Stuff I Swore I'd Never Do on the Internet...

In my early online days, I was fascinated by the unending amount of information and topics on the internet. It was like having the entire world at your fingertips, merely a keystroke away. I often joked that if I ever got a computer at home, I'd never leave the house again.

Frankly, that scared me a lot, because I knew people who pretty much didn't leave the warm glowing light of their monitor for weeks at a time. Their entire lives seemed to be filled with chat rooms, playing games online, and varying degrees of internet pornography.

And I'll admit I poked light-hearted fun at them. I remember driving friends home from City Lights (our hangout of the moment), and laughing to myself because one of our friends never went out with us because he was too involved in a multi-user dungeon system. Every night we'd drive past his house, and no matter what time it was, his bedroom light was always on. We took to yelling "Get off the 'net, Vahn!" out the window as we passed. (Sorry, Vahn, but we did. You know I still love you, right? And why'd you password protect your page?)

Another of my friends discovered the chat rooms and soon had little to talk about except the 18-year-old girls in Australia he was chatting with in the wee hours of the morning. I took extreme pleasure in pointing out that, for all he knew, that hot little goth chick in Melbourne could just as easily be a 57-year-old hairy backed man named Myron who lived in Iowa.

So I made up a brief list of things that I would do with my computer. I would never play games online. I would never download any Instant Messenger software. I would never chat. I would never reveal information about myself to complete strangers. I would never buy stuff online. And internet porn... ew. Forget it.

Was I naïve or what?

I did most of my holiday shopping online last year. I also purchased a live internet-only Eels album from their website (it was a bargain, and has become one of my favorite CDs). And since I live nowhere near Red Bank, New Jersey, I opted to buy my Jay and Silent Bob action figures from the online Secret Stash.

I held out for pretty long on the online games thing. And then Zappagirl taught me how to play spades. Suddenly I found myself playing cards with folks all over the country late into the night. And as if that wasn't bad enough, the card game had a chat function. So now I can talk to the person whose bid I'm messing up! Zappagirl and I spent one night giving relationship advice to a fellow player in North Carolina over the course of many hands of cards and entirely too much coffee and wine.

(I also spent the better part of a few weeks playing Grim Fandango, but I am happy to report that I finished the game and have now moved past the Ninth Underworld and am happily enjoying my afterlife. Whee!)

As for the "revealing information about myself" thing... well, you're reading this post, aren't you? Between that and the fact that there is someone whom I've never met in New York who knows my secret identity, I'd say that the privacy issue is pretty much dead and buried. (The person in New York is sworn to secrecy, and if he spills the beans, I will have to distribute his cel phone number to every unsavory person I meet. Just kidding, GeekMan. Hope you're enjoying your vacation.)

This afternoon, I broke on the Instant Messenger thing. Roger Mexico and I often spend late nights exchanging emails (in an effort to keep long distance bills under control), but the amount of time between replies often means conversations will take 2-3 hours. We'd kicked around the IM idea, and last night he gave me a homework assignment to download the software. 15 hours later, mission accomplished. Except he hasn't told me what his screenname is yet, so for the moment it's a useless icon on my system.

I do want to note that when I set these now-broken rules for myself, it wasn't that I was looking down upon the people that I knew who chatted or played games online or whatever. I just felt that there was a fine line between making friends on the internet and becoming an online junkie. With some of my friends, they crossed that line and never left the house. As a result, I became less close with those people. It got to a point where I had very little in common with one of those friends, and I found myself struggling for a common point of interest that didn't involve a lengthy story about what Kimmi420 (not an actual screenname) did last night in the chat room.

So does the fact that I've gone back on all of my self-imposed rules mean that I'm a complete hypocrite, or does it mean that I've tested the waters of the internet, and now feel more comfortable in venturing forth to the deep end instead of mucking about in the shallow end?

I don't know the answer. Perhaps I'll go play some cards and ask my new friend in North Carolina for advice while busting his nil hand.

