Bits & Pieces of Today

It's Friday night and I'm writing something in my already-bloated-and-melodramatic excuse for a blog. I can't believe what a loser I sometimes am. I should be doing something more exhilarating, such as enjoying that insanely-priced bubble bath I bought on a whim yesterday. It's tough to get excited about that, though, when the amount of foam it creates is distressingly minimal and maybe even nonexistent. In fact, I'm not convinced that this bubble bath really does anything, aside from ever-so-slightly changing the tint of the water. I get more voluminous foam as a byproduct of brushing my teeth.

Anyhow, since a bath is obviously not on my agenda for tonight, here are some thoughts that occurred to me recently (and I'm even going to give them headlines, so that they look all important and vaguely newspaper-article-like):

WHY BUFFETS SHOULD BE OUTLAWED

Where to begin? Well, basically, buffets are evil. Therefore, I'm resolving to stay away from now on. Far away. Far, faaaaar away.

You might be thinking, oh brother, this is so predictable. Now she's going to rant about how buffets lure you into this mindset where you may as well get the most value for your money -- the most bang for your buck, so to speak -- and you consequently shove gross amounts of food into your face until you're roughly the size of a helicopter, and by the time you're done eating, you need a larger pants size, but you can't obtain said pants because you're now much too big to rise from your seat and waddle out the restaurant door, so you need to call someone on your cell phone and ask that person to bring new pants to the restaurant for you, but you can't handle even that task, because the simple act of reaching for the cell phone, let alone dialing a number on it, makes you want to fall over and die.

Well. . . if that's what you're thinking, then you're wrong, because I'm NOT going to rant about that. Actually, I'm not going to say even one word about it in this entire blog. Hah!

Instead, I'm going to rant about what happens every time, without fail, I've ever gone to a buffet. I seem to have the lousiest timing imaginable. The kind of timing that causes me to hunt frantically around stores for elusive products only when the clerks are nowhere to be seen, and to window-shop in a leisurely fashion only on those days when clerks seem obsessed with shoving their helpfulness in my face. The kind of timing that ensures that I'm always wearing a white T-shirt and no jacket, you know, only on those days when it unexpectedly starts to rain. . . and then, when the next day rolls around, I bundle up in "just-in-case" layers. . . and whaddaya know, the temperature suddenly decides that it would be a fabulous idea to hit 80 degrees, for the first time in literally months!

In this case, my timing causes me to walk into the restaurant only when the old, crappy food is still hanging around on the buffet table. You know what I mean, right? (Please say that you do. Somebody, please, promise me that I'm not freakishly alone in this.) I'm talking about two or three lame, pathetic breadsticks that have apparently been sitting beneath the glaring light for the past 45 minutes. Sad-looking, wilted, wrinkly salad leaves. Measly little pieces of pizza on the verge of shriveling up into a state of invisibility. All of this food is dried-up and unwanted. Not a single soul in the restaurant is going for it, and can you blame the other patrons? They're all sitting at their tables, happy as pigs in mud, eating abundant platefuls of yummy-looking food, yes, that's right, edible food, because they evidently showed up at just the right time. A time when the buffet was loaded with treats to be had. A time that always cruelly evades me.

Now that I think about it, who are these people, anyway? Are they from Mars? Do they have some kind of magical power that I unfortunately wasn't born with? Some kind of good-luck charm? Does the restaurant like them better than it likes me? Do these families always call in ahead of time and find out the perfect moment at which they can obtain the best-possible food from the buffet? It can't be just a coincidence that everyone else gets to the goodies before I even set foot in the door. It's just way too suspicious.

After being seated, I tend to remain there for a while and gaze at the buffet table with rays of searing intensity practically shooting out of my eye sockets. I try to look casual about it, but my motive is so transparent, any ol' spectator could easily tell what I'm doing. Maybe you could liken it to the way drivers stalk people who are headed for their cars in the process of leaving crowded parking lots. I keep thinking, OK, is a waitress ever going to come along and bring new food to the buffet? Please, for the love of God, say yes. . . please, please, please. . . because heaven knows I am not exactly knocking people over in an effort to snag those wimpy breadsticks.

