May 31, 2007

It was nearly 90 degrees in the Seattle area yesterday, and of course the evening news had a Dire Segment about how if it’s this hot in May, what can it mean for the rest of the summer? As though it’s going to stay consistently hot from here on out, as if it wasn’t rainy and chilly four days ago. I just don’t think a Pacific Northwesterner can be happy unless they’re bitching about the weather.

Riley and I were at our Wednesday playdate in the afternoon and despite multiple slatherings of SPF 714820 I managed to burn my shoulders. Just the tops of my shoulders. Not the rest of my arms. A couple weeks ago, I got a sunburn on the parts of my arms not covered by a t-shirt—you know, the farmer tan look?—so now I have this bizarre strip of whitish, unexposed skin between my reddish shoulders and my somewhat tanned arms. I’m telling myself that it looks tribal, rather than dorky. “Oh, that?” I plan to say, should anyone ask whether or not I’m suffering from an exotic skin-discoloration disease, “I’m, like, totally into body modification.”

Ashley took a picture of Riley yesterday which I feel captures the more challenging side of his personality quite nicely:


It looks quite a bit like the photo at the top of this blog, doesn’t it? That’s because he is ALWAYS TALKING IN ALL CAPS.

Also, when I compare Riley to a howler monkey, you probably think I’m kidding around (just like when I say I’m going to stuff him in a wood chipper, which is, ha ha, obviously not serious at all) (except on days of the week ending in Y). However, BEHOLD:


Eerie, is it not? Ah, mein pint-sized simian Fuhrer.

May 29, 2007

You guys think I’m bad with the zombie nerdery, but you have no idea how deep it can get. Behold my coworker B’s theory, copied and pasted exactly as written, regarding zombie genetics after seeing 28 Weeks Later (which no, I have not seen, because 1) we don’t have a babysitter and 2) if we did get a free night, there’s no way in hell I could convince JB to see a horror movie with me, despite the fact that he totally owes me one after forcing me to suffer through the never-ending slog that was Letters from Iwo Jima):

True, if the immunity to the rage virus was a recessive trait, then you need both parents to be immune to pass it on to the kids. My theory, however, is that the immunity gene is actually dominant, but either occurs extremely rarely in the population or was a mutation unique to the mom.

Note: I’m assuming here that the mom has the dominant immunity gene and one copy of the recessive zombification gene. Dad has two copies of the recessive zombification gene. If the mom had two copies of the immunity gene, it’s a whole different ball game. But if the gene’s dominant, 1/2 of her kids would be protected from the virus and half wouldn’t.

I think there isn’t enough evidence one way or the other to determine a sex-link, but in theory, the gene could be on any of the chromosome pairs. The daughter’s never exposed to the virus that I know of, so we don’t know if she’s immune.  Mom’s on the side and dad’s on top in the cross below. X represents the dominant immunity virus.

People, he then included a little ASCII diagram. SERIOUSLY.

o o
X Xo Xo
o oo oo


(Okay, technically the rage-virus-ridden aren’t actually zombies because they are living humans, but let’s agree they are some zombie-acting motherfuckers, with the additional Creep Factor of being fast.)

Speaking of flesh-eating ghouls, I am thoroughly sick of retail stores trying to upsell. I can sympathize with the employees, who are only doing what they’re being required to do (I once worked in a movie theater where we were forced to ask each and every concessions customer if they wanted the larger size popcorn/drink for only .25/.50 more; not only that, but we had to call that repulsive oily spew that went on the popcorn “buttery”, as in “Did you want buttery with that?”), but I hate being repeatedly asked if I want to sign up for the store’s card. Actually, it’s not that part that I hate so much, it’s the inevitable follow-up question: “Are you sure, you could save $10 today by . . .”

I always say, “No thanks”, instead of “Yes, I’m sure I don’t want your crappy interest rate, and I’m doubly sure I want to spend cash money on this purchase instead of going into debt over a pair of cheap denim capris, goddammit”, but really, it’s irritating to have to say no twice in a row. NO MEANS NO, OLD NAVY.

It’s bad enough to be harassed about opening a store account, but at certain other stores (The Body Shop, for one) it’s nearly impossible to make a purchase without being frantically dry-humped by a clerk recommending all sorts of ‘complimentary’ products. “Did you notice our new papaya-cinnamon-lemongrass bath salts? Have you tried the conditioner? This week we’re having a sale on home fragrance!”

The drive-through Starbucks in our neighborhood doesn’t even wait to hear your order before asking if you’d like to try their newest Frappucino flavor, which drives me nuts because it throws off the entire cadence of our expected conversation. I have to start out by saying “No” instead of “May I please have a tall iced black tea?”, and that feels RUDE.

I hate being asked for my phone number most of all. Toys R Us does this without explanation, as though it’s just a normal part of the checkout process. “Home phone?” Uh, HELL to the no, but how about you take my money instead?

Why is that so hard? Just take my money! Here, I’m offering money, in return for the goods I have chosen! That is the whole of the transaction I wish to engage in! I do not want your buttery!


Oh, don’t ask me when I got so curmudgeonly, I think it’s just something that happens with age. Like gray hairs and the inexplicable desire to identify wild birds.

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