Boredom Blog

Tuesday, August 25, 2009

In Which I Write a Paragraph Containing One Period Per Four Parentheses.

[Ed. Note: A continuation on a theme, here is another email to H-, explaining the Pepsi/Coca Cola economy paradox and demonstrating that my source citing skills were always questionable ... ]

From elvi slives
Sent Wednesday, August 29, 2001 9:50 am
To "H-"
Subject Moving sucks ... much like Mongolian soda
Dear H-

It sounds like you are having a blast there--don't worry about the [limited food] availability thing though, as it happens even in this great city. I have lived here in NYC without lemonheads for about two years now, and it does not look like there will be any in my near future, either.

How did I screw up the East Village apartment? I didn't assert my squatter's rights. Actually, the lease is only until October, and then it is G-H-E-T-T-O time. That's right. I as well will live off of Franklin Avenue on Union Street, running home every night, throwing my bookbag over fences and then leaping them in single bounds like that small boy in the "We hear ya. Keep running." commercial. Finally, I will succumb to the crack dealers and start doing trix to support my habit until the day that the little green leprecaun tries to steal my stash and I knife him in a bitter rage ... oh, wait. I am getting my commercials mixed up again.

Anyway, here's something that I think that you might find funny. There was actually a man (and I am totally not making this up, Prof. G- in the Sociology dept. told me this, so the burden of proof is on him--lately I have been feeling the need to prove that I don't lie ALL the time, which is hard because I generally DO lie most (okay, ALL) the time) who wrote his thesis (or maybe it was a television show, I don't remember, his classes were at like 9 am in the morning and I had a hard time just remembering to stay awake, let alone pay attention) (do you like how this is still the same sentence and I still have not gotten to a point--hate to warn you, it is nowhere in the near future either) on a comparison of money economies and their relation to the soda industry- -for instance, Coca Cola went to China, Pepsi went to Russia--and the ensuing success or failure of that new economy. He said that it can all be blamed on the Soda--namely that Pepsi is a jinx. I would have to agree, and point out that this theory works on a smaller scale, as Niagara Falls (New York, that is) has a Pepsi bottling center and has been a rapidly declining city (and I use that term loosely--if two more people die, its back to township she goes) for years now whereas Atlanta is thriving (at least in comparison) and it is the center of Coca Cola bottling. Coincidence? I am sure the Russians don't think so.

Okay, now that I have bored you to death (and all without approaching a point of any kind), I am going to let you get back to what ever it is that you do for fun there -- by the by, what is it that you do?

love,

elvi slives

Wherein I Discover the International Appeal of the Snickers Bar.

Hello again, all. I'm sorry I've been away for so long, but truth is, I've been completely uninspired to write anything. Mainly because I've been too busy watching the variety of behavioral disorder shows on A&E (holy shit Obsessed is awesome! You could say I was obsessed with it. But then you'd be a douche). Anyway, I did want to get in the habit of putting something up, and stumbled across a few old emails that I thought were funny (hopefully, out of context, as I'm too lazy to remember the main plot behind most of them). Hope you enjoy them.

[Ed. Note: After college, several of my friends left the country in search of jobs and lower rent. H- was one of them.]

From elvi slives
Sent Tuesday, August 28, 2001 10:28 am
To "H-"
Subject Yakkety, Yak! (But do they talk back?)
Dear H-:

I think that we may have already had this conversation before, but Canada is in one of the Americas. It is right above the US. Nevermind.

Anyway, just to let you know, there is not one week that goes by that I don't ask the Mulberry crew where you are. Then they remind me that you moved to Mongolia, and we all laugh and laugh and laugh and laugh
(but not at you).

I am currently still homeless, but I think that my luck may change in the near future. I am looking at a house in Brooklyn (by the museum no less) that is fantastic and super cheap! Well, not super, but cheap enough. I also still don't have a job, and my one here ends on Friday. But I am not panicking yet -- not until the bill collectors
come a'banging. Then I might have to do something drastic--like move back to S-- (it's a lot like Mongolia with the animals and stuff, only less cilivized).

Yar, yar, yar--sounds like everything in Mongolia is great! I think they sell those snickers bars here in America too! And all this time, I thought that they were an American thing .... Who knew that I enjoyed ethnic treats?

How did the cab driver cheat you out of a $100? Was it American or Mongolian? Do you have his address? I just happen to know a couple of ex-KBG officers who are looking for part-time gigs in that area ...

Did you notice that I managed to go this entire email without making one snide comment? Weird, huh?

All right, I have to go pretend to be productive now. Say hi to everyone for me!

love,

elvi slives

Friday, October 10, 2008

Paulson regrets that time he watched "I Love New York" instead of finishing "Finance Regulation for Dummies"

If you're like me and keep all of your money in the cash registers of area nail and threading salons, then you're not exactly sure what all the hullabaloo on Wall Street is. Allow me to shed some light on the situation: We. Are. In. Financial. Apocalypse.