It never happens, though. A waitress never materializes. And I reach the conclusion that, well, the wait staff probably won't bring out anything new until the food is all gone from the buffet. Minutes go by. Minutes and minutes and loooong, languid, torturous minutes. I think, OK, it's a plain fact that nobody else in the room will clear the buffet of this unattractive food, so -- being the brave soul that I am -- I am going to do it! Oh, yes indeed. . . me! It's a sterling moment, a symbolic badge of honor, something that should probably go down in the history books as far as I am concerned. I am now officially taking one for the team!

I proceed to load up a plate with miserable food (wondering why the hell no one is noticing this action and applauding me for my courage), take it back to my table, and pick at it reluctantly. Still, while all of this is going on, the buffet table remains pitifully empty. At last, I think, uhm. . . nothing is happening. I am hungry. I may as well go ahead and eat this hour-old food, because it's right here in front of me and nothing else is available. When they bring out something new and appetizing, though, I am definitely diving into that.

Then, against my best intentions, I become full from slowly eating the mediocre food while nothing transpires at the buffet table for seemingly eons at a time. Well, to be fair, a waitress might on occasion bring out something new, but it's usually something that doesn't look very enticing at all, such as pizza with ham and squid on it. Eventually, I realize I've been here long enough and that I don't want anything more. I sadly and disappointedly pay the bill.

Just as I'm on my way to the restaurant exit -- as anyone with half a brain might predict -- a waitress appears out of absolutely nowhere, and worse yet, she comes bearing FOOD! Delicious-looking food! Oven-hot, steaming food! The luscious kind of food that could persuade people to sing the restaurant's praises in deranged, joyously possessed voices!

Alas, I do not participate in such festivities, because I'm kind of, um, departing from the restaurant at this particular time.

Everyone else gets the opportunity to savor the new buffet food, though. Oh, good gracious, do they ever.

Well, how very lovely for them.

RED LIGHT DISTRICT
Know what's embarrassing?

It's embarrassing when you're in your car, waiting at a red light. Well. . . that in itself isn't too embarrassing (unless you're blasting disco music that shatters the eardrums of people in the next zip code). But when it happened today, it was embarrassing, because I discovered that an adult video store was conveniently right across the street from where I sat. The sign out front advertised kinky clothes and X-rated DVDs and naughty, naughty, naughty high-heeled shoes. Maybe I'd gone this route numerous times before and seen that sign just as many times, but I don't think I'd ever had quite such a stupendous view of this establishment.

I glanced at the building in earnest for the first time and acknowledged in a heartbeat that it was tiny. Very tiny. Approximately the size of a closet. Hell, the sign was practically larger than this building was. I found myself analyzing how many square feet it must be, and how many adult DVDs and garments might be able to fit inside of this building. (Sounds like a good possible math problem for the SAT, by the way. It would certainly motivate some kids to study harder.) Then I wondered, how could any salespeople, let alone customers, manage to squeeze into such a cramped space? How could they stand a minute in that place without feeling claustrophobic, going postal, and attempting to strangle each other with the black lace crotchless panties?

While trying to picture this whole spectacle, I fell into this reverie where my eyes likely became glazed and my mouth might have been hanging open in a pensive manner. And then -- somehow -- I noted the rather significant detail that there were no cars in front of me anymore. The traffic light had turned green long ago; the other cars had driven a good half-mile or so. Meanwhile, I had been frozen like a statue in my car, staring at this adult video shop, mulling over the implications of how absurdly small it was. I must have come across as a complete and total pervert.

Miraculously, the gentleman driving behind me seemed to be a patient soul. He didn't slam his fist against the car horn, yell obscenities through the window, or give me the finger. He was sporting a conservative sweater and glasses like the ones that everyone in my parents' high school yearbooks appeared to wear. He looked about 70 years old, didn't seem to be in any great hurry.

Still, though. . .

Whoops.

