Stain Removal For the Sloth-Inclined

On a recent trip to my building's laundry room, I happened to find this piece of literature lying next to my upstair neighbor's washing machine:



"Virtually Every Stain Known to Man," eh? Now, I couldn't help but wonder if the Field Guide to Stains had actually included every stain known to man. Snickering, I turned to the index, expecting to find a significant lack of bodily function-related stains.

What did I find?

Right after "Garage and Yard" and before "Bathroom and Beauty Products" ... the "Bodily Functions" chapter. I repeat, chapter.

Well, now I felt a bit silly. It was juvenile of me to think that a standard guidebook on stain removal would not feature the very practical, albeit DISGUSTING, section about removing bodily functions from one's clothing. But then I delved further. Allow me to highlight some of my favorites from the chapter ...

"Stain #88: Blood

TIME OF OCCURRENCE: Bloodshed can happen at any time of the day or night, but stains resulting from malicious acts are more likely at night, in dark alleys and places better left unvisited. Benign stains caused by cuts and scrapes, as well as from menstruation, occur year-round."

How mad would you be if you had been stabbed in a dark alley or a place better left unvisited, and then wobbled home, blood pouring out of you, only to refer to your handy Field Guide to Stains and gotten this "I told you so!" Just shut up and tell me how to get my spleen blood out of my corduroys, would ya?!

"Stain #91: Semen

On average, a man ejaculates fourteen gallons of semen in his lifetime, and reproduces only an average of about 1.2 children, in the United States. That amounts to quite a bit of semen that does not reach its destination, which in turn leads to quite a few stained sheets."

Uh, news flash to the chastity-belt wearing authors of this stain guide: Not ALL the semen not intended for baby making is a "misfire" and ends up on wedding night bed sheets.

Stain #94: Vomit

"AREAS OF OCCURRENCE: "... The school year is a sickness-prone time for some college students who go to frat parties or formal dances, so fancy dresses and tuxedos, as well as any party clothes, are at risk then."

Oh, silly Field Guide to Stains. My prom dress was always well off when the vomiting portion of the night began!

Side note, my neighbors had the "Stain #96: Blush or Rouge" page dog-eared. They now have Stain #91 dog-eared with an accompanying "Sorry!" post-it note attached.

If A Tree Falls and A Lot of People Hear It, But I Don't Because I Was Asleep at Noon, Did It Really Make OhGodI'mSuchALoser?

A very large tree, a tree that can only be described as larger than life, decided it was done with it's treedom today. It fell to the ground and it just ... didn't get up.

This tree resided right outside my apartment building for as long as I can remember. Also, 6 months, which is as long as I've lived in this apartment. Every morning, every afternoon, and yes, even every night, Tree would be standing outside my building, ready with a cheerful greeting or, on most days, a clever quip to perk me up.

"How it's going, Tree?" I would say.
"Hard to go anywhere when you've got sixty feet of roots planted into the concrete ground that was once the beautiful, abundant natural land that your people brutally stole from my ancestors!"

Oh, Tree. How you loved Thanksgiving. This is all too ironic.

Tree had seen a lot in his 344 years on this planet. And yet, I could see it every time I left my house and watched him, hunched over our street: He wanted to see a whole lot more.

Tree was always quiet and contemplative when I brought a new friend or even a lover around. He just watched them, silently, and I knew, deep down, that he was judging their character for me, making sure that I wasn't "cruising for a heart bruisin'", as he'd say. Tree had a real big brother instinct inside of him, though he'd never admit it. But even though Tree never said much to my companions, they still knew a great deal about my wise friend. Usually, I had rambled on to him or her for days about Tree, his wise words, his love of amateur theater productions of Hans Christian Andersen fairy tales, and how that Kevin James made him "bust a gut." He was a lover of the arts, a true Renaissance tree. He would frequently call me over to his lower branches and implore me to listen to the newest Coltrane vinyl he had picked up that morning.

"Tree, I'm going to be late for work!," I would say.
"The only thing you're late on is a little bit of culture in your life," he would reply, not missing a beat, in a way that only the brilliant jazz musicians he so admired could have done.

But Tree had pain in his life, and I knew that, and yet I couldn't touch that part of him. There were nights I would come home from work, often cold, winter evenings, the kind that make you want to curl up inside with a loved one and watch The Shawshank Redemption. It was those nights that I would offer tree a friendly greeting on my way inside, and ... nothing. He would just stand there. No hello, no shake of a leaf, not a single word. I didn't say anything, and at the time, I thought it was because I thought Tree just simply would not answer me and my naive attempts at consolation.

