Author Archives: edrevets

Aug 07 2012
88 Comments
Humorous, Social Media, Two minute read

An Open Apology to Innocent Girls Everywhere

No no no, it’s alright. There there, I’ll get you a pony. It’s going to be fine.

Dear girls and a few boys,

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry for all the pain I’ve caused you, for the unwanted nightmares, for the blind fear you’ve probably felt as a direct result of my blog. I’m sorry for the bizarre and uncomfortable thoughts I’ve exposed you to and the resulting compulsive habits you developed such as refusing to turn on faucet in the bathroom without a parent nearby or googling with your eyes closed. I’m sorry your pigtails have been electrified with terror and your precious eyes bugged out in horror. Careful, you’ll get your face stuck like that.

I hope you know I never meant to harm you.

I’ve been writing this blog for a little over a year now.When I first started, I was kind of like you: I knew nothing. I was an naïve blogger that just wanted to talk about her life, punctuated. I didn’t know how search engines worked, or the fact that far into the future, the vast majority of the hits on my website would come from children searching for images of my little pony and Belle the princess from Beauty and the Beast.

How was I supposed to know that Google’s crazy mixed up logarithm would rank my site as being an appropriate resource for images of Belle and My Little Pony? Did the logarithm know the secret behind the pictures? Did it know the content of the actual article written behind the images? Oh the humanity.

An elementary school girl (or boy) searches for Belle on google and unknowingly clicks on my site. The image is indeed the fair lass clad in yellow, but the article is one in which I pitch her and Beatrix Kiddo, of Kill Bill fame, in a fight to the death. All I have to say is: I’m sorry. I didn’t know you would be reading it. But if you did read it, you might as well tell me what you thought of it. Was it too much? Just right? Okay okay you’re scarred I get it.

And for all of you lovely lads and lasses searching for any variation of pink pony or little pink pony or any adorable construction therein, no doubt you have found my snippet of a story called “The land of tiny pink ponies and tiny pink pony eaters.” In this story, the adorable, glittery, pony playthings lived in constant fear of being devoured or falling into a poisonous river that dissolved their cute pony flesh. Girls, boys, what did you think of the story? Too gruesome? How do you usually plan your ponies’ deaths? You don’t? Oh.

So I just wanted to say I’m sorry to all those budding minds out there. It’s not my fault I have no idea how Search Engine Optimization works. Should I write a letter to the Google bot and tell it to remove my site from that search? Do I fax something somewhere?

Maybe the kids would know how to do it.

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Aug 06 2012
21 Comments
Food, Humorous, Writing

Please Let Me Watch You Eat

A million donuts? Two? When would they be satisfied?

The Olympics is a nationalistic meathead’s dream. Every four years, thousands of top athletes from all over the globe gather and bodily compete with one another, determining the greatest countries through sheer sweat and muscle, swimming, rowing, clawing, and back-flipping to the top of the doggy pile and victory dancing on the bodies of lesser countries. Thousands of pounds (kilos) of muscle writhing with one another in a city famous for tea and stony-faced soldiers: what fun!

Regardless of which Olympic event I’m watching, my reaction is always the same.  “Whoaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh……………they’re so fast.” If I were an Olympic broadcaster, my narrative would go something like, “This woman is very fast, Bill, very fast. Did you see how fast she’s going? You know what, they’re all really fast. They should all get medals. Bill, the last time I ran, my knee started hurting after about five minutes so I stopped and went home. I’m 23, Bill. That woman is 39 and she is going very fast. Let’s go get her a medal.”

After going gaga over the sheer speed and athleticism, the fact most of these people could outrun various wild beasts and then spear them and carry their carcasses to the nearest hibachi grill at full sprint, I immediately move to the next logical topic of rumination: how much they eat. Seriously, how much food could a team of male gymnasts consume? Or female swimmers? What about the long-distance runners when they’re gearing up for a race? These “humans” are made entirely of muscle and work out for 90% of the time. Their caloric intake must be huuuuuge.