LOOK MA, I'M PSYCHIC
Do you ever get this creepy, inexplicable sense that something horrendous is about to happen? Maybe it's because the afternoon sky is reddish-purple, or because you just did laundry and shrank your sports jersey to something more physically accommodating for a Barbie doll, or because you woke up to a TV commercial where a woman bonded with her mother over their all-time favorite treatment for hemorrhoids.

Sometimes, I feel that way. That dark sense of foreboding, I mean. And when I do -- much as I hate to admit it, because it sounds so incredibly selfish and loathsome -- I find myself hoping, way down in the back of my subconscious mind, that something bad might happen, after all. Oh, nothing too grave or serious. Just something mildly irritating. Something small, but ostensibly big enough to justify my saying, "I knew it! I knew it was coming all along! I just had that feeling!"

I try to provide evidence of my sporadic hunches that something awful is lurking around the corner. I jot it down on notecards, complete with the date. Then, if the opportunity presents itself, I could always whip out those notecards and say, "Hah! See, I totally called it!", even if it's something as minor as a slightly out-of-place hair on someone's head. Of course, I'd have to do this right away, or else people might think I wrote out the notecards after the fact and then tried to pass them off as authentic predictions. As long as that's covered, I later feel free to act smug and superior all day long.

I'm so eager to feign some kind of prophetic talent, it's half-tempting to set up a stupid scenario and then flaunt my notecards in people's faces. Oh, no! A vat of tomato juice exploded in the freezer? How did that ever happen? What was tomato juice even doing in there in the first place?! Well. . . I saw it coming. I knew there was some kind of gloom and doom just ahead, but nobody would have believed a word of it if I'd said anything. Nobody ever takes me seriously! Well, now look. Here are my notecards from three and a half days ago as solid proof. You can't deny the power of them. Now I bet you're always gonna listen to me!

COMPLAINING FOR THE HECK OF IT
You know what I hate? I hate when a song really stinks, except that the last 30 seconds or so have plenty of redeeming value, and you're stuck fast-forwarding through the first five minutes of the song (or, worse, suffering through them in real time) to reach the only good part. What a tremendous pain in the rear end.

At this point, you might be logically saying, well, Hilmeister, you don't really have to do that. You could always go to the beginning of the next song and then simply rewind from the end of the one you're trying to hear. Solves your whole problem.

And in response to that, I say. . . well, you can just quit being such a killjoy. Don't rain on my parade. I'm having a moment here!

Stop trying to ruin my moment!

Crazy Kids

Have you ever wondered how life would be different if all of your childhood misconceptions were true?

Here are the things I believed about the world when I was little:

1) Before I knew how to tell time, I estimated that recess was at least two hours long. (Well, I daresay it feels that long when you're not exactly the socialite of the playground.)

2) Cats never had to go to the bathroom. (Our cat spent most of her time outdoors. I couldn't comprehend why other people had litter boxes in their houses.)

3) All jobs were the same in terms of pay, prestige, and amount of education required, and it didn't really matter what your job was, as long as you had one. The teenager who served us dinner through the drive-thru window at McDonald's? Well, I was convinced that she ran the company.

4) On a similar note, I thought that grocery store cashiers worked there for life, and that when they grew old and died, the grocery store would have no cashiers left and would be forced to close down.

5) The "Don't Drink and Drive" commercials applied to any kind of beverage. I don't think I knew what alcohol was. I presumed that the commercials aired because of a concern over spilling your drink on yourself and/or the upholstery.

6) No one ever moved out of their parents' house unless/until they got married. I came up with this one because almost all the adults I knew seemed to get married and graduate from college at the same time, when they were 22. One of my cousins threw me for a loop by moving out at 22 and not getting married until three years later. I seriously had no concept that single adults could live by themselves.

7) Aunts and uncles were always married. It just struck me as an unspoken fact of nature. I had an aunt and an uncle, my mom's younger siblings, who were both single for the first few years of my life. That whole time, I automatically assumed that they were married to each other; I mean, I always saw them together at family parties and stuff, right? Naturally, I was crushed to hear the shocking revelation that they weren't.

