A Lizard In the Tub Is Better Than Two In the...Mom Stop Screaming!

People talk about foreshadowing and about cosmic consciousness and controlling the universe. And thus, tonight, it came to pass, that I officially classified myself as a reptilian prognosticator...or something like that.

If you recall my posts from earlier this week about a certain cat,
I wrote:

“Because you know if Kiiiiithy had brought home a lizard, that lizard would have been taken out to the neighbor’s yard and released to fend for itself.”

True to form, the not-so-evil-but-ever-so-certifiable Kiiiithy decided that baby squirrels were no longer her thing and opted to bring home a lizard this lovely Friday evening. Perhaps to pâté and spread on challah for Kiddush? Did I mention that she also decided that the best place to store said lizard was in the bathtub?

I never realized how outbackish the suburbs were until this cat started bringing home just about any and every specie of animal she can get her bell jarish paws on. I imagine it's only a matter of time before the good people of Sherman Oaks put their homes on four foot stilts so that the deadly Komodo Kiiiiithy doesn’t run off with their children in the dead of night.

Errrs of Endearment

Terms of endearment have always felt very foreign to me. Trying to incorporate them into a personal conversation with a straight face is almost as effusively demanding as attempting left-handed calligraphy...with a quill...while riding a unicycle..on a tightrope...over a tank of hungry piranhas.

Sure, I can mutter the ever-sarcastic, “yes, dear” or sap a few ghetto “babaaaaays” into an off-handed comment here and there, but even that took me about 25 years to master and I still feel odd sometimes. Why is that?

Both my parents use terms of endearment pretty freely. I once hypothesized that it might be because they only use them in Hebrew and that’s how I’ve grown accustomed to hearing them. But after playing out some sentences in my head and having it still feel as apish as ever, I quickly dismissed the whole foreign language excuse.

Then I thought, maybe it’s because I’ve grown up around one too many plastic Los Angeles girls who so robotically and manipulatively spew out “sweetie,” that it makes cringe every time I even think of that word.

Then again, maybe terms of endearment are just not my thing. But that’s not say I don’t love people. Really, I do. They taste like chicken.

In other news, I’m sick and I feel like crap. Who wants a hug?

Calvin, Ralph. Ralph, Calvin.

Not much going on today. No stories of the squirrel or elevator variety. Just a lot of tv last night and work this morning. I guess I could talk about the weather again, but I’m afraid that this blog cannot withstand jumping the shark twice. It’s like that age old saying: Jump the shark once, shame on Eti. Jump the shark twice, Eti’s blog sucks.

So, the only real news of interest, if anyone actually gives a rhino’s nad (shout out), is that I purchased Romance by Ralph Lauren on Tuesday.

I’ve been a Calvin Klein kind of girl for some time now. I mean, I’ve worn my fair share of perfumes over the years, but CK One is the one that’s stuck and endured the test of time. It’s been the one scent that I haven’t gotten sick of after a quarter bottle’s use.

So this week I decided to venture into Ralph Lauren territory. I actually wanted to get Romance last year (yeah, didn't we all), but for some reason, never quite got around to it.

I’m happy to say that I’m quite pleased with my purchase. The perfume itself is sweet, but with a little bit of a spicy kick, thus making it the good kind of sweet, as opposed to the pukey kind of sweet that old ladies wear.

The only downside is that its potency kind of wears off after a few hours. But I have only my body chemistry to blame. Regardless, this one’s definitely a keeper.

A Heartbreaking Work of Squirrely Genius

Update: Happy.

I spoke to my mom who had good news. The baby squirrel will be okay.

Turns out (not-quite-so-evil) Kiiiithy didn’t really hurt it and that it was mostly asleep; not half-dead, as earlier reported. The nice people at the shelter told my mom that they would hand it over to the wild animal rescue, where I imagine it will be bottle fed and grow into one kick-ass squirrel.

I sort of (read: really, really, really) wanted to keep it. I think Zoe and I really connected and were destined to become great friends. (Cue montage: Eti and Zoe playing in a tree. Eti and Zoe making snow angels. Eti and Zoe eating peanuts together. Eti and Zoe asleep together in a field of poppies on a sunny day.) Ahhh, but such is life.

At least the story had a happy ending.

With that said, I must now revert to my snarky, sarcastic self.

Cute and Evil

Warning: Sad.

I was ever-so satisfyingly awakened at five this morning to the lovely sounds of what could only be described as my mother’s lovely rendition of my name being screamed in an Israeli accent. (Actually, that’s the proper way for it to be screamed, so nevermind.)

I managed a groggy, “huh? whaaaaat?” (Because when I’m half-asleep I can only respond in lower case letters.) To which she tells me through the door that I have to get up to help her because her (seriously evil and nameless) cat (I call it Kiiiiithy, as in “Hello,” with a lisp) brought home some sort of animal. So I get up to find that Kiiiiithy brought home the most adorable baby squirrel, now laying semi-lifeless and curled up on the dining room floor.

