echuckles's Xanga

oops- i don't blog here anymore

Tue, 13 Jan 2009 17:01:23 GMT

but i sort of blog here! http://echuckles.tumblr.com/

Sunday, May 13, 2007

Sun, 13 May 2007 21:51:55 GMT

HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY, MOM, I’M DRUGGED

I guess it’s not the worst of the greetings I’ve given my mom on Mother’s Day. There were the college years of Mother’s Day phone calls, when I’d wake up on Mom’s Day in my dorm room at my uber-liberal, hippy, hipster college, get some breakfast, and call my mom to wish her a good day and tell her about all the fun I had at our university naked party the night before (the Naked Parties corresponded with finals week and therefore, Mother’s Day week as well).

This year’s excitement started this past Thursday night when I lost my grip while holding a kitchen knife. A sharp, new kitchen knife. I was chopping off a slice of cheese and somehow ended turning myself into a cutting board. I spliced my finger and next thing I knew, my insides were on the outside! Wow! Now I have the distinct honor of being able to say that I got six stiches after cutting the cheese. I’ve never been prouder, really.

The nice doctor who sewed me back together (“What kind of cheese was it?” was one of his questions while examining the damage I had done) had a plan: We’d trick my body into thinking it didn’t feel any pain by prescribing me more painkillers than I thought was legal- or really safe, for that matter- so that I would heal with a minimal amount of discomfort. I lugged my Vicodin, Extra Strength Tylenol, Extra Strength Advil, and antibiotic home in in the healthy hand, the injured digit at this point now swollen to approximately the size of Texas. Jeez, all this for a finger?

I didn’t even take near the amount of combined pills Dr. Prescription Happy had instructed me to do, but even so, next thing I knew, the throbbing in my finger was gone- along with every other sensation besides pure, unadulterated joy. I was as high as a kite and spent the entire weekend blissfully smiling at friends as they helped me choose dinners at restaurants (alcohol, besides being off-limits of course, was plain and simply unnecessary… I had already had quite the cocktail of medicines) and having buddies remove the hammer from my hand that I demanded to help them build shelving in my closet with (perhaps another time, they said).

I gave my mom a cheery phone call at 5 AM, thrilled to be alive. The fact that my finger now looks like Frankenstein? Not a concern.

Anyone else excited for Father’s Day?

TRUE CONFESSIONS OF A CONDO OWNER

Fri, 27 Apr 2007 14:49:54 GMT

I wrote this after getting the keys to my condo, which is the size of a shoebox. But it's my shoebox!

Today I learned a new word: quikrete. Perhaps some of you are already familiar with this vocab word, but I wasn't until my friend Jack and his buddy Joe stopped by my new place this morning (on their way to some event that was actually called "TruckFest") to rip out my carpet and carpet padding, exposing the quikrete (Read: boring ugly under-rug flooring) beneath. We took out construction-sized garbage bags' worth of carpet and padding, and boy, was that a good thing. The previous owner had a dog. The dog had a bladder. 'Nuf said.

While Jack and Joe were kindly removing my carpet, my friend Ben, former Home Depot employee extraordinaire, happened to call to see if I needed any help. I am so lucky to have burly friends who ooze testosterone and own trucks. Shortly after the first set of manly men shipped out, Ben showed up, pleading to let me take him to the carpet store to help pick out my new carpet. I thought that was odd but awesome, so off we went. I'm getting a killer deal per sq. yard (or something) on a pretty boring carpet, but who wants to be adventurous with carpet color? I don't want some funhouse, I want a condo! With Ben's home depot expertise and Larry the Great Floors guy with "as much experience as [my] age doubled," we picked a good one and good-quality padding to go underneath. Ole' Larry served us well.

