As my loyal readers, you will recall my earlier post regarding my distaste for horror movies. That distaste still stands. Although, I did watch another one. Why? Because Matt is relentless.

This is EXACTLY how I got talked into watching it. You can ask Matt. He'll verify. Besides, we all know I only speak the truth. Well, okay... but I'm speaking the truth now. It is as if there were a court reporter.

Matt: We’re going to watch “Village of the Damned.”
Allie: Okay.
Matt: Come watch it.
Allie: No thanks.
Matt: Come on.
Allie: Nah.
Matt: Are you sure?
Allie: I’m sure.
Matt: It’s not scary.
Allie: I’m not interested.
Matt: It was made in the 50s. It can’t possibly be scary.
Allie: I see your logic.
Matt: It’s a classic.
Allie: It’s just not my type of movie.
Matt: Come watch it.
Allie: I think I’ll pass.
Matt: Just ten minutes.
Allie: I’ve got other things to do… like… uh… you know… important stuff.
Matt: Just watch ten minutes of it.
Allie: I try and make it a policy not to watch movies with “Damned” in the title.
Matt: It’s not scary, it’s just aliens.
Allie: Aliens are scary.
Matt: It’s Sci-Fi.
Allie: I really don’t like Sci-Fi.
Matt: It’s not Sci-Fi.
Allie: You just said that it was. Next thing I know you are going to tell me it’s a romantic comedy.
Matt: It is!
[Allie eyes him warily]
Matt: It’s not scary.
Allie: I believe you.
Matt: Just ten minutes.
Allie: No thanks.
Matt: You have to give it a chance.
Allie: I’d rather not.
Matt: Just ten minutes, then you can go.
[Allie shakes her head and Matt leaves the room. He comes back seconds later.]
Matt: Ten minutes.
[Allie says nothing. Matt leaves the room. He comes back seconds later.]
Matt: Just give it a chance.
Allie: Really?
Matt: Yeah.
Allie: Okay.

So, I watched the movie. I’m spineless.

It's not you, Matt. It's your movie. For the record, even if Michael Vartan wanted me to watch it, I wouldn’t want to. Granted, I would watch it. Because he’s hot, and probably very nice to cling to - but I still wouldn’t enjoy the movie itself.

For all of you out there who are wondering who this crazy Matt fellow is, here is a recent picture. Can’t you see the familial resemblance? We look just like Grandpa Bill.

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The glass door swings open unceremoniously and she is immediately swallowed by an all too familiar smell. As it fills her nostrils she fights the reflexive urge to heave. She wonders briefly why people are compelled to seek out this smell. Why so many people find it calming, even comforting. How so many people manage to inhale it without retching. She expels the air from her lungs in an effort to purge her body of its unwelcome guest. She fails.

Waiting patiently for her turn, she smiles at the irony. Paying for a service she does not want. She does it anyway. She always does.

She slowly sips at the beverage she has always despised. She finds it more appealing than her other options. Perhaps that is how she has convinced herself she can consume it. Perhaps that is why she has subjected herself to it on countless occasions. Perhaps next time she’ll order a cider.

She watches the two men that flank her. The short, blonde one amuses her. He is uncomfortable in his skin – this is readily apparent. He twitches nervously and laughs constantly. Checking his phone for the fifth time in two minutes, he looks up and meets her gaze. Embarrassed, he shoves it back into his shirt pocket. She knows he puts it there so that he will feel the vibration. He wants to leave. Almost as much as she does.

The man to her right is more at ease. He is in his element and comfortable with both parties. He has no one to impress, and therefore impresses neither. They didn’t expect him to.

The men talk of trivial things. Sex. Politics.

“It was the first time I tried it. Before then, I had thought God wouldn’t approve.” He demonstrates with his hand. She wonders if the other patrons are watching. She wonders if God has changed his mind. She doubts it.

“I came into the election impartial. I’ve made up my mind through study and research.” She knows he’s lying. He votes the way his best friend does. The words he spews have come directly from someone else’s mouth. His lips don’t form them correctly.

As the men continue their banter, she reaches into her pocket. She withdraws the knife she keeps there for occasions such as these. Removing the jacket from her now stone-cold beverage, she begins to slice and shave.

Their eyes wander in her direction briefly before landing back on each other. It is as if she does not exist. She doesn’t mind. Existing is overrated.

The men begin to reminisce. A small part of her wishes she had something to offer the conversation. A pearl of wisdom. A note of interest. She has neither. Instead, she focuses her attention on the rapidly dwindling source of entertainment between her fingers.

As she whittles away the final piece of cardboard, her eyes scan the immediate surroundings. She removes the white plastic and digs the knife into it. It slides in easily. Much more easily. Intent on staying within the lines, she barely notices when they mention her.

The blonde one asks his companion if he minds that she never speaks. He says no. She wonders why he didn’t say that she does. That she speaks when she has something to say. That she finds speech is most effective when used sparingly and not merely as a replacement for silence.