(And for all of you pervs out there who are wondering about the online porn thing, I do not frequent the "Hot Horny College Girls" pages that Hotmail continually spams me with, but I have been known to occasionally read some online erotica. There. Are you happy? I'm a 34-year-old single woman, and Harlequin romances don't do it for me. Sorry, Mom.)

Open Letter to Chris Carter

(Author's note: This is what happens when I can't sleep, and everyone has bailed out of the online spades rooms. Do not try this at home.)


Dear Mr. Carter,

How dare you?

My loathing of you cannot be measured at this point. I had been a loyal viewer of The X Files for years. I even sat through your mediocre movie. But your plot directions in the last two years have confused the hell out of me.

First off, last year's finale was evil. It was evil and pointless. You left poor Scully pregnant for something like 14 months, and then after bringing back Mulder from his abduction (or was it? who can tell the way you've messed up the conspiracy plot...), you had to write him in as the father of the Miracle Baby. Remember? Scully had no ovaries, after you miraculously cured her cancer. But somehow Spooky knocked her up. You want to explain that one?

So you wrapped up last season with a big smooch between Mulder and Scully, and ticked off half of your viewers. I know I threw things at the screen. I know that I almost didn't want to show the finale tape to Roger Mexico, because he'd be angry too.

I gave you a chance to redeem yourself with the season premiere this year. And I lost interest in 10 minutes. Too many new characters, and a crappy way to explain David Duchovny's absence this season. He just disappeared. Lame, lame, lame.

So I stopped watching your show. You'd killed off the interesting villains (Krychek, Cigarette Smoking Man) and left the basement office in the hands of Doggett and that twit Reyes. Gillian Anderson was phoning in her performances, stuck teaching at the FBI Academy and assisting with the occasional autopsy. I was glad when I heard that the show was in danger of being cancelled, and your announcement to pull the show while it was still "on top" and "a strong show" was just laughable. The show jumped the shark two years ago, and the fan base was abandoning the show like rats deserting a sinking ship.

So tonight, in the aptly titled "Jump the Shark," you brought back the Lone Gunmen and all of their buddies from their failed spin off. (I personally liked The Lone Gunmen, even though it was only so-so. It was wacky with touches of seriousness, the opposite of The X Files. The characters were fun.) And you brought back Michael McKean as Morris Fletcher. Even if I hadn't wandered back to watch the Burt Reynolds episode two weeks ago, you knew that the casting for this episode would draw me back into the fold. And seeing Mitch Pileggi back in the opening credits was nice, since I'd been missing Skinner for the last two weeks.

And then... WHAM! You kick me in the stomach.

You killed them, you bastard. I figured one of them was going to die, and I was sitting on my couch trying to decide which one I could bear to part with, and you killed all three of them at once. In a cheesy, Wrath of Khan /Spock's death/"sacrifice for the greater good" scene. Hell, you even copied the hands on opposite sides of the glass moment.

And to make matters worse, Scully and Skinner were only in the last scene - the funeral aftermath. What'd they have, two lines each? And poor Mulder couldn't even come back to mourn his friends, because he's still the subject of a massive manhunt, and you're holding the Duchovny ace until the series finale.

And you know what the worst part is? You've sucked me back in. I have to know what other stupid moves you've got in store for the last four episodes. And for this I had to abandon Vincent D'Onofrio and Law and Order: Criminal Intent.

Hate you, hate you, hate you.

Yes, I know. You didn't write this episode. But as executive producer and creator, I would have thought that you'd care a little bit more about your fan base. Guess you've been hit in the head with your surfboard one too many times, huh? Wasn't letting Morgan and Wong slip through your fingers bad enough?

You screwed up Millenium. Harsh Realm was lame. The Lone Gunmen was in the Friday night Death Slot, and never had a chance. And now you've made a big old mess of your favorite child. I should stop watching and go back to just reading Jessica's recaps on Television Without Pity. At this point, I'm more involved with her side plot involving her Mulder and Scully action figures.

Do you hate us, Chris? If you drive off the last few people watching your now incomprehensible show, who will go to see the next movie?

To paraphrase Mulder's UFO poster in the office, I wanted to believe. But if the truth really is out there, I doubt you know where it is.


