Name: Donald Trump
Occupation: owning the world
Hair Color: they told me it came from a blonde
Heritage: Demi-god. I guess that makes me Greek.
Your Fears: Waking up to Rosie O’Donnell, that my baby will look like Rosie, Rosie O’Donnell as president
Favorite Possession: My wife.
Goals You Would Like To Achieve This Year: Fire more people. Buy the EU.
First Waking Thought: Who will I fire today?
Best Physical Feature: Its so hard to choose just one, but I’d have to say my hair.
Have You Been in Love: First time I looked in a mirror.
Do You Believe in Yourself: Would I be where I am today if I didn’t believe in myself? Only losers don’t believe in themselves and I am not a loser. Do I look like a loser to you? Is this the penthouse of a loser? Is this the private jet of a loser?
Do You Want to Get Married: I prefer getting divorced.
Do You Think You Are Attractive: After the first billion anyone looks good.
Biggest Regret: naming my daughter Ivanka
Number of Drugs You Have Used: Are you calling me a druggie? You’re fired
Have You Done Drugs in the Last Month: Get out of here, you’re fired.
Do You Use Drugs, Yes or No: You’re fired.
Saturday, March 17
Friday, March 16
Mothballs
I hate the smell of mothballs. It gives me a headache and make me a little neauseous. Two days ago I changed my sheets, taking the new ones out of the linen closet where my mom keeps imaginary moths at bay with--what else--mothballs. So I aired them out and tried to bear the stench as I went to sleep.
When I returned to my room at night I was met with the horrible mothball smell but I figured it was just lingering from the sheets. But this morning it was even worse. Getting dressed, I reached into my drawer and saw little round white things. Yep, mothballs. Six of them.
My first thought was that someone broke into our house and instead of taking anything, sneaked mothballs into my room. But that seemed a little improbable and I remembered that my dad was privy to one of my rants about how much I hate sheets that smell like mothballs. I figured that he was playing a joke on me.
Then I reached for my socks. More little white balls. I began suspecting my brother. There were mothballs in every dresser drawer, every shelf of my closet, stuck behind stacks of clothes and even under the chair cushions. That was too elaborate for Andy so I thought it must be my mom, going on some anti-moth crusade, for some reason, in the dead of winter.
Confronted, she admitted putting them there because she said the room smelled like varnish and mothballs "absorb smells". Moments before I had been madder than I’d ever been in my life, but my mom’s explanation was so comically ironic that I fell over laughing and forgave all.
I've been burning incense and candles ever since. At least every stitch of fabric in my room will be safe from munching moth mouths for a very long time.
When I returned to my room at night I was met with the horrible mothball smell but I figured it was just lingering from the sheets. But this morning it was even worse. Getting dressed, I reached into my drawer and saw little round white things. Yep, mothballs. Six of them.
My first thought was that someone broke into our house and instead of taking anything, sneaked mothballs into my room. But that seemed a little improbable and I remembered that my dad was privy to one of my rants about how much I hate sheets that smell like mothballs. I figured that he was playing a joke on me.
Then I reached for my socks. More little white balls. I began suspecting my brother. There were mothballs in every dresser drawer, every shelf of my closet, stuck behind stacks of clothes and even under the chair cushions. That was too elaborate for Andy so I thought it must be my mom, going on some anti-moth crusade, for some reason, in the dead of winter.
Confronted, she admitted putting them there because she said the room smelled like varnish and mothballs "absorb smells". Moments before I had been madder than I’d ever been in my life, but my mom’s explanation was so comically ironic that I fell over laughing and forgave all.
I've been burning incense and candles ever since. At least every stitch of fabric in my room will be safe from munching moth mouths for a very long time.
Tuesday, March 13
Tasha
Most people think that their pets are more special than anyone else’s, so I feel justified saying that Tasha is the most fascinating creature I know. Tasha is a Siberian husky. Her papers call her “red” but auburn-tipped white hair gives her a caramel color.
I hesitate to call her mine because if she had a choice she probably wouldn’t claim me. She’s not loyal to one person or family but would claim the whole human race as hers. Whenever she gets loose she runs to one of the neighbors houses and as soon as they open their door she’s in like a shot.
