Hahahahaha

So I have a new show that I'm watching for the man candy (I tried to find a picture, but it's still too new for rabid fangirls and boys to be posting them). That show, Crusoe, is kind of silly, but I'll give it time. Anyway, in reading about the show I found a link to this news tidbit:

An Italian couple have been forced to change the name of their son from Friday - Venerdi - to Gregorino.

The Cassation Court ordered the couple, known as Mara O and Roberto G, to rename their son after the saint's day on which he was born to save him from bullying.

The boy's name, taken from the Daniel Defoe novel Robinson Crusoe, is "likely to limit social interaction and create insecurity", said matrimonial lawyer Gian Ettore Gassani.

Journalist Alain Elkann objected to the ruling, saying: "It would have been different if they'd called him Friday the 13th."

The couple have insisted that they will continue to refer to their son by his given name and have proposed calling their next child Mercoledi (Wednesday).

Now someone just needs to get on the horn to Utah judges to stop the name madness that's going on here!

Book quotation of the week

Well, I think I skipped a week, but who said it was an *every week* thing? Anyway, I've been thoroughly uninspired lately by the books I'm reading and so have been watching more brain-melting TV in my spare time, but when I can muster up the will I've been reading Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier (absolutely no quotes to be had) and The Dispossessed by Ursula K. LeGuin (is that name not awesome? I submit that it is). This quote is all Ursula's:

"Is there really no distinction between men's work and women's work?"
"Well, no, it seems a very mechanical basis for the division of labor, doesn't it? A person chooses work according to interest, talent, strength - what has the sex to do with that?"
"Men are physically stronger."
"Yes, often, and larger, but what does that matter when we have machines? And even when we don't have machines, when we must dig with the shovel or carry on the back, the men maybe work faster - the big ones - but the women work longer.... Often I have wished that I was as tough as a woman."
"But the loss of everything feminine - of delicacy - and the loss of masculine self-respect - You can't pretend, surely, in your work, that women are your equals? In physics, in mathematics, in the intellect? You can't pretend to lower yourself constantly to their level?"
"I don't think I pretend very much."

Mad science part deux

Okay, so where were we? Ah yes, the chickens.

This is where I really start feeling like some insane scientist. Not necessarily a mad genius, just some really really crazy person. First I have to remove the chickens from their plastic bag and drain all the DISGUSTING juice out. Sometimes it splashes my face - yeah. Sick.

Then I have to place them on two white trays; sometimes six to a tray, occasionally seven. Once there were three extras (but two were mini-chickens who apparently didn't eat their spinach). As I lay them out, and pull out any feathers missed by whatever dreadful place plucks them to begin with, I can't help but feel sorry for the poor dead frozen birds. What a horribly ignominious end to a sad and cloistered little life. How horribly undignified to be killed, plucked, frozen, and then laid out for the next step;

Rubbin' in the good stuff. That's right, those mouth watering herbs and spices that make the chickens soooo good. I have to liberally pour mysterious packets of what could be addictive chemicals used to bring customers back, for all I know. After I pour I have to massage the powders in for optimal flavor absorption, but it feels almost perverse in a creepy necromantic way.

I end the process by cruelly binding their poor feetless legs together with sharp pointy rings (like some Opus Dei fanatic), and I almost feel like I should be shouting for Igor to conduct the electricity or whatever.

Finally after all my hard work, they're all ready to be roasted and et up - yum yum! And I have decided two things: 1) It's too much work being a mad scientist, and 2) Just cremate me. There's no way I want to be stretched on a slab cold, dead and scrubbed while some mortician rubs powders on my scrawny naked body NO SIREE!

So there you have it. Take one part frozen chicken, one part long hours in a walk-in fridge, and one part Susan's crazy imagination and you get a mad Deli scientist preparing monster chickens to take over the world. Or something!

Mad science

I currently work at Walmart in the deli. This isn't the most menial job I've had, but it is the most menial in about 10 years. I got used to working for doctors, or for an insurance company - things that "grown-ups" do (as opposed to teenagers with no experience). But check this out: it's the highest paying job I've ever had! Take that, doctors' offices!

Anyhoo, one of the tasks that I HATE THE MOST is prepping the chickens for the rotiserie. You know the ones I mean, those mouth watering little roasters in plastic containers that get sold like 5 seconds after they're done cooking... mmmmm. Well I'm the one that gets them ready, and every time I do it's like stepping into a Boris Karloff flick.

First: I must ready myself. I put on a white apron, white lab coat, another white apron (this time plastic), at least two pairs of white latex surgeon-type gloves, and a white hairnet that looks like crazy old man hair.

Second: I prepare the "operating table;" a metal counter with three deep sinks, a scary scary garbage disposal (or torture device??), a tap and sprayer, and lots of miscellanious tubes sticking out. To prepare this surface I have to spray everything with heavy duty soap, scrub it off and spray with water, and then spray it all with a sanitizer so it's sterile. Just like ER!