After being "floored" (heh heh) by Larry, Ben and I headed to the one, the only, Home Depot. The 'pot has got more products than I ever even wanted to know existed. I felt like the luckiest gal there because I doubt anyone else had a former home depot employee as their personal shopping companion. We bought this stuff called KILZ (written just like that, possibly with an exclamation point) to prime the walls and the quikrete. And we got stuff to paint with and paint chips to bring back. We went home and gave that floor the ultimate spa treatment (scraped off all remaining padding/glue, swept, mopped with soapy water, mopped with bleachy water, swept, mopped, swept, etc. blah blah blah KILZ blah blah blah). And now it is as clean as a whistle.

I can't wait to move all my stuff into my whistle!

FIFTEEN SECONDS OF VERY, VERY, VERY LOCAL FAME

Wed, 20 Sep 2006 20:46:32 GMT

Okay, I admit it: I love the opportunity to be on television. If you’ve ever been with me when a local news camera crew goes by, please accept my apologies now for making you come with me while I chase it down (only to find that there really is no reason for them to include me in their broadcast).

Well, today the cat shelter I volunteer at gave me my big breakthrough. Northwest Afternoon, our local ABC affiliate’s afternoon infotainment show, said they would give the cat shelter a short public service announcement if, in return, we provided 15 people to be audience members on the show. Naturally, I enlisted. Who wouldn’t turn down the chance to sit only feet away from plastic-looking, self-obsessed local celebrities?

The filming was on a Monday, so the audience consisted of me and a bunch of retired or unemployed crazy cat ladies. I’ve stopped asking other volunteers how many cats they have at home because the number is just staggering, and often the subtle stench of litter on their clothing answers the question for me. Anyway, there we were, patiently waiting to be herded into the room where Northwest Afternoon is filmed, when none other but Ken Jennings of Jeopardy! fame walked in. Turns out Jeopardy Jennings used his riches to move to Seattle, and he was one of the guests on the program. This was my lucky day!!! I was quite excited to be in his presence because after he made it big on the game show, I looked him up and gave him a call. I’m not sure what I was going to say, but I thought I’d give him a ring regardless. Unfortunately, the Ken Jennings listing that I called yielded only a recording claiming that it was a different Ken Jennings, and asked if people would please stop calling. Oh, and remember when all the information on Paris Hilton’s phone was leaked out? I called a bunch of those numbers too. Also without success, also without a plan.

After the Ken Jennings sighting, the TV crew ushered us into the largest elevator I had ever seen. The crazy cat ladies marveled over it. I estimated that 500 felines could probably fit in it. When we got out of the elevator, the staff explained to us that they would be filming several segments that would air over various days this week: One with my man Ken, one with a car expert, and one with a doctor who wrote a book about how unrealistic Gray’s Anatomy is. As soon as we were seated in the studio (I pushed my way into the front row), some guy whose job it was to get the audience clapping and whooping at appropriate times explained to us that when he moved his hands, we should clap and whoop. Then he said he needed some volunteers to ask questions to the guests. My hand shot up. I was tempted to stick it out really far and use my other hand to push my arm out even further like you do when you know the answer to a question in second grade, but, shockingly, I didn’t have much competition among other audience members, and Clap-Whoop picked me.

“Okay, you’re going to ask our automotive expert about ways to get better mileage from your car,” he told me. Fine. I could do that. I was [gas] pumped – I was going to use the word “exorbitant” to describe gas prices in my question, I decided. Yes, this will be a jolly good time.

Next thing I know, Clap-Whoop is asking audience members if they want to ask Ken Jennings questions. No fair- I totally would have chosen that over asking a mileage question! The ladies got pretty excited about that and signed up to ask questions such as, “What do you do now that you’re not on Jeopardy!? Do you write wikipedia entries?”

The show started and I drooled a little with envy as my fellow audience members asked Ken Jennings their questions, but at the commercial break, after his taping was over, the show’s hosts allowed us to ask him more questions off-air.

“Where exactly in Seattle do you live?” I asked with a big, innocent smile on my face. I turned up the Chuckles Charm- I didn’t want Ken to think I was stalking him. Because I’m not. Really. I was hoping he might answer me in the “What is North Seattle?” format, but he didn’t.