Perhaps I'm exaggerating a bit (I'm not), and it's not *THE* worst economic environments we've seen in decades (it is) that will force world leaders to close down their markets to re-write the rules of international finance (already working on it). Let's just pretend for a moment that I'm not overreacting -- how does something like this happen? I once got into an argument with an anarchist who said that we didn't need laws because people are naturally inclined to "do the right thing." To punctuate his point, he pulled out a pocket knife and said that I should stab him to prove him wrong. I didn't, but I like to think that eventually some other bored party-goer did, if only to shut him up. Because, at the end of the day, we very rarely do things because they are the "right" thing to do -- more often, we do them because they are the "non-illegal" things to do. Amsterdam has made a killing in tourism based entirely on this theory.

Being an event planner has taught me that, without rules and the means by which to enforce them, lawlessness abounds. It has also taught me that a 90-lb woman will jab a 300-lb bouncer in the foot with her stiletto for $30 worth of cosmetics. So, even as we all feign moral indignation at Fuld's reckless acts at Lehman Brothers, it's hard to believe that, given the chance, there aren't others would wouldn't risk destabilizing an entire financial market and a punch in the face whilst on the treadmill to net $500 million. Sure, *most* people wouldn't, but Greyhound learned earlier this year, just because *most* people wouldn't kill a complete stranger, doesn't mean one person wouldn't. And while there are plenty of us that wish someone had beheaded Fuld, violence is not the answer. At least, not yet. No, what we need to do is pay more attention to who we put in charge of our money and what they are doing with it. Because, as nice as it is to believe that people will ultimately "do the right thing," Spike Lee has taught us and Radio Raheem that that is not always the case.

PHOTO: This is your last chance. After this, there is no turning back. However, I can tell you that the blue one significantly decreases your chances of ever hearing the phrase "you betcha" again. Choose wisely.

Thursday, August 21, 2008

Even I Don't Read My Blog. And That Has Cost Me Dearly.

If you're a fan of the Boredom Blog, you may remember this little humdinger of a post where I mention that Bank of America is now charging a three-dollar ATM fee for non-customers. Hmm, what's that you say? You don't remember? Um, yeah, me either, because in a fit of desperation (I was wearing heels!) last weekend, I totally made the mistake of using one of their machines. That coupled with my bank's "convenience fee" (read: "Sucka! I can't believe you just paid me to do NOTHING!"), means I paid a $4.50 surcharge just to get enough cash to get a cab home from midtown (and before you snark, it was like 2:30 AM, the trains were all wonky, and I live in Brooklyn, for god sakes. Have a heart!). Adding to the list yet another reason why Suze Orman won't return my calls.

I Wish Someone Would Do Something About How Fat I Am*

Okay, a few days ago I wrote a platitude-laden blog about how my current weight-loss plateau has helped me to re-evaluate my definition of weight-loss success. Desperation has since caused me to re-re-evaluate the situation and deem that seemingly noble sentiment complete and utter bullshit. Because after 21+ days, all I* DO* care about right now is the fact that my scale appears to be a capricious asshole who takes delight in taunting me with my non-progress.

As I’ve previously asserted, I am truly a scientist at heart (admittedly though, less of an Albert Einstein and more of an L. Ron Hubbard), and as such, have taken pains to thoroughly research possible solutions to this crisis (read: I’ve Googled the term “weight-loss plateau” incessantly over the past few weeks). The challenge is, every website says the same thing – Increase your caloric intake. Increase your activity level. Decrease your reliance on the scale as an indicator of success. All of which I’ve done. And, still…. NOTHING! I am just as scale-disadvantaged as I was a fortnight and a half ago!

While I’ve tried to appease myself with alternative metrics (like the fact that my once aspirational “skinny pants” are now loose on me, or that I’m able to work out for incredibly long periods without tiring), I can’t help but feel that it’s utter bullshit. Because my goal when I started wasn’t “Be able to wear outdated pants that reek of mothballs and desperation” or “Ellipticate (It’s a word. Look it up. Make sure you use my dictionary) ad nauseam, ad infinitum.” My goal was to have a kick-ass body like Britney’s. You know, before the babies. But even that b*tch is on the front page of OK! touting her rapid weight-loss success, proving that even an overexposed underdeveloped tartlet who is an epic FAIL at almost everything not involving hip gyrations or pedophiliac allusions can do it. And now my resolve is fading faster than Rick Ross’s street cred (Although kudos to him on the perfect attendance reward. It has to be hard to prison guard every night when everyday you’re hustling).

So I implore you dear reader, what can I do to bust out of this dreaded plateau? Eating disorders are out of question. After all, I want to lose weight, not end up being played by Raven Symoné (I know, I questioned the casting decision too) in a Lifetime Movie of the Week. Similarly, celebrity diets are also not going to work because I a) Don’t have a gazillion dollars to “invest” in my ass and b) if I did, I would probably just buy Eva Mendez and make her impersonate me (What?!?! I saw her in the clearance aisle at Costco, so I just assumed). So please post your helpful suggestions in Comments. All mean/snarky comments can be directed to your mother’s answering machine, because she’s probably the reason you’re so bitter anyway.