8) By some magical coincidence, the little white squiggles on my Hostess cupcake represented my name in cursive. I didn't know how to read cursive yet, so I guessed that was why the letters looked so illegible. (Oh, but lest you worry, I wasn't narcissistic enough to think my name appeared on all Hostess cupcakes. I thought my sister's cupcake had her name on it in cursive, and, well, you get the idea.)

9) If I took a blank videotape and wrote "Cinderella" on the label, the movie "Cinderella" would miraculously appear on the tape and we'd never have to buy it! I asked my dad why we couldn't just do this for all the movies we wanted to own. He looked uncomfortable.

10) I watched "Little House on the Prairie" religiously (which may not surprise you if you've followed this blog from the beginning). Well, for quite a while, I figured that there were camcorders in the 1800s and that they were recording everything as it happened. I was devastated when I learned that Laura and Nellie were actually portrayed by actors who had memorized written scripts. I didn't want to accept it.

11) ATMs had people hiding in them who would physically hand you the cash through a little window. (Mind you, I never paid close attention to ATMs. I just watched people reaching for them by extending their arms out the windows of their cars.)

12) I didn't know that airports existed. I thought that airplanes were really small and could land in passengers' driveways and drop them off at their houses individually. . . kind of like on a school bus route. Since I never saw an airplane in my neighborhood, I just took that to mean that my neighbors weren't very adventurous and therefore never traveled.

13) The numbers on the front of people's houses were made of edible frosting. (Well, sometimes they did look like it.) It took so much self-discipline for me not to go up to the houses, grab the numbers, and try to eat them.

14) I'm going to blame my mom for this one: She told me and my sister that if we walked through the woods for long enough, we would find the real gingerbread house from "Hansel & Gretel." (In her defense, she likely said that as an incentive for me to stop scribbling in notebooks all damned day and get some exercise.)

15) In the rare event that two elementary school classmates of opposite sexes sat next to each other in the cafeteria, I reached the conclusion that they were madly in love and would probably get married someday, when the reality was that, at best, they tolerated each other. Oh, and don't even get me started on my notion of where babies came from. That could be a whole 'nother post in itself.

Do you have anything wacky to add to this list? Come on, I know that you do.

Sunday Lethargy & Emotional Damages

In the blink of an eye, another weekend is over, and I find myself recalling that Seinfeld dialogue from eons ago. . .

Kramer: "What's today?"
Newman: "It's Thursday."
Kramer: "Really? Feels like Tuesday."
Newman: "Tuesday has no feel. Monday has a feel, Friday has a feel, Sunday has a feel. . ."
Kramer: "I feel Tuesday and Wednesday."

Lately, I've reached the conclusion that, yes, Sunday has a feel. . . and that feel might well be described as. . . COMATOSE! Honestly. Don't you just want to wrap yourself up in a blanket and hide from the world every single Sunday? I do. I'm not going to pretend I'm some ambitious, high-energy "go-getter" who blazes a path of productivity through the day, doing laundry, tackling to-do lists, dusting off the treadmill and then returning clothes to where they were previously hanging on it. No. . . instead, I'm far more likely to pull the covers up to my chin and take a refreshing nap that lasts for two or three or maybe 15 hours. Especially after what occurred last night.

In the original plan, my grandma and I were going out to dinner. Then, I chose to invite my sister and brother-in-law, because the four of us had gone out last summer and had ourselves a grand old time. They said, sure, they would go. At this point, my grandma invited my parents, and they said they would go, and not only that, but they invited my other grandma, as well. As a result, the first grandma made reservations for seven. Sounds pretty straightforward, right?

Nope.

Sis and brother-in-law reached the restaurant first, thinking it was still just the four of us, so -- logically enough -- they requested a table for four. Grandma and I arrived next and told them our group would actually consist of seven. The hostess therefore moved us to another table (in another room, no less) with seven chairs. My dad then called and told me that he, my mom, and my other grandma wouldn't be showing up, after all. . . so the waiter removed three chairs from the table. About 45 minutes later, my mom and my other grandma unexpectedly walked in, having been dropped off by my dad, who had then opted to go somewhere else. Two more seats had to be thrown into the mix. My dad eventually came in and said he'd decided to join us, after all. We had to summon the poor waiter and tell him we needed one additional chair. In brief, it's a miracle he didn't wring all of our necks, or at least giggle evilly and place a fake-but-authentic-looking spider amidst the garlic bread as revenge.