Next up was the doctor who was out to reveal how wrong Gray’s Anatomy is.

“Who watches the show?” A producer asked. I raised my hand.

“Okay, let’s have you ask her what’s wrong with how Gray’s Anatomy portrays hospitals.”

“But I’m asking a gas question,” I responded. Surely I couldn’t get the word “exorbitant” into my Gray’s Anatomy question.

The producer shrugged and cued the prompter or something and next thing I knew, the show was back on the air and I was stuck asking the stupidest question possible about a fictional TV show.

The guest came on and Whoop-Clap guy moved his arms wildly for us to applaud. The doctor then answered the show’s hosts’ questions about what’s realistic about Gray’s Anatomy. Nice setup. My mind raced through possibilities of questions: Are there any exorbitantly unrealistic aspects of the show? Does Gray’s Anatomy distort the truth about hospitals in an exorbitant fashion?

“And Elizabeth in the audience has a question,” the show’s host, Elissa, who the car expert later called Elise, said.

“Uh- what’s wrong with Gray’s Anatomy?” I asked. Hmmm. That didn’t exactly come out right.

The doctor explained that the show doesn’t show the emotions that doctors have behind closed doors- that they often cry after telling a patient he or she has cancer, or they break down from exhaustion and stress. Actually, this woman looked like she had perhaps been crying all morning. I was real glad I brought that up.

I guess I didn’t woo the producers with my question (or maybe it was just that I should have been wearing more concealer- they tape the show in high-definition), because they cut out all audience questions for the gas expert.

Not exactly the big moment I was hoping for… But at least now I know where Ken Jennings lives.

Saturday, January 28, 2006

Sat, 28 Jan 2006 19:11:37 GMT

YO, YO, YO

For years, people have told me to try yoga. Good for stress relief, good for concentration, yadda yadda yadda. So for years, I have gone to the occasional yoga class, hoping every time that I will be as amazed by this bizarre series of stretches as everyone else seems to be. And every time, I am sorely disappointed (key word: sore).

But I have always felt as though I would jive well with the yoga type: I mean, I take vitamins just like they do. So this morning, I gave yoga another go-ya.

My gym offers several yoga classes. I decided to steer clear of “yoga buns” out of pure fear for what that meant and opted for “Piyo,” with its apt description of combined Pilates and yoga exercises. It’s always a pleasure to be singled out at the beginning of class when the instructor asks “Who’s new here?” Luckily, I was not the only newbie.

I have to give the woman who was in front of me credit for sticking out the entire class. She was probably in her mid-50s, in okay shape, and had definitely never done yoga- or perhaps anything outside of her home- before.

If you’ve ever seen me do anything anywhere, you know that I sweat- a lot. If I got paid for every ounce of sweat I produced, I’d be one hell of a rich, saturated gal. Anyway, in this yoga class, even with the fan turned off, I was not schvitzing even in the least bit. By about 10 minutes into the class, the woman in front of me was completely covered in sweat. And I mean completely covered. Her hair was soaking wet. The sweat-o-meter only got higher when we were instructed to balance on one foot and lift the other leg off the floor. This woman could not balance for her life. Limbs went flying in every direction at the speed of light. The instructor, who was standing nearby, gently told “the class” that if we couldn’t balance, we should just take it slow and only lift our leg a small amount off of the floor. No use: the woman’s leg shot up like she was a ballerina and then she just totally wiped out, collapsing in a big, sweaty pile onto her mat.

I was doing okay with not laughing by avoiding looking at her until our next set of exercises. We had to do downward dog or something. As usual, everyone was facing the front of the room, and the instructor was facing us. But I guess that woman in front of me was so disoriented from her balance experience, that she forgot which direction to sit. So there she was, a couple feet away from me, looking straight at me as she panted wildly while we both tried to figure out how to hook our right arm under our legs and grab our other arm. In addition, she started making strange grunts at this point. Well, that was it. I burst out laughing (as I have a tendency to do).