*Yes, I steal content. But I make it better by properly inserting it into topic, no?

PHOTO: If you're going to cast someone as me in a movie, may I make a humble suggestion? Because this is the exact face I make every morning when pondering breakfast selections. Or why it is that black face is still so taboo.

Word of the Day: Ellipticate

Main Entry: Ellipticate
Function: verb
intransitive verb1 a: To use the elliptical machine; specifically: to move both feet in opposing directions in a running motion on a machine specifically designed to minimize impact. b: To abandon high-impact activities (e.g. running, etc.) for a lower-impact workout.

EX:
a: I ellipicated at the gym for over 2 hours yesterday.
b: After I pulled that last hammy, my doctor suggested I ellipticate my current routine.

Monday, August 18, 2008

Please Stop Assuming that I Have a Drug Problem.

If you're my friend, you may have recently noticed that I dropped a few pounds. Ninety, to be exact. It's been a slow, steady process fraught (I've been waiting all week to use that word) with challenges, but I've persevered. Until recently.

The thing is, I hit a giant brick wall a few weeks ago. It's odd -- on the surface, it was made up of seemingly small things -- the backhanded compliments I had received from friends ("Seriously, are you on coke?"), the hopefully broken Taylor scale (which despite my best efforts, has refused to budget from 178), the excess skin on my now-deflated breasts. Taken individually, they would have been manageable, but collectively, they felt insurmountable.

And just when I started to feel sorry (and angry) at myself for failing once again, I did what any good scientist (or bullshit artist) would do -- I reassessed my metrics. My weight might be fixed, but I've dropped over 5% body fat in the last month alone. I just signed up for a introduction to ballet workshop, something that I would have never had the courage to do in the past. And shopping has regained its rightful place as my preferred lunchtime activity. For everything I've sacrificed, I've gained something new -- maybe not what I was expecting, or even hoping for, but more often, something better -- something I didn't even realize I was missing.

Maybe this then is the key to weight loss success -- the moment you realize that it is about so much more than a number on a scale. It's the sense of accomplishment that is instantly recognizable by everyone I see. The feeling that I CAN do anything that I set my mind to; I can succeed where so many others have failed, I can climb Mount Everest without freezing to death. I've come so far, to not finish now would be insanity.

So I will continue to demure when you inquire as to my drug of choice (after all, every good bad girl needs some sort of bad habit, even if only imagined), research (healthy) ways to ramp up my cardio, and start saving up for a breast lift. Because, as tough as it has been, it's still a hundred times better than the alternative.

Saturday, March 15, 2008

In my house, wine glasses outnumber cooking utensils three-to-one.

My microwave broke recently (it happened during the Oscars this year -- one can only imagine it was in protest of Marion Cotillard's dress). Sadly, with it went my one real desire to be a part of the cooking world (I hear your ponderances on why I just didn't buy a new one and I dismiss them. Please stop questioning my blog logic), which derived almost entirely from that machine (and those wonderful labels that companies spend so much time preparing for the packaging. Yes, I'm NOT ashamed to admit I'm the reason they put cooking directions on chicken).

I've always had a natural aversion to using stoves, which I think has to do with a batch of spearmint taffy that I made once as a child that went horribly awry. I learned three things that day: 1) You can never substitute dark corn syrup for light corn syrup; 2) When they say a drop of spearmint flavor, it is not a typo; and 3) when you make a batch of taffy that goes horribly awry, don't put it in a tupperware container and hide it under the kitchen sink. I also grew up in a town where Pizza Hut was THE place to go for Italian, and going to Olive Garden meant that you were getting engaged (or at least, asked to move into his trailer). Because of this, I never really developed a refined palate, or even a desire to eat anything that doesn't come with safety packaging.

All of this probably wouldn't be a problem if I didn't live in New York City, where being a foodie is de rigeur and almost every neighborhood is a veritable orgasm of foodstuffs. I had hoped that when I moved here that I would become more discerning, but the fact remains, I *STILL* cannot taste the coriander in your soup, I continue to be uncertain of what kale looks like, and I remain baffled by how anyone can buy vegetables when manufacturers don't have the decency to provide expiration dates.

Still, while my ignorance can be a bit of an annoyance, I kind of like that, as I'm surrounded by co-workers discussing the merits of granite vs. marble for a mortar and pestle ("It's pestle, Erin, not pustule"), I'm wondering if the Chinatown Duane Reade still has Circus Peanuts on sale. And what of purchasing a new microwave? Maybe, but not anytime soon, as I have transitioned to a raw diet. Now I only buy things that can be eaten straight from the package.

PHOTO: Next time you're hating on my favorite candy, please remember that, without Circus Peanuts, the world would not have Lucky Charms. And you're welcome.