I wish I could tell you that I rolled up my sleeves and rushed into action by administering some sort of Macgyver style CPR with a straw and a Ziploc bag, but such wasn’t the case. All I could do was tell my mom to get a shoe box, fill it up with some toilet paper and bring it to me. Then I grabbed some newspaper, scooped up the squirrel and put it in the box.

We put the box in the bathroom far away from the evilness of Kiiiiithy. And just like little kids who get a new pet, I kept getting up every ten minutes to check on it. It was still alive when I left the house this morning and my mom plans on taking it to the shelter when they open.

It’s weird to think how people respond to the cute and cuddlies. Because you know if Kiiiiithy had brought home a lizard, that lizard would have been taken out to the neighbor’s yard and released to fend for itself. (At least it wasn’t a termite.)

I think I’ll stop here because I don’t want to go into some ill-advised rant about how I don’t like this new cat and how my other cat was really an angel and how it’s not fair that the awesome cats have to be put to sleep while the stupid ones without personality get to run around and maim cute squirrels.

At any rate, hopefully good news to come.

OK Computer, (Not-So OK Printer)

I’ve been engaged in an ongoing war with my printer, Brother HL-5040, for quite some time now. And the situation has come to a head. Or rather, a drum.

Seems the drum is finally giving out (I know this because the drum light blinks a lot; either that or it’s winking at me, which is also a possibility) and thus papers are getting jammed left and right. Based on my meticulous mathematical calculations (i.e, half-assed estimating) I would say that one out of every eight sheets of paper gets jammed.

Last Thursday, I was so heavily ensconced in a battle with Brother, trying to methodically, albeit not-so-subtly, un-jam a sheet using a letter opener, scissors and a paper clip, that my boss actually walked by and quipped, “I think the printer is winning.”

You know, everyone rants and raves about road rage, and yet I find printer rage to be all but taboo. (Except in the ever-brilliant “Office Space,” to which I tip my hat.)

And even though I love Brother and we’ve been through the shit together (16 hour days, ex-parte motions, threatening letters, et al.), I just don’t like him very much right now.

Postcards From the Bleeeeeecccccccch

Every morning, I get to work at seven, have my coffee around nine-thirty and normally find that the urge to expel said coffee kicks in about a half hour later. This morning, running a little behind, I found myself in the bathroom around eleven. After washing my hands, I went to grab some paper towels and noticed something quite disturbing.

There wasn’t a single paper towel discarded in the garbage!

Now, I know for a fact that on any given day there are roughly fifteen women who work on my floor.

Understandably I was rather fermished because this either meant that by some miracle or force of nature, all the women on my floor disappeared for 4 hours and their bowels suspended, or that every single woman who used the bathroom in the morning failed to wash her hands.

To that I say: ew and gross!

This is the reason I:

1.) avoid public bathrooms as much as possible
2.) never, ever, ever touch anything in there unless absolutely necessary
3.) If I do touch something, wash the crap out of my hands (no pun intended)

and lastly, and most importantly:

4.) always use about 5 paper towels to open the door to get out

To quickly recap: Cleanliness is godliness you nasty bitches! WASH YOUR FUCKING HANDS!

Stop the Wagon!

I don’t have a token, but I have a blog.

After my pukey birthday extravaganza last month, I promised to lay off the bottle for a while. Well, it wasn’t really that bad, but I did drink a lot over the summer. And today is the one month anniversary of my “sobriety.”

In all fairness, I’m not a big drinker, but I am a social drinker. I’ll admit that if/when I drink, I drink to get drunk, but I can “totally stop whenever I want.” No, really, I can. The last time I stopped drinking, I gave up beer and I didn’t touch alcohol for eight months. I haven’t touched beer since...that’s mostly because I realized that shots of hard alcohol can do the same job as beer in a quicker and more efficient manner sans ten trips to the bathroom.

Yeah, I think it’s time to start drinking again.

Trouble Sleeping: Gossamer Angels

Here’s what you do when it’s two in the morning and you’ve been laying in bed since eleven but can’t actually fall asleep:

a.) Lay there some more, toss, turn, repeat.
b.) Replay “Mystic Pizza” in your head.
c.) Watch “Killer Jellyfish” on the Discovery Channel

Last night I opted for d.) All of the above.

The Box Jellyfish, more commonly knows as the Irukandji, was referred to as “Nature’s Most Elusive Killer.” The show was pretty cool, because any show that can use the following phrases, can’t be that bad:

“twenty minutes to enter the bloodstream”
“the worst pain you’ll ever know”
“doctors can’t do anything but monitor and treat your symptoms”
“suffer from two days to two weeks”
“20 irukandji can wipe out a beach of swimmers”

Actually, my favorite part of the entire show was when the narrator referred to them as “gossamer angels.”

Of course, no nature show would be complete without a couple of wild and crazy Aussie scientists. And true to form, they showed these two Aussie marine biologists jump right into irukandji infested waters and (shocker) get stung! And for the next ten minutes (time lapse), the show focused on nothing but their pain. Seriously, they were writhing in their hospital beds for several days. I'm talking fists clenched, teeth gnashing, waxen.