Well, now that I've given you a slight headache (mainly if you work in the restaurant industry and are envisioning all this madness), let me change the subject to something that caught my eye last week -- well, not only caught my eye, but really touched a nerve as well! Oh believe me, I've been dying to discuss this, and now that the grey, hazy apathy of Sunday is mercifully out of the picture for the next six days, I can finally gather the strength to write something about it!

I was just about to pay for some groceries when it happened. After all, most of my blogging content doesn't strike me while I'm sitting around and consciously trying to think some up. I discover it instead in the oddest places, at the moments where writing anything is the absolute last thing on my mind, and standing in line at the grocery store was no exception.

All set to be amused, I looked at the goofy publications on display above the checkout counter. Just then, without warning, a glossy soap opera magazine hit me squarely between the eyeballs. It featured a photograph of "Days of Our Lives" stars. It proclaimed, in letters almost as shameless and enormous as Tom Cruise's ego, "JOHN DIES!"

My jaw fell to the floor. . . but blinking in disbelief didn't make those words go away. The unthinkable phrase was still there, smirking at me, mocking my vulnerability. Aghast, I clutched at my heart with one quivering hand. With the other hand, I grasped the edge of the checkout counter in case my knees should fail. It was so tempting to let off some steam by howling to the (bored-looking, male, probably-teenaged) cashier, "No. No. Please. . . NOOOOOO!"

Let me just tell you about me and "Days of Our Lives" for a minute, OK? We have a history. It's even longer than the history I have with Splenda. About four times as long, to be exact! I first became a fan when I was about three years old. I missed being able to watch it when I went away to elementary school. It was among the highlights of my summer vacations for YEARS. One of my favorite aspects of college was that I could schedule my classes around when "Days" was on. I was even loyal enough to suffer through that infamously stupid storyline where Marlena became possessed. "Days" is my lifelong buddy, dammit!

At this juncture, any rational person may be asking, "Well, Hilmeister, if you love 'Days' SOOOOO much, then why did John's death come as such a shock to you? Why didn't you know about it before seeing that magazine. . . or why didn't you have some inkling, at least, that he might be heading up to that Great Big Fiesta in the Sky?"

Well. . . errrr. . . because I don't have DVR on my television set, and "Days" and my work shifts are not entirely compatible with each other. I thus have not officially seen a "Days" episode in, ummm, more than 10 months. (I will say in my own defense, I have occasionally glanced at the storyline updates in the Sunday paper. I've wondered who the hell these new characters are. I've scratched my head over the notion that Sami had her lover shot to save her rapist. That's about as far as my involvement with "Days" has gone this year. Otherwise, I'll admit I've been slacking a little.)

But NONE OF THAT is even remotely the point! What kills me is, this magazine broke the news of John's death by splashing it across the cover in cruelly gigantic letters, and then rubbed the salt in my wounds by ensuring that I'd encounter this information in public. Well, that just plain reeks of poor taste! Did those magazine editors not realize that I was at the grocery store and had not been prepared to deal with such a jarring statement on that particular day? How could anyone be so cold? So unsympathetic!?

Now, granted, this is "Days" we're talking about. Maybe John isn't truly dead. Maybe he's tired of having hot sex all the time and fathering approximately 1/4 of all the kids in Salem (with Stefano fathering the other 3/4) and is secretly hiding out on an island somewhere. After all, look at how many dozens of times Stefano and Tony, to name just a few examples, have each died and then come back to life. (Ahhhh. . . Tony. I wonder how that studmuffin is doing, by the way? I remember how drool-worthy he looked in that gorgeous blue shirt in the summer of '95. But, back to the business at hand.)