Several times she’s gotten away from me on a walk and has stayed about 50 feet in front of me; close enough to be associated but far enough to flaunt the fact that I can’t catch her. Her downfall is always the same: someone will stop and open their car door and she goes to them. I think it’s a conflict that humans feel as well: wanting companionship and independence at the same time.
More Fun Facts About Tasha:
1. She slides down snow banks like a seal then lies on her back, twisting around and kicking her legs in the air while thrashing her head back and forth to snap up snow. She may be part dragon.
2. An environmentally aware dog, she eats and apparently digests litter, principally tissues.
3. Before drinking, she kills the water or frightens it into submission by snapping at it.
4. She shows her appreciation for certain odors by rolling vigorously on the (usually decomposing) substance. I think of this as a positive trait. She wants to smell nice. I put on perfume, she rolls in garbage.
5. She picks up plastic bottles and carries them home—sometimes for several miles—where she buries them. Once she was carrying a nearly full bottle of water and a guy stopped his truck to compliment me on training a dog to carry my water bottle. It was flattering, but I had to tell him that Tasha’s bottle-carrying behavior has nothing to do with me.
6. On our last walk she grabbed the bloated body of a squirrel that was bobbing down a stream. For an instant I imagined having to watch her carry that thing all the way home because no one can get “food” away from her and keep all of their digits. But I yelled so loud that it scared her into dropping the squirrel and I hauled her off just in time. As we walked away she turned and look longingly at the sodden lump of fur on the road behind us.
Sunday, March 11
Sleep Testing
Come Sleep With Us was the title of a posting on Craigslist that I saw while browsing through the Misc. Employment section. I figured that it had something to do with sleep testing, since there were quite a few of those. Sure enough, Brigham and Women's is doing a 9 day sleep study and they need victi—uh volunteers who are 18-30 and healthy. Hmm, thought I, I love to sleep and $120 a day is not too shabby for lounging around in my pjs, reading, watching movies and surfing the internet. I've been doing that for the last 6 weeks without pay. So I emailed the contact person.
Fortunately, she sent me a very detailed email. The study actually starts 3 weeks before going to the hospital when the human lab rat maintains a regular 8 hour per night sleep pattern, which includes keeping the same hours every night and recording them. That's bad news for people who go to bed whenever the help they feel like it and get up the same way.
Phase 1 also requires several trips to Boston, blood tests, a drug test and a physical. That's medical boot camp, and I hate going to the doctor like a fat soldier hates a drill sergeant.
Then there's the lab. Nine days, the email said, without caffeinated beverages. Tea and coffee are like oxygen. I wouldn't deny them to my worst enemy or Donald Trump. Inexplicably, movies are also taboo. Ditto for laptops because they have a clock (can't the dang thing be disabled?). There's also a shocking lack of privacy, with two video monitors in each "suite" (bet they call them suites at Walter Reed, too), an internal thermometer affixed in an awkward place and daily urine tests. Excuse me, daily?! The infrequency of peeing in a cup is directly proportional to my quality of life.
Reading that, the test was not really an option anymore, but the final stroke was yet to come. The subject cannot leave her "suite" so she's basically a prisoner, complete with torture: they keep a person awake for 70 hours at a stretch. I actually saw that in a movie about WWII prisoner camps. The email said that technicians are present throughout the 70 hours to "play games" with the subjects to keep them awake. Yeah right. After going three days without sleep laser paintball frisbee tag couldn't keep me awake. The technicians probably poke their victims with sharp objects and spray them with ice water.
Even though I'm not doing it, it wasn't a wasted query. Waking up after ten irregular hours of sleep and with my computer warming my lap, I think of those poor saps at Brigham's who are selling their freedom for $120 a day and I enjoy my morning coffee all the more.
Fortunately, she sent me a very detailed email. The study actually starts 3 weeks before going to the hospital when the human lab rat maintains a regular 8 hour per night sleep pattern, which includes keeping the same hours every night and recording them. That's bad news for people who go to bed whenever the help they feel like it and get up the same way.
