May
29
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
HA!
(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!
Ahem.
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.
May
26
May 26, 2007
Let the record show that I disapprove of pretend zombies. I’ll be at the SF Apple Store next month for a Workplace software demo event, and I will be greatly annoyed if there is an attack of pretend zombies. Why? Because if there were a REAL zombie infiltration I would need to carry out my Public Uprising of the Undead Contingency Plan: Apple Store Edition—which, of course, involves using those speakers that look like dongs to skull-fuck my way out of there—and the fact that these impostors are around just clouds my response time. I’ve got to waste precious nanoseconds going, hipster hoping for a cameo on the local evening news? Or legitimate infestation of the living dead? Listen up, San Francisco zombie wannabes, if you’re not part of the solution, you’re part of the problem. Channel that drama-club creative energy into some other endeavor that fulfills your desire to wear stage makeup, and leave the rest of us to our eagle-eyed vigilance. The life you save may be your own.
By the way, the sole exception I have to the No Fake Zombies rule is if they’re going to publicly reenact—en masse—the Thriller dance, because that would actually be pretty awesome, and no one will experience zombie confusion, as we all know real zombies don’t have the coordination for the head-swivel/side-shuffle part of that routine.
ENOUGH ABOUT ZOMBIES.
(Oh, but can there ever really be enough?)
For the last several months I’ve been letting my highlights grow out, partially due to laziness on my part and partially as a concession to JB, who has long requested that I return to my default brunette shade. As it turns out, my dark hair is just as blah as I remembered it, except now it’s salted here and there with some charming wiry gray strands—so I decided it was by-god time to bring back the blonde.
When I told JB I was getting my hair done today, he sighed mournfully and informed me that he just really liked the natural look. I wondered out loud if he would also enjoy it if I stopped shaving my legs, plucking my eyebrows, putting makeup on my face, styling my hair, restricting what I eat, exercising when I don’t want to, and applying deodorant. Why wouldn’t he, when it would be so much more natural?
Also, I’ve noticed that the celebrities that float JB’s boat are not exactly natural beauties, unless you consider Carmen Electra a fresh-faced earth goddess.
Men. Seriously.
I’m pleased with my newly lightened hair, but it almost doesn’t matter how the actual color turned out, because the experience itself was so delicious—from the leisurely time spent in the chair reading People magazine while the stylist put in the foil, to the unbelievably wonderful scalp massage she gave me during the shampoo (I swear one of my legs started jimmying up and down like a dog’s, it felt so good).
Maybe one of you can tell me, why does hair feel so great after it’s been colored? Or bleached, or however highlighting works. You’d think it would feel all dry and damaged, but no: it’s soft, manageable, and shiny. At least until you wash it with your cheap-ass shampoo and wreck the magic.
Every single stylist I ever see gives me different product advice about my hair. This girl was refreshingly quiet, but did suggest that I use a clarifying shampoo to get rid of build-up. I’ve heard you can use vinegar for this purpose, but I can’t help thinking that would leave a lingering, Easter-egglike smell on your head. “Gee, your hair smells . . . douchey.”
The appointment was a total last-minute thing and I feel it’s been a very nice addition to the very nice weekend I’ve been having so far, which has prominently featured many hours of hanging out in the backyard with Riley. Watching him run around and play is definitely one of those parenthood experiences that probably sound boring to the outside observer but are in actuality so simply joyous and fulfilling I can hardly stand it; JB and I sometimes just look at each other and say, “Can you believe that kid is ours?” Never mind the later hours that include ear-shattering pre-bedtime howlfests, the backyard is where it’s at these days.
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