Screw you, Favre, but go Vikings). because the reffs won't let them play the game. Basketball is like ballerinas tossing a pumpkin around while doing quantum physics. White board? Seriously?

Reason # 3. It simply isn't violent enough. Basketball was the first sport I played, and I was always sitting out because I fouled out for decking people. I still find myself asking, why can't you knock someone over for the pumpkin?

Reason # 4. Pumpkin Ball lacks any real-life skills or application. At least in football or hockey you learn how to fight? How the hell is putting a pumpkin in a net going to perpetuate humanity? At least throwing and swinging a bat are forms of self-defense.

Reason # 5. Although I respect the athletes and their ability to perform pumpkin ballet or whatever, I do not respect the basketball groupies. They're just annoying. Especially girls who figured they should like a sport, so they chose basketball. Trying to impress boys with specific team allegiance morphed into romanticizing 6'7 basketball players and thus eventually naming pets after their favorite player, i.e., "this is my toy poodle, Colby." Hmm, Colby, isn't that a cheese?

Hating The Process

"Let's see, white, check, female, check, no, I'm not a felon, but if this simple automated application lasts any longer I might just become a felon... diabled? not yet..."

Yes, I just wasted another two hours of my life filling out an, "easy automated job application." And by wasted, I mean that the company will probably never even e-mail much less call me or, hell, even read my damn application. Automated, my ass.

Maybe it's because I use a big-fancy iMac, but every time I try to upload my awesome CV or resume' I receive a, "failed to load" page. No, your server is not too busy, I will not check back later—I'm just too awesome for your server. That's right. I checked that self-confidence box on your "assessment" (which took another 43 minutes and 19 second of my life.

That's ok, though, I'm sure it was precious time I would've spent working for people who do not wish to work. Well, I do wish to work, world.

I want to have the pre-work dread. Then I can yell at myself to be grateful for employment. But, alas, I'm a slave to the automated process...

I'd like to think that most people find me charming and likable, but, it is difficult to see that on a stupid application.
if they won't interview me, how will they become susceptible to my thrall and irresistibility?

Embrace Your Inner Zucchini

Bear is reading a chapter about Logical Atomism in my Twentieth Century Philosophy book and I just made a xylophone out of the zucchini on the counter. Shortly after that, my mom phoned her friend to invite herself and my father over. Without me. Shrug. I'm not at all ashamed that i like to embrace my inner zucchini.

Patrick told me that Bear's English is improving and that he is becoming easier to understand and I said it was because of cultural immersion.. same sort of thing happened with the zucchini—they've become a part of me, literally and figuratively. T'was a fruity transubstanciacion, if you will. Zucchini appears everywhere now, like I'm seeing ghosts or something. Not to mention the kitchen counter space has decreased by 60%.

Four months of this, and I finally figured, if you can't beat em' (or eat em') join em'!

P.S. Two words: Zucchini Beer.

Prose. Political prose.

It's been a while since I've had a good ol' political rant...

GIVE ME BACK MY COUNTRY!

There, I said it.

Take your cussing hammer and sickle and get the cuss out of my country! I hate you, Mr. Obama, I hate you and the cluster-cuss havoc you bring, I hate you with every fiber of my being. Stop spending, stop cussing talking, I hate your pompous voice—actually, wait, keep talking! because every-time you open your mouth, you lose supporters. It's all cussing Milton's devil-esque rhetoric.

We the people, are not stupid. We the people, yes that's right, INDIVIDUALS—who this country is made of— will repeal your stupid socialist healthcare bill. We will win in November. Then we will sleep. Then we will party.

We Should Probably Eat That

"What are we going to do with the rice tonight?" Asked my mom, and before anyone could say "zucchini?" or eye the green monster on the kitchen counter I blurted out, "creamy rice, like we do with the pheasant, hey do we have any birds left?"

"Yeah, we have one left... we should probably eat that..." She replied.
"We should probably eat that, what if that were the title to a cooking show?" I asked.

I was watching Project Runway last night, and they did this episode with material from a party store, like Dollar Tree or something. Which is better than the earlier episodes when they used trash, but still, I'm thinking that if people can wear leftovers, why not be artistic in a culinary vein, too?

Just Sayin;.

Tune in next time for, "We Should Probably Eat That!"

Job Safari? Bring Your Gun (And Lawyer)

To put it simply, being a recent college grad is terrifying. As if the, "real world's" noxiousness wasn't enough, nor the vision of that student loan amount dancing in my head at night—mocking me—scaring the sheep and my sleep away wasn't enough, nor my parents constant concern of finding employment for themselves hanging in the air like a balmy Minnesota July afternoon wasn't enough, no, no, no, I've grown accustomed to that prison, what IS enough, what recent aggravating circumstance finally crossed the zucchini-peel-thin line? Job scammers.

That's right, it's difficult enough to find an entry-level anything that doesn't involve Avon, or fast food, but these worms, no, these snakes slither the job websites looking for naive, yet hopeful, prey, like myself. "Entry level sales/marketing," is really a door-to-door coupon book scam. See for yourselves: Scam.

Well, you rat bastards, I stay silent no more. I will expose you asses for the lying, disgusting, life sucking, souless dragons that you are. You make my ex-wife look like an angry puppy. Stop making my job safari more difficult than it already is. The only thing stopping me from reciprocating your harassment is my mood stabilizers. * shakes bottle of pills *

"We Need More Hairspray & Spuds... and Beer"

Mmm Cheez-its... symbolism is tasty. You know what else would be tasty? Platypus egg omelets... with zebra sausage. Yum. What?? Animal print is in! A few months back I—theoretically—paired wines with domesticated animals... shiraz would go nicely with kitten.

Speaking of redneck cooking methods, during the northern Wisconsin 4th festivities, after mastering skeet shooting frisbees with potatoes, my Marine cousin upped the ante and killed a red-squirrel with a potato gun. Boy, that shaved a hell of a lot of time off dinner prep not having to cook them taters, though, the meat was a bit bruised...

After a while we ran out of hairspray—White Rain works the best—and spuds... and beer... So, God Bless Wisconsin, we went to the local grocery store, and not only did they have food and cosmetics, they had a full selection of liquor.

Our final shopping list?

Potatoes
Hairspray
Beer
Gin
Vodka
Mike's

To tope off the red-neckery, my cousin and I poured vodka and capri-suns into travel mugs and watched the fireworks. Still looking for the poetry in that. I'll just say, cuss yeah.