So much for relaxation and increasing my concentration… Yoga, you have won again.

Thursday, January 12, 2006

Thu, 12 Jan 2006 20:36:48 GMT

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Wednesday, January 11, 2006

Wed, 11 Jan 2006 23:46:09 GMT

SKATIN’ AND BACON

There’s something about rolling skating rinks that I love. They’re all the same- same as they were when they were first built in 1950, that is. So everyday on my way home from work, when I saw the glowing fluorescent “Skate King” sign off of the highway, I thought, “Boy, I would really like to meet that Skate King.”

Well, I finally did meet that Skate King last month on a Friday night, when the King plays “Hot Hits” for youthful skaters to jam to while in the rink. Armed with my rollerblades, wrist guards, and boyfriend, I was pretty excited. Usually when I rollerblade—if you can even call it that—I get all decked out in my kneepads, elbow pads, and the helmet that I’ve had since fourth grade (I peeled the pink stickers off of it) and I go wherever the wind takes me, literally. But for indoor skating, where there are no cracks in the sidewalk to make me trip, I figured just the wrist guards would be sufficient.

We walked into the place and the familiar skating rink ambiance washed over us: significantly younger kids whizzing by, strange signs that said things like “One year free skating for anyone who provides information about vandalism to the rink,” and an overpowering smell of bacon wafting through the air.

Not normal.

“Ya got the right skate on the left foot,” the old, somewhat creepy man in charge of skate rental said to me as I put on my rollerblades. I thanked him, avoiding the equally creepy gleam in his eye, and started to remove the rollerblade. As I put it on the other foot, the man howled with laughter.

“Ha! Now you’re puttin’ the wrong skate on the wrong foot!” he yelled (perhaps he was deaf), clearly using the “right”-skate-on-the-left-foot joke for the millionth time in his presumably 40-year-long career at Skate King.

Minutes after hitting the rink, the vegetarian in me was grossed out by the inexplicable aroma and the scaredy-cat in me was absolutely terrified of the teenyboppers, all dressed in large white shirts (the rink had one of those blue-lights that make white clothing glow), simultaneously skating and dancing to rap songs. I started to head near the exit when a voice came on the loudspeaker: “Alright, skaters, only 15 minutes left to get your pancakes and bacon!” A mass exodus headed toward the snack bar to load up on their 9:45 pm breakfast. The announcer failed to mention it, but my boyfriend pointed out that kielbasa was also on the menu.

Perhaps the place originally started as a restaurant called Steak King.

Friday, September 23, 2005

Fri, 23 Sep 2005 20:52:19 GMT

MOVING UP IN THE WORLD

Well, folks, it's time to update those bookmarks that you don't have on this blog... due to peer pressure and the inherent ugliness of this site, the future home for my blogs will now be:

http://echuckles.blogspot.com/

Friday, August 05, 2005

Fri, 05 Aug 2005 23:39:16 GMT

FREE ADVERTISING FOR A PLACE THAT SORELY NEEDS IT

Every day on my bus ride to work, I pass by a store whose name is so terrible that I consider going in and buying something for that reason alone. The place is called “It’s ‘Bout Time Upholstery.” It’s ‘bout time upholstery? At first I thought I was missing something. Perhaps upholstery is time-sensitive. Perhaps the dropping of the “a” in “about” is some sort of obscure reference to the casual nature of upholstery.

But after two months of passing by this place—and exerting far too much mental energy thinking about it—I’ve come to the conclusion that there’s no hidden meaning behind “It’s ‘Bout Time Upholstery.” Or if there is, it’s about as much meaning as a place that might be called “Finish Yo’ Grits Furniture” or “Not ‘till the Cows Come Home Lamps.”

I also pass by a store called “Half-price pots,” which leaves little to the imagination in terms of both the store’s products as well as how much you’ll pay if you elect to buy those products.

I guess there’s fine line between too much and too little creativity when naming a store.