I'm just beside myself with denial, I'm telling you. They couldn't really kill off John, could they? Please assure me they wouldn't. I mean. . . he's a classic character! He's been on the show for, what, a bajillion years? What the hell is his dysfunctional family going to do without him? Oh, and even more importantly, we need him on the show for entertainment value! We need his squinty facial expressions. We need to play drinking games revolving around how frequently he raises an eyebrow, or tries to look intense/profound, or whispers "That's a fact" for no reason whatsoever. We need to play drinking games about how often he and Marlena suck face and rub strawberries and whipped cream all over each other's (60-year-old-but-still-perfectly-taut) bodies while Marlena gasps "I love you so!" in the most maudlin voice imaginable. Do you hear me, "Days" execs? WE SIMPLY CANNOT HAVE THE SHOW WITHOUT THIS STUFF!!

Oh. . . uh. Sorry. I didn't mean to stray off-topic and misdirect my wrath onto the powers behind "Days of Our Lives." My rant was initially going to focus on that tactless, heartless magazine cover and that was it.

All right, then, back on topic (again; do you notice that this happens to me a lot?). The next time a major character kicks the bucket, I hope a magazine will take into account the emotional welfare of casual, innocent shoppers who -- technically speaking -- may not have tuned in for the last 10 months, but who are nonetheless very attached to the characters. I mean, spilling the beans in that fashion is about as harsh as spoiling the end of "The Sixth Sense." Speaking of which, you can totally trust where I'm coming from. It's been eight years and the pain still hasn't gone away. There, now. . . can you see how serious these matters are?

Here's just a word (well, really almost 100 words) of advice. Perhaps the magazine could take a gentler approach in the future, such as suggesting on the cover, "Please open up to page 96 to find out what is happening to John." On page 96, it could use a soothing and understated font (in tiny letters, ideally) to say something like, "Are you sitting down? Well, unfortunately, John is. . . ahem. . . passing away. BUT! Here is a juicy picture of him shirtless to help you through this difficult time. Also, here's a folded-up tissue in case that picture doesn't cheer you up. It's OK. Really! Things are going to be OK."

Indeed, what that magazine did to me at the store was hideous, inhumane, a dreadful transgression. . . but as far as I know, it's happened only once. I guess I can forgive the magazine and try to move on with my life. I'm not necessarily poised to file a lawsuit. Not this time, anyway.

If a magazine ever bluntly announces on its cover, though, that Celeste is no longer offering tea to every "Days" character in existence. . .

. . . well, that will be the point at which things get excruciatingly ugly.

An Exercise in Egregious Product Placement

Dear Splenda,

Oh, my goodness. Where do I even begin with you? Where, oh where, oh wheeeeeere?

We have a history together, you and I. I can recall the first time I ever learned you existed. It was six years ago this month, as a matter of fact. I'd never heard of you before, but someone kindly introduced you to me, and I thought that you were great. You totally blew Sweet 'n Low and Equal out of the water. Even the way you were presented was more appealing by far. You were enclosed in these yellow packets that seemed much more aesthetically pleasing than Sweet 'n Low's garishly pink ones. The word "Splenda" was featured in an elegantly simple font, there were tiny stars positioned above the letters, I saw no absurd-looking musical note like on the Sweet 'n Low packet. . . and you tasted pretty authentic for zero calories. . . so, what on earth was not to like?

I steadfastly promised that, from that day forward, we'd be inseparable. You have helpfully sweetened many a cup of tea for me ever since, and even coffee sometimes, though I eventually deemed you unnecessary when I became aware of exotic coffee creamers. (Can you blame me, though? Who needs a sugar substitute when CoffeeMate offers dessert-like flavors such as Peppermint Mocha and Coconut Creme and. . . OK, OK, I ought to stop salivating over the thought.)

Anyway, while the coffee tumult may have brought some shakiness to our longstanding relationship, we got back on track because I really preferred tea over coffee, anyhow, and you were always there for me in that regard. You forgave me for leaving you out of my coffee excursions. I kept loyally purchasing you at the store, defending your virtues to my (mostly-skeptical) friends, sporadically including you in recipes that involved baking, ignoring any suggestions that you might be detrimental to my health, and celebrating the rare occasions I'd see you available on restaurant tables. You remained a staple on my grocery lists. We called it a truce. We moved on.