Phase 1 also requires several trips to Boston, blood tests, a drug test and a physical. That's medical boot camp, and I hate going to the doctor like a fat soldier hates a drill sergeant.
Then there's the lab. Nine days, the email said, without caffeinated beverages. Tea and coffee are like oxygen. I wouldn't deny them to my worst enemy or Donald Trump. Inexplicably, movies are also taboo. Ditto for laptops because they have a clock (can't the dang thing be disabled?). There's also a shocking lack of privacy, with two video monitors in each "suite" (bet they call them suites at Walter Reed, too), an internal thermometer affixed in an awkward place and daily urine tests. Excuse me, daily?! The infrequency of peeing in a cup is directly proportional to my quality of life.
Reading that, the test was not really an option anymore, but the final stroke was yet to come. The subject cannot leave her "suite" so she's basically a prisoner, complete with torture: they keep a person awake for 70 hours at a stretch. I actually saw that in a movie about WWII prisoner camps. The email said that technicians are present throughout the 70 hours to "play games" with the subjects to keep them awake. Yeah right. After going three days without sleep laser paintball frisbee tag couldn't keep me awake. The technicians probably poke their victims with sharp objects and spray them with ice water.
Even though I'm not doing it, it wasn't a wasted query. Waking up after ten irregular hours of sleep and with my computer warming my lap, I think of those poor saps at Brigham's who are selling their freedom for $120 a day and I enjoy my morning coffee all the more.
Saturday, March 10
Date
This is the true story of the worst date of my life. I should mention that the guy (call him Bucky) was the average, likable nice guy. It just happened that his personality and mine were not a perfect fit, i.e. his relationship-killing blunders might not make the slightest blip on another woman's WARNING! radar.
First, he was 45 minutes late picking me up. I had (very practically) suggested meeting him at our destination but nooo, he insisted on driving to my house and meeting the folks. So he'd never been there before and its not unusual to get lost, right? Ha! That's what Yahoo maps are for. Hello, it's a first impression. Don't keep the girl waiting.
When he finally got there, I found that Bucky had rented a convertible (he had flown to NH for an interview plus the date and needed a car). It was April, not the warmest month of the year. In fact, it was darn chilly, but Bucky obviously liked convertibles. Some people do, but wind musses hair, and after spending 20 minutes trying to make mine look good, I was not pleased. We flew down the road with me cowering below the windshield, both hands clamped over my hair like a helmet. Happily, after a quarter of an hour, Bucky took the hint and pulled over.
"Oh, would you like me to put the top up?"
The lhasa apso beside him nodded sullenly, her lips too frozen to reply.
The calm and quiet introduced by the lack of rushing air was both a blessing and a curse, as it became obvious that we had nothing to talk about. Bucky flipped on the radio. Normally I would think nothing of it, but at the end of a long tense pause, turning on the radio is a sign of desperation, kind of like sending up a signal flare. When his cell phone rang he nearly dove to answer it. It was our mutual friend, and after chatting with her for a few minutes he handed the phone to me.
"Are you having a good time?" she asked.
Still half deaf from the wind, I didn't think he could possibly hear her side of the conversation.
"Not yet", I said. Bucky gave a twitch and I realized with horror that he certainly had heard.
"But I'm sure we will!" I frantically shoveled sand as the water rose above my head.
He didn't like Ice Age (my choice) and laughed maybe once. That movie is hilarious. I own it, for Pete's sake. Anyway, there I was, trying to look more mature than the kids around us who were howling with glee. But at the part when Sid breaks through the line of dodos holding the melon like a football and the camera goes into slow motion, I couldn't keep it together. A few chuckles and the dam broke. I let out a shout of laughter that made Bucky jump.
When it was over I was still laughing, all the way through the mall and into the parking lot. All Bucky said was, "Guess I'm not that into kid's movies".
Next we went to a restaurant where he watched bemusedly as I ate sushi. After I told him there was no real fish in a California roll he worked up the nerve to try a piece. Too bad he gagged, choked and spit it out in his napkin.
I was also not impressed when he ordered three main dishes.
"Who are those for?" I asked.
"I dunno. You can take some home if you want. This is on my dad's credit card".
