Thursday, March 24, 2011

Puppy Love

So I've stated on this site several times that I am a cat person and that I don’t really like dogs. Okay, so maybe I’ve said I hated dogs. What are you? The blog police?

So you can imagine the delight in my soul when I found out my neighbors Baddie and Midget had gotten a dog. One second I’m knocking on their door, the next something is growling at me. Oh yeah, and the dog didn’t like me either.

Don’t ask me why; the dog loves everybody else. But for some reason it thought I was the second coming of Michael Vick. It would growl at me and take long, exaggerated routes to avoid walking near me, sort of like women on campus.

Now, the dog is a yorkie named Jack that looks something like this. So it’s not like I’m physically afraid of the fact that it hates me. But emotionally I am pretty shattered. Why doesn’t it like me? I mean aside from the fact that its owners probably show it pictures of me and then zap it. Then they pretend like they are surprised it hates me. “I don’t know why it doesn’t like you. There must be something wrong with you,” they say with quizzical looks.

So anyway, I had dogs on my mind when we went to a party and that’s when I met it: the cutest puppy I have ever seen. It was small and fuzzy with slanted eyes. But the best thing about the puppy? It absolutely hated the girls and constantly bit them. It could have something to do with the fact that they kept picking it up and trying to stuff it in their bags and run out the door with it. But for whatever reason, it loved me. It would just run around in small circles on my lap and keep licking my face (which made me the only person at that party I know of who got to first base).

So I was already in a fragile emotional state when all of a sudden, Jack warmed up to me. It could be that I was watching the third Twilight and he just felt sorry for me. But as with women, I don’t care why it likes me. It actually reminds me of a cat in that the dog just starts curling up on laps and going to sleep. Except when it hears the w-word. I have to say w-word because if that dog hears that word it just starts going bonkers and spinning in circles like a wind-up toy from hell.

But at least it’s starting to like me. Unlike the dogs that assault me on a nightly basis. In between my parking spot and the front door of my apartment is a small grassy area for dog owners. Now, I have yet to meet a dog-owner who thinks the leash law is actually a law. “Oh but my dog is so well trained, it would never do anything,” they say, shortly before their dog begins taking a crap on my balcony.

So whenever I pass by this area two 500-pound dogs come rushing at me, followed closely by three small backup emergency dogs. The big dogs proceed to jump up on me while the small ones run in tight figure eight formations between my legs, an effective cooperation strategy that almost always results in me falling down. The entire time, their owners are saying things like “aw he likes you,” or “isn’t that cute?”

In the meantime I am crawling desperately for my door until their owners try to coax them off of me in the gentlest tone possible, as if they were suicide bombers with hostages. Of course, instead of just coming over and pulling their dog off of me, they say these things from fifty feet away in a very matter of fact tone, as if the dog actually understands English.

So I’m not completely sold on dogs just yet. But living alone, I tend to talk aloud a lot. It would be nice to have an animal that at least pretends it is listening, as opposed to say, my toaster (or my neighbors for that matter).

So I guess I could see myself one day giving in. Especially after I read a co-workers story of his dog (which I warn dog owners, may make you very emotional). But after watching Twilight, I’m still a little paranoid that my dog one day will turn into some 5’4” shirtless dude. And there is no way I have the patience to potty train Jacob.

Thursday, March 3, 2011

Miracles On Ice

When I stepped outside of my apartment yesterday, the sun was shining, I had a spring in my step and it was shaping up to be a great day. Now considering I rarely write about the good days I have, I think you can tell where this is going.

So I show up to my fiction writing class in my usual attire of shorts, slippers and a T-shirt because, like I said, the weather was really nice. That’s when I found out that instead of sitting around and doing something while I slept in the back of the classroom (one of my favorite activities), we instead were going to go ice skating (one of my least favorite activities).

Now, it should be fairly obvious why I don’t like ice skating, but I’m going to tell you anyway. The main reason I don’t like ice skating is that it takes place, as it so happens, on ice. Ice is cold and unforgiving, not unlike certain women I know (cough, all of them, cough). Ice is useful for one thing, and that’s making margaritas.

Growing up, ice was something that came out of a magical hole in my refrigerator door. Or at least it was supposed to. For some reason, I remember that our ice dispenser rarely worked. It just made weird noises all the time, like a bridge troll with gas. The only thing I used on that ice dispenser was the light when I was wandering around the kitchen in the middle of the night trying to find the tooth fairy.

I didn’t even know how ice worked. You think I’m joking? I remember I did a science project in third grade where me and two friends tried to see which froze faster, hot or cold water. Sounds pretty stupid and simple right? Well we somehow concluded in the experiment that hot water froze faster. Yep. And I went on to attend a four-year college.

Point being, I thought ice was some sort of weird magical substance conjured by witches. I definitely didn’t think it was something I should go play on. Sure I had watched ice skating before, but that is only because it was one of the things my mom loved to watch on TV. I’m assuming it is because Asian women tend to be good at it.

Growing up in Hawaii, I never saw an ice rink until very late in my childhood. I remember seeing that rink for the first time. I assumed that it would be just like walking, and soon enough I would be skating in fancy little figure eights just like all the other little kids. But within two seconds of getting on the ice I discovered two things: skating is very hard and so is ice. As I sat there on the ice crying, my dreams of being the next Brian Boitano came crashing down around me.