Well, today, it is time to move on. . . again. . . in a different way this time. Yes, Splenda, you read that correctly, because the day has come that I vowed would never happen. I'm regretfully telling you, right here and now, that I think we've grown apart. After six wonderful years, it's time that we call it quits and put the brakes on our association with one another.

Let me explain where I'm coming from. A few months ago, you had been used up, depleted. It was a cold, dismal day. . . the kind of day where I hardly felt like running to the store. . . but I wanted a cup of tea, dammit, and nothing was going to stand in my path. Since I am not very adventurous, black tea was not an option. Then, I remembered the sugar cubes my sister had given me for Christmas. Well, little did I anticipate that this would be an immortal milestone -- a prelude to a whole new era. That bag of sparkly sugar cubes would soon symbolize the beginning of the end for you and me.

I mixed those sugar cubes into my tea, sipped it from the mug, and my eyes nearly bugged out of my head. For my taste buds, that moment was like a pure, exquisite thunderbolt of sensation. You have to understand, I had not had genuine sugar in my tea in years. I had literally forgotten what it was like and what I was missing out on. I had actually fallen for your radical claim that you are made from sugar and therefore taste like sugar. How unbelievably stupid I was!

Like a fool, I thought we could maybe have a reunion after that. Heaven knows I made a few halfhearted stabs at stirring you into my teacups again. However, it was never quite the same. I never could forget what a difference that real sugar had made in enhancing my tea, and I just can't deny that essential truth anymore.

We have to part ways; I need to leave you behind. It's for the better, really. It wasn't always sunshine and roses between us, was it? I mean, I really hate to admit this, but I sometimes couldn't stand how you tasted in diet beverages such as Pepsi One (which I swear was tolerable, even pretty good, before you were a part of it) and that Fruit2O bottled water, which was soooo frigging artificial and nauseating as to induce headaches. I will concede that your calorie-free state is still an attractive quality, but I've frankly had a hell of a time losing weight since we met, anyway, so maybe our impending separation won't make much difference in that category. (As a matter of fact, I lost three and a half pounds during the week I wasn't storing you in the cupboards. Coincidence?)

Oh, please believe me, it is not my intention to hurt you. I'm just trying to be honest about reasons why we might be better off without each other. I know this must be difficult for you to hear, but when push comes to shove, you simply cannot compete with the real deal. You could defeat Equal in the battle for my affections, sure. Sweet 'n Low -- well, that goes without saying. Sugar, though? No contest. Forget about even trying. Real sugar in small quantities goes a longer way, is more satisfying, is possibly better for me (few extra calories aside), and ultimately wins. I truly hope that there aren't any hard feelings -- that you won't resent me for my realization that you leave a hideous aftertaste in my mouth, reminiscent of some chemical commonly found in swimming pools.

Hey, who knows? Maybe I shouldn't rule you out entirely. Maybe someday -- if I'm stranded during a blizzard and do not have any sweetener on hand except for you, and absolutely must have my caffeine fix, and am therefore compelled to reach for you -- then, yes, I might consider it. But that's about the only circumstance under which such an event would occur, so I'd advise against holding your breath.

Well, I'm sure I'll encounter you on the supermarket shelves one of these days. And then, I'll just keep walking, and I'll leave you free for somebody else to buy. . . because I am confident that somebody else will like you the way that I did. (For your sake, we'll just have to keep our fingers crossed that no one gives that "somebody else" a bag of sugar cubes as a gift.) Anyway, until we briefly see each other again, take care of yourself. It's been fun.

Fondest regards,

The Hilmeister

Get Nasty

I think you should read the title of today's post aloud in a raspy, husky voice, kind of Britney-Spears-like. Oh, and you get bonus points if you do this while wearing a teeny little half-shirt like one of hers.

On that note, I would seize this opportunity to put a picture of Britney Spears in here, but I am not all that technologically proficient (read: "smart"), so. . . uhm. . . just imagine one. Good enough.