My Olympic dream is something quite simple: I want to go to an Italian restaurant with a group of Olympians, male and female, from all different sports. I want to point to the menu, say “We’ll have everything.” Minutes later, the entire staff of the restaurant emerges carrying silver platters loaded with mountains of pasta. And then I would watch, in awe, as the hungriest people in the world ate.

What would it be like? Would people lose limbs and wear protective goggles to prevent eye injury? Would they be civil but determined? How fast would it take to demolish the food on the table? When would they be hungry again? I have so many questions burning inside of me. Each time I turn on the television, they strike me again with the force of a discus. I see a man running, I wonder what he ate that day. I see a woman playing water polo, I imagine her going to town on eight big macs for breakfast. I MUST KNOW THE TRUTH.

We all know that the only true benefit of exercising is being able to eat more without gaining weight. Is the whole “Olympic” thing just a way to mask these people’s food addictions? And is there enough food in London for them to feed hordes of hungry Olympians? How much pasta would it take to satiate their appetites?

I exhaust myself with questioning. Perhaps I will never know. I turn to my oatmeal, and eat quietly.

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Jul 30 2012
13 Comments
Humorous, Two minute read, Writing

When Idioms Collide You Roll with the Cookie Crumbs

These tasted about as good as they looked, which wasn’t great.

Let me ask you this, if the cookie crumbled in a certain way and I end up having to roll with the punches, could I also roll in the cookie crumbs? Could I perhaps eat some of the larger cookie crumbles providing they didn’t fall on the ground anywhere gross, like in the kitchen sink? What kind of cookie is it, because I was really craving a white chocolate chip macadamia nut cookie earlier and that’d be perfect. Oh it’s just a sugar cookie. I guess that’s okay. So I’ll roll here then? Okay cool, see you later. Sorry the cookie crumbled like this.

Wait!

And if I, by accident, killed two birds with one stone, could I then stitch them up in order to save nine others? I am aware that stitching them up won’t do anything at all, that they’re completely dead because I knocked them out of the sky with a big ‘ol rock, and that they died of massive internal and external injuries, but I thought maybe if I just kind of did the stitch-up thing then I could help out some other critters.  I don’t even know how I hit them—it was really weird. I think that was the literally the first time I’d ever hit anything I aimed at. I only did it in the first place because I was really confident I wouldn’t actually get them.

When they both ended up dying I felt so awful. I had a moment of crisis, like what am I, some kind of tweetie murderer? Is my life so pathetic that I’ve got to take out my angst on a couple of dumb creatures gifted with the beauty of flight? But then I thought maybe there’s a loophole—wait so what did you say, can I stitch them up in order to save nine other bird lives? How were these other birds going to die anyways? Could I save any other kind of animal if I stitch these up? What about cats? I really like cats—no go? Wait, you’re saying that stitching the birds up won’t do anything at all? Not even save the other birds? Well that’s a bummer…

I have one more question–you probably know where I’m going with this, but my dad just got me this pony. Oh you have to go….well will you be here tomorrow?

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Jul 27 2012
3 Comments
Anecdotes, Humorous, San Francisco, Two minute read

Concert Review: “The Hair Was Good”

You have to be good to earn hair like the King.

I paid money for and attended a concert last night. This was unusual. Normally I listen to songs on YouTube until I’ve memorized 80% of the words and find someone who has the CD, if that even happens, then I don’t go to the concerts.

I’m a music fan but not a fanatic, which is why I always feel slightly awkward around crazy music people, the ones who are oblivious to other passions and clearly imagine that living in thrall to music is the most noble life. According to them, everyone else either feels the same way or is a dirt bag.

That makes me a dirt bag because I don’t love going to concerts unless I know all of the songs and/or there’s going to be crazy dancing. Last night was a perfect example of what happens at the kind of concert I don’t enjoy.

The local band (hint: unknown songs) started playing and the audience approached the stage from the darkness, drawn towards the musicians but fearing to leave the shadows and step into the stage lights. Most men in the audience were bearded, about 25% were wearing some kind of flannel, and there were too many whimsical patters to count.