Monday, July 25, 2005

Mon, 25 Jul 2005 20:22:07 GMT

MIKE-RO-COSM

Ever been to Seattle? It’s great here. The weather is surprisingly beautiful and rain-free during the summer, there are fun and funky neighborhoods, the people are nice, and the only name you ever have to remember is “Mike:” if you meet a male in Seattle or its surrounding areas, there is a pretty good chance his name is Mike.

This is helpful for me, seeing as I’ve had some difficulties with names in the past. Back in high school, when I worked at a creperie, I called my boss’s father (who also worked at the place) “Ray” repeatedly. After about a week, it hit me that his name was Jay. So then I concentrated really hard and made it through an entire day of calling him Jay and saying “Jay” after every sentence to show that I knew his name (i.e. “Hi, Jay, how are you?” “Good to see you, Jay” etc.). And then at the end of the day, as I was walking out, I said, “Well, have a good night, Ray.”

But here I have no such problem. I’m interning at MSNBC.com, and I’m convinced that the hiring process here is entirely based on names. First of all, MSNBC.com is owned by Microsoft (that’s what the MS stands for. If you knew that, you’re a knowledge whiz… If you said, “Oh” when you read that, you’re a normal human being). And come on- Microsoft? Clearly, there’s some favoritism going on here. My boss is named Mike. My co-worker who sits next to me is named Michael. The guy who sits on the other side of him is named Mike. And then, just for some variety, three desks down is a Miguel. Oh, and on the other side of me is a Mark, but he has trained himself to respond to Mike. It’s awesome. And my boyfriend, who is from this area, is also named Mike. Or perhaps his name is also Mark or Matt or something and he, too, has simply taught himself to respond to Mike. I’ve practically started responding to it.

The explosion of Mikes even transcended into my neighborhood recently. I was going for a leisurely bike ride when I became very aware of the sound of metal clanking near me. I looked down to see a small white dog on a leash feverishly running behind me. I love dogs, but something about this crazy canine just wasn’t doing it for me. What the dog’s intention was, I do not know. I’m not sure if he thought I- or my bike- looked tasty or what, but this dog had a mission, and it was to catch up to my bike. His owner, a not-so-coordinated-looking fellow, was getting pulled close behind, trying to keep up with the dog, which was trying to keep up with me. I gave them both a look and hoped to continue on my merry way, but of course I didn’t have the walk (bike) sign and I found myself stranded on a street corner with the little white ball of no intelligence and his similarly inclined owner. I gingerly halted my bike, trying very hard not to crush the dog, which at this point had sidled up to my wheel and was happily nuzzling it. I looked at the dog and the dog continued to nuzzle. I looked at the guy on the other side of the leash. He grinned.

“How’s it goin’?” I asked the guy, for lack of something better to do while waiting for the light to change. This was mistake number one on my part. I found myself at the longest traffic light this country has to offer, and while I waited for it to change and fended off the dog, the dog owner and I struck up a conversation. I learned that his name was Mike (of course) and that he thought his dog was “very, very smart.” Smart breed, smart dog, he told me. I thought this was an interesting perspective that offered a lot of insight into both the dog and the owner. I nodded politely when he said that and edged my bike wheel away from the dog’s head.

A week or two later, I was walking up the stairs in my apartment. A familiar metal clanging noise came from way up on the stairs. I looked up just in time to see that same white puffball of a dog rushing toward me, Mike literally being dragged down the stairs behind him. Turns out the guy has a friend who lives in my building.

“Oh- hey!” I said. “Mike, right?”

“Yeah,” he said, clearly very flattered that I remembered his name (if only he knew my secret to remembering all males’ names here). He looked at me pensively. “And you’re…” –I waited while the dog tried to bite my ankles- “You’re…” he repeated, with a look of pain as he tried to recall my name. “You’re Helen!” he finally screamed out, startling both me and his brilliant dog.

Perhaps had my name been Michelle or Michaela, he would have remembered it.