Oh, hey! Guess what happened last night? I saw a huuuuuuge spider and a dead fly sitting on my bathroom counter. Ewwwwwww! Alas, I was too tired and lazy to go after them, so I figured I'd take care of those little pests in the morning. Well, lo and behold, I woke up eight hours later and they were GONE, and heaven only knows where they went. In any event, I think I will be too scared to take a shower in that bathroom ever again, so if I smell disgusting every single time you see me from this moment on, you now know the reason why.

Uh. . . what else is new and (not-so-)exciting? Well, I cooked hot fudge from scratch. It was fun!

This pretty much has to be the stupidest blog post ever.

Hard to Believe

Today I was watching the E! True Hollywood Story about Rachael Ray, and in that whole hour, there were two things I really noticed. If you know me, you can probably imagine what they involved, especially if you read yesterday's posting in this blog. Ah, well. . . let me clue you in, anyway.

Someone was describing Rachael Ray's relationship with her husband and noted that once, at the end of a long night, she "literally crashed on his shoulder." I heard that and just cringed while thinking, ouch. Literally crashed on his shoulder, huh? Well, I didn't know whether to feel sorrier for him or for her. All I knew for certain was, that must have hurt!

You think the atrocity ended there, though? Well, let me assure you that it didn't! Because another dude claimed that Rachael Ray is "literally the girl next door"! She is? Well. . . um. . . that's certainly news to me! For the record, I just glanced in the general vicinity of "next door," and I sure as heck don't see Rachael Ray living over there. Unless maybe she moved in and I missed something. . . in which case I wish she would cook some Italian food with extra evoo for me. . . but it's probably for the better. I have a doctor's appointment in six months and they already prefer to maximize the traumatic sorrow of my weigh-ins by insisting that I not remove my shoes or a single stitch of clothing when stepping on the scale. Rachael Ray's presence in the neighborhood for the next six months would surely make that moment worse.

Anyway. Back on track. These guys apparently did not notice that "literal" means "in accordance with, involving, or being the primary or strict meaning of the word or words; not figurative or metaphorical." These are the things that really irk the hell out of me. This is merely one reason why I cannot watch TV without grinding my teeth into a fine powder or clenching the bloody hell out of a stress ball.

(Not that the latter is done literally, understand.)

Will Proofread for Pay

I was sitting in a restaurant (yeah -- very specific, I know), waiting for my piping-hot food that would surely leave skin peeling off the roof of my mouth and thereby draw gasps of horror from the assistant at my dentist's office. Having already read the rather extensive menu, what else could I do to make the time fly more quickly? Ahhh. . . there was the answer! A local newspaper sat abandoned on a nearby table. It wasn't the New York Times, but it'd suffice in a pinch.

Unfortunately, picking it up turned out to be a mistake, because pawing through this newspaper made me want to fold it up and bash it decisively against my forehead. Not so much because of the content of the articles, but because I lost count of all the typos after five or six. This struck me as a disgrace, an utter abomination and a crime against us nerdy, anal-retentive members of society. Apparently, I take after my late grandfather, who once read a news article and then complained for several minutes that someone in it had -- gasp! -- used the term "an alumni" instead of "an alumnus." I thought there was something a little askew about his priorities. . . that he was unnecessarily sweating the small stuff. Now, though, when I read the sentence "The suspect was six feet tall and dressed. in a hot-pink tuxedo," I'm more likely to lament the misplaced punctuation mark than the atrocious fashion sense of the accused. What in heaven's name has come over me?!

Misplaced punctuation marks, however, are small potatoes. The worst of the worst could be found in an article about inexperienced 20-somethings, what hideous social blunders they commit during job interviews, and how they should approach their job search in general. Dress for success, it advised. It helpfully added, "(random person's name) is a big proponent of overdressing instead of undressing for interviews."

Yep. . . undressing. That is seriously what this article said. . . this portion of a real newspaper for a real audience. . . a publication that countless other patrons of this restaurant would pick up after I'd left it behind. I blinked in astoundment and read the sentence again to ensure that I hadn't imagined it. Nope!

I received my steaming food at last, burned my mouth on it as I always do, set the newspaper aside so that other geeks might sigh and frown over its flawed presentation, and walked out of the restaurant with visions of gruesomely warped job interviews dancing through my head.