No love,

myopic

So Tired

Has it been a week already? My, how time flies.

This past week has been rather hectic. I started my job on Monday, right in the middle of the busy season. It's that time of the year when winter has finally disappeared for good, and every school teacher in the area has had the same brainstorm. "Hey, the weather's turned nice, and if I schedule a field trip I'll be able to get out of my stuffy classroom and actually enjoy the sunshine. And I won't have to actually teach my class of ruffians if I can come up with a way to make the trip 'educational.' Hey! I know! I'll take them to the Zoo!" The teacher then pats herself on the back for having such an original idea, and dials my number, where I am frantically trying to enter the registration information for the other 15 teachers that have had the same bright idea in the last hour.

I'm really not complaining, though. I really do like my new job, despite the fact that I can't see my desk. I know within a week or two the calls will slow down, I'll get the hang of all of the computer systems, and I'll figure out what doors all of the keys on my key ring open. In the meantime, I'm just enjoying the fact that I have something to keep me busy, and it's in an office where no one thinks it unusual that we usually have a roseate spoonbill or cattle egret wandering around the back of the office. (The upstairs office has fledgling Lanner falcons that will be trained for the bird show. This is not a normal office setting, folks.)

I got my new car on Monday, but I still haven't logged enough time behind the wheel to feel confident enough to drive it home. (It is currently living in Zappagirl's garage, where she can use it to blackmail me when I beat her in online spades.) I'm hoping that this weekend I will finally get the hang of this stick shift thing, because I'm tired of being stranded at home and dpending upon the kindness of friends and family to take me places. I miss the freedom of being able to make a midnight run to Burger King if I feel so inclined.

Zappagirl and I went to a sneak preview of The Scorpion King the other night. Following in the footsteps of the last Mummy installment, it's a silly action movie with non-stop fight scenes and cliffhanger scenes. It's insipid as hell, and follows every formula ever created for the genre. Muscle bound lunkhead hero, barbaric but honorable, and bent on avenging the death of his brother? Check. Evil power hungry guy who kills everything in his path to get his way? Check. Sexy and scantily clad psychic (preferably Asian) chick, who inevitably will fall for our hero? Check. Wacky ex-criminal sidekick for the hero who will follow him to the ends of the earth because the hero saved his life? Check. Camel who is probably smarter than everyone else in the film? Check. Cute rapscallion of a kid who strikes up an alliance with the hero? Check. Kick ass female warriors with implants? Check. Hermit-type guy who is researching Chinese "magic powder," which will always mean gunpowder so the hero can blow up things real good? Check. The list goes on and on. And despite the fact that it was a color by numbers wrestling match masquerading as a feature film, we enjoyed the hell out of ourselves. The Rock may not ever win any awards for his dramatics, but he seemed to be having a good time. (Although in an interview last week on Today, he told Katie Couric that he wanted to do more movies, and hoped to escape the action genre. Don't quit your day job, Dwayne. I'm not holding my breath for your take on Hamlet.)

After the movie, we decided the only way to follow up something that stupid but fun was dinner at Hooters and the newest episode of The Osbournes. I cannot profess my love for this show enough. It's just insane.

With all of this sudden hustle and bustle in my life, my body is having a hard time adjusting, and I've actually found myself exhausted after I come home from work. The unseasonal heatwave and the fact that I just started a diet isn't helping either. It feels like all of the energy has been sapped from my body, it's excruciatingly warm in my apartment (I refuse to turn on the air conditioning yet, since I know the weather will be back to normal by the weekend), and for the past few days I've come home and collapsed. While this is a good thing, since I have a gigantic sleep deficit to work off, the fact that I'm crashing and burning at 6:30 pm only to find myself unable to sleep at 2:00 am is not. So I'm taking melatonin in hopes of getting on a normal sleep schedule, supplemented by the more than occasional cup of Sleepytime Extra tea.

I'm almost out of tea, though. I need to learn to drive my car soon. My sleep schedule depends upon it.

The End of Vacation

For the past few months, people have been asking about how the job search has been going. And I usually answered that it wasn't.