But now, looking back, I realize I didn't say anything to Tree, not because I was afraid he wouldn't want to talk, but because I was afraid he would.

I was afraid that this mountain of a tree would expose himself in a moment of weakness to me, a 22 year old kid with no idea what it could possibly feel like to see your friends and family chopped down to make Ladies Home Journal. What could I say about life to someone who had given me my own, both theoretically through teachings of life wisdoms and introductions to great works of art, and scientifically through the production of oxygen?

I probably couldn't have said anything. I would have stammered through a few half-hearted attempts at cheering Tree up. Maybe I would have even come up with an inspiring quotation from FDR, Tree's favorite U.S. president (Tree had this great bit about him being so tall and FDR being so short in his wheelcha -- nevermind, I'll butcher it.) But, in the end, probably all I could have done was extend my arm around Tree's solid trunk, and give an ever so slight squeeze, just to let me know he wasn't alone. He wasn't alone. He wasn't alone. You're not alone, Tree. I'm with you today. I'm with you tomorrow. You may have fallen to the ground, but your roots ... your roots are deep within the soil of my soul. Thank you, for that. Rest in peace, big man.

Seriously, though, can someone come clean up this dumb fucking tree in the middle of the street?!?! People have to get to work, you know!

If Only Liz Taylor Had Been a Temp

I just read an article on CNN.com, entitled "Seven signs you have a work spouse." You can read it for yourself here, but let me break it down for you ala mid 90s Mase before he got all holy and what not:

-A "work spouse" is defined as a co-worker of the opposite sex (but not the same sex. Thanks, Prop 8!) with whom you have a close platonic relationship that resembles a marriage.

-Signs of this co-worker marriage can include finishing each other's sentences, having the ability to be totally honest and upfront with each other, without any risk of fighting or hurting the other's feelings, and being able to depend on your work spouse for supplies, snacks, aspirin, condoms, whatever you may need. Well, maybe not the last part. Married people don't use condoms. Well, OK, they do, but not with each other.

-A "work spouse" can be a great source of support and comfort in the workplace, but one must be careful not to cross certain boundaries with his work spouse, or let the relationship threaten or harm a real-life marriage or romantic relationship.

Here's my question ... has anyone from CNN.com ever been married? And like, lived with the person, not just for a green card or something? Because the list seems a bit ... off. It reads like an actual healthy, enjoyable romantic relationship, not a marriage. Here's some key points they left out:

Signs You Have a Work Spouse:

-You want to sleep with all their clients, even the ugly ones.
-You do not want to sleep with them.
-You desperately want to move out of your shared cubicle, but you've already decorated it, and all your stuff is in order there, and where would you go and, ugh, what about the plants?
-When you were just a temp, you thought all you ever wanted was to be on staff. Now you stay late, until your work spouse has gone home, and hide Craig's lists postings for maternity-leave office assistants behind desktop windows. Of porn.
-Their face is the first thing you see in the morning, and the last thing you see at night. Because you work in a sweatshop and sleep on top of a button fastening machine.

Just kidding about that last one. I sure hope they don't have machines in sweatshops. Kids these days need to learn how to do things for themselves, not just rely on technology, you know?

OK, so November has been all about good change but ...

... apparently October was nothing but TERRIBLE change, because look what I just discovered while reading up on the Wikipedia page for "Zima:" (What? Don't look at me like that. What else are you supposed to do to take the sting off of a Monday?)

"Zima is a lightly-carbonated clear malt beverage made and distributed by the Coors Brewing Company. Introduced in 1993, it was marketed not as a beer, but as an alternative to beer, an early example of what is now often referred to as alcopop. Its production ceased in October 2008, but it is currently still in distribution."

WHAT?!?!?! One of our country's greatest natural resources is running out, like a ticking time bomb, and yet, we remain ignorant and wasteful, hastily consuming Zima like the well will never run dry. Well, I've got news for you folks: the well will run dry, one day, and it won't be us that will have to suffer from the lack of "alcopop," it will be our children.

Grow up, America. Find an alternative source of non-alcoholic beverage that tastes like crap. It won't be easy ... oh, look, a Red Bull. Nevermind, that wasn't so bad.

Racism? Over!!!

Election Parties and Crow's Feet

First off, new Landline video ... Check out my debut appearance on the internet as "racist."



Second off (not a term), I bought old lady face wash. I didn't mean to (obviously), but now I am paying the price. Every time I wash my face, I smell like a divorcee whose homemade greeting card business will be "really starting to take off" until the day she dies. Which will probably be very, very soon. But hopefully not as soon as when this face wash runs out and I can start smelling like an acne-ridden teenager again.

And that's really all I got.