Third: I get the victims - I mean chickens.

Now this post is too long. I'll have to leave you biting your nails in anticipation and finish tomorrow. G'night!

Book quotation - that sounds better than selection, right?

This week's passage is from the mind of Mma Ramotswe, Botswana's leading lady detective:

She had recently told a young boy to pick up an empty can that he had tossed on the ground in the mall the other day. He had looked at her in amazement, and had then told her that she could pick it up if she liked as he had no intention of doing so. When she was young, a woman would have picked up a boy like that and spanked him on the spot. But today you couldn't spank other people's children in the street; if you tried to do so there would be an enormous fuss. She was a modern lady and did not approve of spanking, but sometimes she had to wonder. Would that boy have dropped the can in the first place if he knew that somebody might spank him?

(Tears of the Giraffe, Alexander McCall Smith)

Gorgeous gorgeous men - bane of my free time

I have a confession. I have spent hours - possibly adding up to days or weeks - of my free time watching really stupid TV shows/movies for the sake of a pretty face. For example, I convinced myself that Attack of the Clones was an excellent movie all because I found out that Hayden Christensen 1) was born the same year as me, and 2) is from Ontario, CA where I coincidentally served my mission a few months after the movie came out. Yes, I was convinced that I would meet, convert, and marry him. Am I crazy? Definitely. But it took me until this year to finally accept that Attack of the Clones sucked. That didn't stop me from liking and buying Jumper though (oh Hayden, when will you realize we're meant to be?).

Anyway, this month's TV show is the BBC's Robin Hood. I have put up with it's ridiculous historical inaccuracies, a really annoying heroine, and the blatant theft of ideas from Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves (another movie that I like for the pretty faces, never mind that Kevin Costner doesn't even *pretend* to have a British accent).

All for a glimpse of this man (who was also born the same year as me - move over Hayden!):






It's a sickness.

Sleepless nights, fondest of memories.

So Sunday I again experienced the usual sense of ennui brought on not because the Sabbath stops me from going out and partying - I don't do that anyway. Instead I think it's just the idea that even if I wanted to party I couldn't, so I feel this grudging boredom. The result is that I spend ridiculous amounts of time online doing dumb stuff.

This Sunday I found the best thing ever. Or at least so far. The oldschool DOS computer game, Castle Adventure. It involves an adventurer trapped in a castle with ogres, spiders, and fairies galore; as well as thirteen hidden treasures and a whole bunch of useless artifacts masquerading as treasures. The goal is to kill the beasts, gather the treasures, and figure a way out of the castle. The game features such awesome graphics as the following:

This is the castle itself. It's got pretty sweet pinstriping.

This is you - that's right, you're a clover. Or maybe a spade?

These are bushes and a fountain. I miss the 80s.

This person sucked, I must say. I kicked the game's butt. I killed all the monsters (the spider played by an asterisk, the ogres played by weird smiley faces), found all the treasures, and avoided all the traps. I pretty much rock.

Except it took me like 4 hours! Okay, so I sort of rock. But it sure was fun remembering how we played that game so intently as kids, cursing the mysterious riddles and tricky traps until we finally won. So good.

Book selection of the week

I'm going to try a new thing where I'll take quotes that I really like from whatever book I'm reading and post them here. This week's is from Pride and Prejudice, which I re-read a week ago actually, and it says pretty much all that I've observed about which marriages make it and which don't. It also covers why I'd be okay with an arranged marriage, hee hee.

Happiness in marriage is entirely a matter of chance. If the dispositions of the parties are ever so well known to each other or ever so similar beforehand, it does not advance their felicity in the least. They always continue to grow sufficiently unlike afterwards to have their share of vexation; and it is better to know as little as possible of the defects of the person with whom you are to pass your life.

Costumes!

I love Halloween. My only sigh-worthy moment this time of year is that no kids come trick-or-treating around here, and my friends aren't the party type which means I have no excuses to dress up. Last year I worked at the library and was SOOO excited to wear my dracula t-shirt, devil horns, and red fishnets. This year I work and Walmart and my costume will consist of a hairnet and deli apron. DANG! That's only a good costume if you don't already wear it four days a week. But if I *did* have an excuse, what would I be? These are my ideal choices:
Sexy witch (old standard)
Sally from The Nightmare Before Christmas - pretty freaky but fun!
A genie - how can you not love it? But I did this one before, so maybe not.
Dorothy Gale - I've wanted to be her forever. It's the slippers.
Morticia Addams
Princess Leia - hee hee hee
Pirate Queen
Cowgirl - I'm digging this one.

However, since I have nowhere to go for Halloween, I'll probably just paint my nails black and orange, and sit inside wistfully wishing for some excuse to dress up. Maybe I'll have to be weird and eccentric and do it anyway!