Obviously I knew I had to get a job, but I didn't want to get stuck in a meaningless 9 to 5 position that I loathed on a daily basis. I wanted a job that meant something to me; where I felt like I was doing something important with my life. And filing papers in some corporate office wasn't really going to fill that niche.

It finally happened. Break out the champagne! I got a job!

(Actually, I already did bust out the champagne and polished off the bottle Wednesday night. But more is always appreciated.)

As of Monday, I will be the newest employee in the Education Department of the Cincinnati Zoo and Botanical Garden, and I couldn't be more thrilled. Actually, I held the position that I will be assuming about eleven years ago, and only left because I went back to school full time. But eleven years is a long time, and while it feels like coming home, a lot of things have changed. Hopefully I'll be able to catch on quickly and add to an already strong and vital department.

I'm also getting a new car on Monday. My mechanic, after pronouncing the death sentence upon my Tercel, remarked to my father that he had a used car on his lot that was in pretty good shape, and my parents and I have decided that it would be a suitable replacement. There's only one problem: it's a 5 speed and I have never driven a stick shift. Zappagirl took me out for a lesson last week, and I freaked out the entire time. She says I'm doing fine, and that it will become second nature over time, but I'm still wary of that extra pedal.

But since the bus that runs from Clifton to the Zoo requires a 10 minute walk (uphill) from my apartment to the bus stop, and another 10 minute walk from the Zoo's bus stop to the gate, I have incentive to learn to drive my new car as quickly as possible. Until then, I'll just be hoping for good weather and rationalizing that I need the exercise anyway.

The exercise should also come in handy since I'm starting a diet on Monday as well. I don't have much to lose, but four months of sitting on my butt eating food that was bad for me and doing my part to keep Latrobe Brewing Co. in business have taken their toll. Ten pounds or so, and I'll feel much more comfortable in my own skin. Just enough to make me happier, but not so much that I have to buy a whole new wardrobe of clothes.

So with all of these new goings-on starting next week, I've been trying to make the most of the last of my free time (or as it used to say on my elementary school report cards, "make good use of time and materials"). I spent yesterday with Rosencrantz hiking around the Cincinnati Nature Center. The weather was perfect, and all of nature is in the process of waking up to say hello. The ponds are filled with frogs and tadpoles and salamanders, the hills are blooming with flowers, and most of the trees are starting to bud. (And of course, on the way back we stopped at her house to play with the kittens. They're in my favorite stage, where they're still a little clumsy but incredibly curious about everything. Between the two of them, they managed to untie my bootlaces. Not that I did much to stop them, mind you.)

I keeping asking Ma Huang and Kismet what they're going to do without me around the house during the day. They just stare at me, which I have decided means "Sleep all day, watch out the window for birds, and have kitty smackdown matches for supremacy of the apartment. You know, the same stuff we do when you are here. What a stupid question.".

67 hours until I have to start being a responsible grown-up again. I wonder how much damage I can do in that amount of time?

Requiem for a Tercel

I spoke to my father last night about the prognosis on my car. The news wasn't good.

Basically, the engine is completely blown. The mechanic said we could look for a new engine from a junkyard, but it would cost about $1500 and would only have a 30 day warranty. And since I've been driving this car since March 1991, I think it's time to just let the poor thing rest in peace.

It's really hard to let go, though. I've become really attached to my car. It was the first car that was actually mine, with my name on the title. I've got a lot of memories connected to that big blue hunk of metal.

I remember the night my sister Sydney picked me up from my job while my parents had gone car shopping. My previous car, the Escort from Hell, had burned to a fiery crisp after stalling out upon the exit ramp on the way to school, and my parents had spent the last few nights at car dealerships looking for a replacement. I knew that the Toyota dealership had been on that evening's agenda. "So do you know if they found anything?" I asked as we left the mall.

She shrugged. "I dunno. They said they were still thinking."

And of course, the car was already sitting in front of the house. Sydney was very pleased with herself since she had assisted in fooling me.