The most important thing about this crowd, however, is that its 8:15 dance of choice was to stand and watch with the occasional head bob. In other words, they were a bunch of boring stiffs. Literally, their bodies were stiff like corpses and I wanted to shout at them, “Move! Move your bodies or you shall lose your souls!”

Instead I invented new dance movies, including the slow-mo kiss blow and twiddling my thumbs to the music high in the air. Why the others didn’t join me, I’ll never know. The first band finished their set, and the crowd gave up a “too-cool-to get-excited-about-anything” cheer.

The second band and their hair appeared on stage.

According to our backstage informer, the crew had just gotten hair cuts that allowed them to literally outshine and outpoof everyone else. Their long hairs had been trimmed short on the sides and swept up on top to make a glossy pillow of hair that added a half foot to their total height.  The hair pillows were mesmerizing and by far my favorite part of their performance. As they jerked and jumped to the music, their ridiculous hair-dos also jostled around but somehow always found their way back home.

Their music didn’t have a chance when compared to the hair. In fact, they could have jumped on a trampoline for thirty minutes and I would have enjoyed watching them just as much. The highlight of the night was probably right before the concert started when we found an awesome parking spot that was close by. More on that later.

This concert only whetted my appetite for screaming and thrashing movements (singing and dancing.) I need to go to a cover band show ASAP.

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Jul 26 2012
13 Comments
Humorous, Job hunting, Stories

Ye Olde Craig’s List Scam

Everything’s normal…..

You might know the feeling. You’ve been crashing at your friend’s apartment for a couple of weeks and you’re desperate for work. Your top five visited pages are all Craig’s List, the world is measured out in dollar signs, and you’d rather someone spit in your mouth than overpay for a cup of coffee.

Your mind becomes numb as you troll Craig’s List, and even the dubious sounding Candy Puff girl “marketing” position begins to have some appeal, and this is a position that involves selling single cigarettes and gummy worms to an inebriated and gropey post-techno crowd.

The end result of your enthusiasm/desperation is that you apply to dozens, possibly hundreds of jobs in a couple of days. You wait for anyone to call or email you, just to know that you exist. Anxiety, feelings of worthlessness, and rampant peanut butter eating fill your day.

This was me just one week ago. I had shut myself into my friend’s room and become a Craig’s list zombie. When places called or emailed me back, I invariably had no idea who or what they were because I had applied to so many different positions. Nevertheless, I always pretended I was happy to hear from them specifically and yes I was very interested in learning more about the position.

One day, a place named “PMC” called.  Actually, two different people called within minutes of one another in a very obvious and potentially embarrassing (for them) recruitment error. Despite this initial warning sign, and the fact I had no idea what position I had applied for or what company this was, I went right ahead and responded to their call. They were interested in me.

According to Melissa, her managers had received my resume and wanted to speak with me in person. Great! I said, still clueless about their company and the position. She went on to say that this was an entry level position, and they were looking for people they could train into becoming managers. Perfect! said I. So we set up an interview time and she told me a few things to remember, one of which was to wear business professional attire. See you then! I said.

And then the doubts started. What was this place? What did they do? Why did they have to remind me to wear professional attire to an interview? Why did they want people with no experience? It all seemed a bit….odd. Later that day, I looked up the address they gave me and one of the first items that popped up revealed that this was very likely a scam.

Woah.

It was my very first Craig’s List scam. I was fascinated and thought it could be a great blog fodder opportunity. Maybe I would show up at the interview in my prairie dress with a resume that said I went to clown school and subbed as a P.E. teacher in my home town of Alsida, Louisiana. Would they still “hire” me or send me away after seeing the crazy in my eye?

Alas, we will never know. I cancelled the interview because of laziness and fear of being clubbed with a baseball bat. But the housing search yet lies ahead, and hundreds of emails sent to Craig’s list addresses. Should danger come calling again, I will greet it in modest clothing and with a pen ready.

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