If she spoke, she would tell the blonde man that it doesn’t matter if God approves. It matters only if he does.

If she spoke, she would tell the blonde man that his vote is as pointless as they come. That the uninformed are worse than the apathetic.

If she spoke she would tell him she can see through him. That she knows his mind is in his pocket, waiting for the phone to ring. Waiting for his invitation out of this place.

The place she never wanted to be to begin with.

But she doesn’t speak.

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My sophomore year in college, I decided I wanted to have a smell. You know how certain smells remind you of certain people? Like when someone breezes by you wearing a particular cologne and as soon as it hits your nose you are struck with memories of a particular individual… I wanted that. I wanted people to think of me when they smelled something good. So I went to the perfume counter and tested out the different fragrances in an attempt to find a particular scent that I would use for the rest of my life.

I came home, a happy customer, with a brand new product. I wore it everyday and loved it dearly. Somewhere along the line I stopped wearing it daily and began to wear it only on special occasions. But now, as I have commenced a new chapter of my life, I have decided that in order to reach my previous goal, I will wear my perfume daily.

And can I just say – love. I love this stuff. I find myself sticking my wrist up to my nose just so I can get a better sniff of it. It is the most comforting and pleasant smell I’ve ever had the fortune to happen across. So I would like to applaud sophomore Allie on her wonderful taste. I can definitely see myself wearing this forever. I can’t get enough of it. Although, I am going to have to stop smelling myself in public. The stares I get are less than flattering.

It recently occurred to me, however, that I have come across this smell before. It hit me the other day, when I had my nose pressed against my wrist… it smells like flowers. Not real flowers. Play Doh flowers. I remember vividly a large white plastic faux-woven basket with holes in it where you put the flower patterns. Then when you moved the handle, the Play Doh would come squishing out, in typical Play Doh fashion. What made this particular item special was not its shape, but its smell. The dough was scented. Now this is what gets me. My perfume is not floral. It’s almond scented - and a dead ringer for Play Doh flowers. Now who’s the confused marketer?

Don’t you love it when junk emails are personalized? “Hello Allie. It’s true! You can now stop paying retail… and START saving up to 85 percent on all your PrinterInk and Toner cartridge needs.” Well, thank you very much Mr. PrinterInk8797 for your generous offer. Since we’re close enough that you can call me Allie, can I call you STOP EMAILING ME YOU FREAK? Seriously, the subject title is “Allie - 'Alwâys uptô [85percent] sâvi.” You tricky little buggers. You got me! I thought you were a good friend of mine ‘cause you had my name in the subject! You’re so sneaky!!

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Because of lack of desktop space paired with my tendency to use my computer up until the point of total and utter exhaustion, I don’t store my laptop on a counter. Instead, I place it on the floor beside the bed. A while ago, Ryan stepped on it by accident, breaking my USB port clean off. He felt horrible, and went to buy me an adapter, so that I would not miss my now dysfunctional port. He’s sweet like that. We all know that it was my fault the laptop was damaged… I mean, how stupid do you have to be to store your computer on the floor? Right, anyway, he felt guilty about it and still does. So I use this guilt to poke at him. Almost daily, when Ryan is walking around the room, I like to remind him not to step on my laptop. Each time that I call out, “Don’t step on my laptop!” he looks at me with puppy eyes and shakes his head in shame. It’s really quite entertaining. You should try it.

Well, today I did something that will forever end my small source of joy – I dropped it. That’s right. I was holding my laptop in my hands, wandering around the room with the wireless card aimed to the sky searching in vain for the neighbor’s signal when my foot stepped on the cord and yanked my four-year old antiquated baby slamming it into the hardwood floor. I could have cried. Luckily, Inspy takes a licking and keeps on ticking… and is currently no worse for the wear. The only thing bruised and battered is my ego, as it only happened twenty minutes ago, but Ryan has already told me “Don’t drop your laptop!” ten times.

Celebrity sighting – Ryan and I saw Laurie Metcalf today at the Halloween store. Does she still count as a celebrity? We’re 99% positive it was her, anyway… but there is no way to be 100% unless you ask and, well, we all know I’d never ask. I did, however, try to get a look at her bank card as she handed it to the cashier. The only thing I managed to find out was that she was a Citibank user. They print those names so freaking small. Dangnabit.

What is this thing with Drive Thru’s having the windows on the passenger’s side? Who thought that up? I don’t approve. What happens if you don’t have a passenger? I have yet to experience that, but I can’t imagine it’s pretty. I can just picture having to lean over the gear shift, the passenger seat, out the window and bridge the gap between my car and the drive thru lady’s outstretched arms. Please. Sometimes I can’t even reach when it’s on the driver’s side. I hereby vow never to go to a passenger Drive Thru by my self for sheer fear of humiliation. I just know that I’d be the dork that actually had to get out of the car and walk around.