This was the car that got me to every job I've had in the past ten years, every club or party I've attended in that time. It weathered two trips to Chicago (one trip in late December where the heater only worked intermittently), several trips to Wooster, and too many trips to Dayton to count. And I've personally driven it over practically every inch of road in the greater Cincinnati area.

Over that time, it suffered numerous dents and dings, and a rear-ending that made me two hours late for a first day of work. I never had the bumper repaired, and it was held onto the rest of the car by bungee cords for almost eight years.

My car was broken into four times: once while sitting in the driveway of my parents' suburban home, twice downtown, and once in my parking lot on Christmas Day. I became an expert at calling the glass replacement guys and totalling up the stolen items. (Ashtray, eyeglasses, binoculars, an umbrella, a six-pack cooler with an inch of rancid water left over from a trip to Lollapalooza in Indianapolis, the knobs from the car stereo, stereo speakers, Christmas cookies, my entire catalog of holiday CDs, and a cheap glass pendant from the Accessory Place.)

I occasionally remember seeing the floor and the back seat of my car, but not often. Most of the time the floors were covered in empty cigarette packs, empty Diet Coke bottles, Burger King wrappers, and ATM receipts. Even now there's a full Halloween costume in the back seat, and the entire contents of my desk from my last job are in boxes in the trunk, along with books that I've bought at the last two library sales on Fountain Square.

This was the car that I learned a little basic car care in... the hard way. I learned how to check my oil and add it when needed. I went through numerous cans of Fix-a-Flat in desperate attempts to patch holes in the tires. I learned how to properly add coolant to the radiator once when the car overheated and I was determined not to call my father for help. I helped jump start the battery when it died in front of Taco Bell two years ago. (OK, Roger Mexico did almost all of the work. I watched and looked panicky.) And of course, there's the brand new never-been-used headlights that Zappagirl and I installed Saturday night.

It's really hard to believe that my car isn't sitting in my parking lot right now. My keychain feels lighter and strange in my hands. I lived in that car. I changed clothes in that car. I ate way too many meals behind the wheel. I slept between jobs in the driver's seat when I was closing at the Warehouse and opening at Best Buy. I laughed at the impending mischief of the night's activities, I cried over broken hearts, spilled coffee and burned holes in the upholstery, got ketchup and mud and blood and cigarette ash everywhere. I sang along to the radio while I drove, white-knuckled my way through rainstorms and snowstorms and drives with little or no sleep. I carted around family and friends all over the place. All three of my cats came home in my car.

Roger Mexico once asked me why I paid ridiculous amounts of money to drive and park when I worked downtown when I could just as easily take the bus, and then stopped. "Never mind," he remarked. "I already know the answer. You love your car too much to leave it sitting there."

He was right. And it's breaking my heart right now that I have a spare key on the key hook by my door that no longer goes to anything.

I'm Psychotic... I Mean, Psychic!

Sometimes I do things without knowing why, only to find out later that it was a manifestation of my somewhat hazy psychic abilities. I'm like Miss Cleo without the fake Jamaican accent and the lawsuit.

Take this weekend, for example. I had a sudden urge Friday night to go Krogering, even though I didn't really need anything. Yeah, I was running close on cat food, and I was out of French Vanilla Creme coffee, but there was no urgent reason for me to brave the grocery aisles. But, out of boredom, I laced up my boots and headed out.

45 minutes later, I had a cartful of things that I didn't necessarily need at the moment, but would by no means go to waste. Eventually I would need that new bottle of conditioner. Buying the giant bottle of salsa would save me a trip in the future. And the beer was on sale, right?

However, I don't know why I ended up with all of the faux meat products. I am far from being a vegetarian, but Roger Mexico got me addicted to Morningstar Farms "chicken" nuggets and patties when he lived here. And I figured if I liked those products, then perhaps the buffalo wings would be tasty as well. And the tomato and basil burgers. And the prime griller veggie burgers. Suddenly my cart was full of little green boxes of soy-based products. I decided to save the breakfast patties and not dogs for my next shopping excursion.