Okay, so maybe I milked that for dramatic effect. I have no idea who Brian Boitano is. I just Googled “male skater who is probably not gay” and he’s the only thing I came up with besides Scott Hamilton, but apparently he has cancer so I didn’t want to make fun of him. I’m pretty sure I did cry though. Ice really hurts.

Anyway, I’ve been ice skating maybe two more times since then, and I haven’t gotten any better. Normally I just use those little walkers, so as two-year olds whizz past me backwards I’m waddling around the ice like an elderly woman having seizures. So you can imagine my excitement when we were going to spend an entire class period skating at the rec center. I didn’t even know we had an ice rink. I guess that’s just what they call the pool during winter.

Anyway, our professor said that the experience was supposed to inspire us to write poetry, but the only thing this inspired in me was paralyzing fear (of both ice skating and poetry). As I crawled my way around the walls trying to become inspired in my shorts and T-shirt I must have looked as out of place out on the ice as a donkey in the Kentucky Derby, except the donkey at least could make it around the track. I just sort of stood there as my feet slowly spread apart, tearing every muscle in my groin as I prayed that continental drift would eventually cause me to move forward.

Several of my classmates shouted out encouragement to me with much the same tone you might use to tell “special” Freddy he was doing a great job coloring inside the lines. It didn’t help that a girl (not to sound racist again, but she was Asian) was speeding around the track doing complicated axel jumps and verbally flogging herself when she didn’t land them perfectly. Whereas I congratulated myself for not freezing to death.

After finally making one lap (about 75 percent of it scooting on my now very cold butt), I decided I had about all the inspiration I could handle. When I got home, my knees were bruised and my ankles were swollen and I’m pretty sure I have a sports hernia. But it’s okay, because my professor was right. All that ice did inspire me… to go make a margarita.

Tuesday, March 1, 2011

Two and a Half Brain Cells

As you well know, this site is your most trusted source of celebrity gossip, especially since Perez Hilton lost all that weight (never trust skinny people is my motto). The latest bit of scuttlebutt out of Hollywood is that Charlie Sheen has gone off the deep end, and it doesn't appear that he's coming back in one piece.

Yesterday he gave a series of interviews, which he hoped would prove that he is a very stable individual. Unfortunately, that plan sort of backfired when his interview showed that he is about as stable as a suicide bomber on a jackhammer. As a result, he has gotten ripped apart by the media and Lindsay Lohan is suddenly feeling very unloved.

A bit of background. First, he supposedly went on a drug induced binge and then locked a porn star in a bathroom. Then, he recently was taken to the hospital after another coke and porn star binge. Of course, the report later said that it was actually a hernia from laughing too hard, which is probably a lie. (But then again, if I was snorting enough cocaine to cover a ski run and having sex with enough porn stars to film Zombie Strippers 3 and getting away with it, I would probably be laughing pretty hard too.) But then the fun and jokes ended when he called into a radio show and started insulting the bosses of the TV show he stars in and was subsequently fired.

Now, apparently on the planet where Charlie Sheen’s brain currently resides, getting fired for calling your bosses rude names on public radio is a grave injustice. So to correct this grave injustice, Charlie Sheen conducted an interview to ask for a $1 million raise per episode. I have had my share of job slip-ups before so I’m not exactly an expert, but I’m assuming here that recently fired people have very little leverage when it comes to demanding raises, particularly when you were fired for insulting your bosses and showing up to work higher than the Chrysler Building.

But that is not all he did in the interviews, which you have to watch. Basically he implied that he is an awesome rockstar and we simpletons are simply jealous of his lifestyle. He also said that cocaine is boring, and I guess when you’ve snorted an entire South American country’s worth it can get old after a while. Luckily he is on a drug now called “Charlie Sheen,” which nobody else can take because they would die and their face would melt off. I’m guessing it would be just like when they opened the Ark of the Covenant in Indiana Jones. Whereas if you took a drug called Mitchell, you would be overcome with a sudden feeling of laziness. Probably gas too.

Now, what irritates me about this particular interview is the reporter. She keeps saying what a nice and stable person he appears to be, even as he smokes during the interview, fiddles with a wire from a F-18 bomb and talks to the three women he lives with, one of whom is a porn star. If I ever commit a crime, I want this lady interviewing me. I could be holding the axe and the severed head and she would simply comment on how nice my smile is and how I could never have done such a horrible thing.

Anyway, Sheen must have been made at the same Japanese factory where they made Keith Richards, because there is no way his body should still be working. Now I’m not going to lie, I normally could not care what celebrities do to their bodies. But the reason I care about Sheen is that I actually loved his comedy Two and a Half Men. It’s the only funny sitcom left on TV. Actually, it’s probably the only funny sitcom on TV since the 80’s. (As I say this, millions of single, 30-something career women with “Rachel” haircuts are yelling “What about Friends?!?!?!" Then they probably cried.)

If you have never watched the show, Charlie plays a rich, carefree bachelor who drinks, gambles, womanizes and smokes too much. What’s great is that Charlie Sheen probably has no idea he is playing a character. I’m still convinced that they just show up at his house with a camera and film his everyday life. He probably still thinks it’s a documentary.And now, the show is most likely over, which means I’m stuck watching reruns of Sanford and Son for comedy. It’s enough to make you depressed, which is a why it’s a good thing I managed to get my hands on some dank Charlie Sheen…