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Sometimes when I’m feeling low I like to watch Mamut. I find that the immaturity of it all is like someone farting in class. Short, sweet and embarrassingly funny. I was not in the highest of spirits today, but after one viewing of the online cartoon I felt instantly cheered. Woot woot for the Mamut. I think everyone should have a Mamut… something that instantly brings you happiness. Mine is a cartoon drawn by five year olds who don’t even speak my language. Yet somehow we have an indescribable bond. I lurve me some Mamut creators.

Now, I bet a few of you are thinking – “Ha ha! Mamut is da bomb!” and some of you are thinking “Mamut? HUH?” To the first group I say, “You are my kindred spirits. We will forever be connected in the chicitito land of humor.” To the second group I say, “I would show you the Mamut, I would lead you to the promised land… but you people didn’t like the Instanity Test. If you don’t think the racecar is hilarious (Ryan and I are laughing right now just thinking about it) then I’m not going to waste the Mamut’s time on you.”

Right now I desperately desire a Mudslide. Ryan bought me the pre-made stuff that they sell in grocery stores (I’ll get to that in a minute), but alas, it is 11pm and Matt and Patti are sleeping. Therefore I cannot use the blender. Oh sweet agony, why doest thou taunt me with mudslide near yet far?

Okay, so the liquor in the grocery stores business… why has Oregon outlawed this again? Anybody? Anybody? Bueller? Yeah, I don’t get it. It seems really logical to me, and very convenient. Boo on the state. You have deprived me of a wonderful time and energy saving way of getting boozed up. Yes, you – Oregon. Why were you not fostering my laziness? Did you not want me to grow up and be the immobile slug that I aspire to be? And moreover, isn’t it just encouraging gas consumption? Isn’t it bad for the environment that I have to drive to the liquor store when I’m already at the supermarket? You should be ashamed!

Have you ever taken the time to listen to the Oscar Mayer Wiener song? I mean, really listen to it? You watch the children with their little pudgy faces singing about how “I wish I were an Oscar Mayer wiener… then everyone would be in love with me.” Is that not wrong on so many levels? First of all, what sane child wishes they were ground up parts of reject meat? Not even the good meat – I mean… this is the stuff they pick up off the floor. And is that how children should want to get love? By tasting good when slathered with mustard? I think we should explain to these young ones that the kind of love they really should desire is not the love a person feels for their hot dog, but the love a person feels for their child.

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Ryan and I were driving to Kinko’s last night, unaware that it was “bad driver night” here in LA. Bring me your crazies, psychos and just plain oblivious masses… and put them behind the wheel. Holy buckets, we saw three very close calls in the five-minute drive to the photocopy superstore. So, when we parked and exited the car I was not surprised to be bombarded by the shrill honking of countless horns. As I walked to the front door, however, I was really starting to worry. I mean, this was the sound of a whole lot of horns… all honking repeatedly. So, I hesitantly went around the corner to peer at the crash site or the duck in the road – whatever had caused this cacophony. When my eyes finally fell upon the scene I actually bust up laughing and considered running back to Ryan’s car and joining in the honk-fest. Turns out there was a make-shift Kerry rally going on. The busy intersection teemed with Kerry fans asking to “Honk 4 Kerry” and “Honk for Change.” The more original participants were bearing signs like “Asses of Evil,” “Dubya, We’re Gonna Dump Ya,” and “4 More Wars.” My personal favorite – “Smush Bush!” Anyway, I snapped a few pictures, but they didn’t really come out. All I could salvage were a few signs… here’s one:



The highlight of the evening was when we left Kinko’s and turned the corner, away from the honking masses, and there was a little Pro-Bush group trying to out-yell the swarm of Kerry fans. There were probably ten of them, and they obviously did not come prepared. It looked as though they had uprooted lawn signs. No creativity. Tsk, tsk. Poor little kids were turning blue they were shouting so hard over the cheering and the honking. Almost felt sorry for them. Then I remembered that they were voting for BUSH.

Got a job today. Well, sort of. It got a job for November 13th. It’s a one-day gig… but I take what I can get and one-day is certainly better than no-day. So WOOO HOOO for me. And woo hoo for the fact that Matt and Patti’s neighbors own their own production company.

I bought a button online today. Don’t know when I became politically outspoken, but I guess some of this stuff just really gets my goat and I want people to know that I think some things are crappy. This is what the button has on it:



Turns out I’ve overused my left control key on my laptop. I learned this the hard way, of course. I’m an avid cut-and-paste person, so I use the ‘control c’ shortcut. For the third time in a row I ‘control c’d an entire paragraph and it turned into just a little ‘c’. In Word, this would not be a problem as I could ‘control z’ myself right out of it… but when in text boxes online – there is no ‘control z.’ This makes me not happy. I have been relegated to using my right control button. It’s really more trying than you think.

Oh, yeah – SMUSH BUSH.

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