(Despite this foray into meat substitutes, I draw the line at Gardenburgers, though. Tried 'em, thought they were icky. I do not want to see corn and rice in my burger patties. And fake bacon looks scary, too. )

After leaving the grocery, I decided to stop at Blockbuster to rent a video. Inexplicably, I wound up renting six tapes. Oh well. I didn't have any plans for the next few days, so I figured I'd have plenty of time to watch them. (Quickie reviews thus far: Startup.com was great, but sad and disheartening. Ghost World was very good but I was unsatisfied with the ending due to my dislike of the main character and the choices she made in her life, and Unbreakable was good until the surprise climax with no follow up. Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back is by no means an award winner, but it's good stupid fun with tons of in-jokes. Series 7: The Contenders is brilliant in a mean spirited kind of way, but not for all tastes. A parody of a reality show where people actually kill each other shouldn't be funny, but it is. They managed to work in every cliche you've ever seen on Survivor/The Real World/etc., from the sharply edited "meet the character" segments to the flashback montages with the cheesy pop ballad accompaniment. I've haven't watched Hedwig and the Angry Inch yet, but will do so tomorrow.)

I spent Saturday with Zappagirl, doing a driving/walking tour of the city for her cousin's Flat Stanley project. It's amazing how many things I learned about the city from the tourbook, despite having lived here my entire life. It was fun playing tourist for a day, and I highly recommend the experience.

Afterwards we headed back to her house to grill steaks. (I figured it was a balance to my Morningstar Farms spending spree.) While the steaks were marinating, we roasted Marshmallow Peeps over the coals. Yummy.

One of my headlights had burned out on my car, so I had stopped at Wal Mart to buy replacement bulbs. While I was puching my car's make and model into the little computer that tells you what bulbs will fit, some guy asked me if I needed help. Now I'm not a Feminist with a Capital F (more like a feminist with a lowercase f), but it irritated me. I am fully capable of typing in "Toyota" and the proper year and model and matching up the information with the correct package. I politely refused his help, determined to replace the burned-out bulb without the assistance of a Y chromosome.

So after the rotisserie style Peeps, Zappagirl and I cracked open my car owner's manual and began to take apart my car. After reading the wrong set of instructions (my car had two different options on headlights, one that could be changed from the back and one that required disassembling the grill), we retraced our steps and successfully replaced both bulbs. Feeling rather superior, we emitted a few Tim Allen-esque manly grunts, cracked open a couple of beers, and finished grilling up the slab o' dead cow. We were unable to complete the macho facade, however, when we realized we had no packages to adjust and started flipping through the Coldwater Creek catalog from the daily mail.

I was supposed to meet my mother the next afternoon to see South Pacific at the Aronoff Center, so I headed back to my apartment around noon, still feeling rather proud of myself for handling a minor car crisis without calling my dad for help. That's when the knocking sound started coming from the engine.

Knock knock knock. Knock knock knock. Knock knock KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK BAM!!!

I pulled into the emergency lane of the expressway, and got out of the car immediately. (I've previously had a car die on the side of the road and burst into flames, so I'm a little paranoid.) I called my mother to let her know that it looked like I wasn't going to make it to the show, and she and my father set off to retrieve me and my car. I texted Zappagirl to let her know what happened, and she jumped into her car to join me on the side of the road for moral support. In addition, five cars pulled over to see if I needed help. There are still some nice people out there, folks.

So after much roadside chain-smoking and a tow to the mechanic's, I find myself without a car and stuck in my apartment. (The mechanic hasn't looked at it yet, but my father has theorized that I blew a head gasket.) Thankfully, I don't have much to do this week. Take Kismet to the vet to have her stitches removed. Go to my writer's group meeting. Wait to hear results on the prospective job. (They're calling my references, so I'm keeping my fingers crossed.)

So I guess it was a good thing that I rented all of those movies and stocked up on groceries, huh? Maybe Rosencrantz was right - I am her psychic friend. I suppose if the job opportunity falls through, I could just break out one of my packs of tarot cards and start charging everyone $3.95 a minute for a glimpse of their future.

On second thought, maybe not. I don't foresee that as a wise move.