Incomprehensibly, he also volunteered that I had his dad's card to thank for the very uncomfortable ride in the convertible.
The worst part of the date, though, was when his cell phone rang and he answered it right at the table while we were eating and trying to have a conversation. I think that answering a cell phone while talking exclusively with another person is one of the Top 10 Worst habits / traits known to modern man.
Unable to hide my irritation and unwilling to wait until Bucky finished talking, I stalked off to the ladies' room, refuge of beleaguered blind daters. I had (very politely) left my phone at home, which turned out to be unfortunate, since I was dying to call a friend and kvetch.
Back at the table Bucky must have seen or felt the storm brewing because he asked if anything was wrong. Although it would have been oh-so-satisfying to let him have it with both barrels, I decided I wasn't the person to set him straight, since it was obviously going to be our first and last date.
And it was.
First, he was 45 minutes late picking me up. I had (very practically) suggested meeting him at our destination but nooo, he insisted on driving to my house and meeting the folks. So he'd never been there before and its not unusual to get lost, right? Ha! That's what Yahoo maps are for. Hello, it's a first impression. Don't keep the girl waiting.
When he finally got there, I found that Bucky had rented a convertible (he had flown to NH for an interview plus the date and needed a car). It was April, not the warmest month of the year. In fact, it was darn chilly, but Bucky obviously liked convertibles. Some people do, but wind musses hair, and after spending 20 minutes trying to make mine look good, I was not pleased. We flew down the road with me cowering below the windshield, both hands clamped over my hair like a helmet. Happily, after a quarter of an hour, Bucky took the hint and pulled over.
"Oh, would you like me to put the top up?"
The lhasa apso beside him nodded sullenly, her lips too frozen to reply.
The calm and quiet introduced by the lack of rushing air was both a blessing and a curse, as it became obvious that we had nothing to talk about. Bucky flipped on the radio. Normally I would think nothing of it, but at the end of a long tense pause, turning on the radio is a sign of desperation, kind of like sending up a signal flare. When his cell phone rang he nearly dove to answer it. It was our mutual friend, and after chatting with her for a few minutes he handed the phone to me.
"Are you having a good time?" she asked.
Still half deaf from the wind, I didn't think he could possibly hear her side of the conversation.
"Not yet", I said. Bucky gave a twitch and I realized with horror that he certainly had heard.
"But I'm sure we will!" I frantically shoveled sand as the water rose above my head.
He didn't like Ice Age (my choice) and laughed maybe once. That movie is hilarious. I own it, for Pete's sake. Anyway, there I was, trying to look more mature than the kids around us who were howling with glee. But at the part when Sid breaks through the line of dodos holding the melon like a football and the camera goes into slow motion, I couldn't keep it together. A few chuckles and the dam broke. I let out a shout of laughter that made Bucky jump.
When it was over I was still laughing, all the way through the mall and into the parking lot. All Bucky said was, "Guess I'm not that into kid's movies".
Next we went to a restaurant where he watched bemusedly as I ate sushi. After I told him there was no real fish in a California roll he worked up the nerve to try a piece. Too bad he gagged, choked and spit it out in his napkin.
I was also not impressed when he ordered three main dishes.
"Who are those for?" I asked.
"I dunno. You can take some home if you want. This is on my dad's credit card".
Incomprehensibly, he also volunteered that I had his dad's card to thank for the very uncomfortable ride in the convertible.
The worst part of the date, though, was when his cell phone rang and he answered it right at the table while we were eating and trying to have a conversation. I think that answering a cell phone while talking exclusively with another person is one of the Top 10 Worst habits / traits known to modern man.
Unable to hide my irritation and unwilling to wait until Bucky finished talking, I stalked off to the ladies' room, refuge of beleaguered blind daters. I had (very politely) left my phone at home, which turned out to be unfortunate, since I was dying to call a friend and kvetch.
Back at the table Bucky must have seen or felt the storm brewing because he asked if anything was wrong. Although it would have been oh-so-satisfying to let him have it with both barrels, I decided I wasn't the person to set him straight, since it was obviously going to be our first and last date.
And it was.
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