And what do these guys do as soon as they’re released from the hospital? They get right back INTO THE WATER with the fucking jellyfish in the dead of night. Um, guys, I want to introduce you to Ryan "I never learn" Atwood.

At any rate, I think I finally knocked out around three.

(Family) Whistle Blower

The family whistle is a pretty universal thing that most people have and use but rarely pay any conscious attention to. I hadn’t really thought about it much myself until I went to pick my mom up from LAX last month. She was walking about fifteen feet ahead of me and instead of calling her name, I opted for the family whistle.

Appropriately enough, about five Israeli people all turned their heads to face me, my mom included. (The Israeli family whistle is more of a universal country whistle than anything else. Its sound is reminiscent of a high pitched/extended version of a cuckoo clock.).

I realize now that the family whistle was a forerunner to the cell phone, especially in store settings. Seriously, no trip to the supermarket or department store in the eighties through the late nineties was complete without the beautiful calls of the family whistle.

It really is genius if you think about it. Back in the days before you were able to speed dial your fellow shopper to pinpoint their location, using nothing more than the family whistle, you were able to communicate an entire conversation without saying anything from opposite ends of any given store.

Whistle: “Where are you?”
Whistle: “I’m here”
Whistle: “Okay, keep whistling because I’m trying to find you.”
Whistle: “I’m over here!”
Whistle: “Yeah, I see you.”
Whistle: “I see you too.”

Every once in a while there would be another shopper at the store with the same whistle as you. And you’d go towards the sound thinking you’d find your mom or your sister, and it ended up being some fat guy or something. But I guess that’s the modern day equivalent of someone having the same cell phone ring as you. At least with the whistle you can never go over your minutes.

Rage In An Elevator

It seemed like people were really on edge in my building yesterday, myself included. Or maybe it’s just that when you’re stressed out, everyone else seems stressed out too. Kind of like when you want a new car and then all you see is that kind of car on the road. You know how it works.

On any given workday, I ride the elevator a minimum of five times. So what are the odds that yesterday two people started telling me/showing me their problems on our shared ride down?

One (clearly) disturbed lady in a power suit started telling me about how she was sure one of her clients in being battered by her husband and how the client canceled her appointment with the husband listening on the other line. It was all too creepy and “Sleeping With the Enemy” for a Thursday.

Then, a few hours later, I walk into the elevator just as this guy decides throw a punch into the elevator wall. As luck and Murphy's Law would have it, the ride down lasted an extra two floors because we were both going down to G2. UN-comfortable!

It’s always nice when other people’s shitty problems put your seemingly shitty problems in perspective. However forced and awkward as it may be.

Stupid When Wet

Rain in Los Angeles.

Watch as the already challenged driving IQs of all L.A. residents plummet to new depths.

I imagine the thought process to go a little something like this: Huh? What? Oh no! Water! Falling from the sky! Brain...must...stop...working! Ahhhhhhhh!

Bend It Like Nestle

On Sunday morning, Randy, Robert, Reena, Brian, Nick and I went to the VNSO Park for a little soccer scrimmage, but it ended up being more of a hypothetical battle of the blogs since the actual soccer bit was trés pathétique.

We found ourselves on the little AYSO kids’ practice field, experienced an injury and played to seven for only an hour with a handful of water/sarcasm breaks in between. On the bright side, we actually broke a sweat and I’m glad to say that I’m surprisingly not sore today. Who would’ve thought that soccer is that much less of an impact sport than kickball?

On the not-so-bright side, my hormones were totally fucking with me all weekend, thus impelling me to compulsively devour any and all chocolate I could get my hands on...totally against my will.

Okay, fine...maybe not so much against my will, but more so against my will-power. It doesn’t help that my mom has a giant Costco sized bag of Nestle semi-sweet baking chips in the Lazy Suzan. That’s almost as bad as the time my dad bought a 10 lb. Ghirardelli chocolate bar for a friend last year and ended up giving them a gift card instead, thus leaving said chocolate bar at home. Suffice it to say the chocolate bar didn’t last 10 lbs. for very long. Can you say “osmosis?”

I'll admit, I’ve toyed with the idea of going to a hypnotist to try to wean myself off chocolate. But after some deep thinking (i.e., massive consumption of dark chocolate), I came to the realization that if I didn’t love chocolate, I’d have no soul; but my ass would look really good in jeans. Oooh, dilemma.

Gone Fishing

Woke up early, grabbed my stuff, bought some worms and headed to the lake. I left The Rebel at home and grabbed the digital instead.

Hi, My Name Is...

Growing up in America with a foreign name meant a constant stream of teasing and name butchering. Yeah, calling me E.T. is SO 1984! By now, I’ve pretty much heard it all. However, having a foreign name in America also means you can Google the shit out of it with awesome results.

Here are some of my self-indulgent, yet witty findings:

1. Hello, Eti

“We even look ahead to the day when humans and ETI will cooperate in joint projects in science, exploration, philanthropy, philosophy, spirituality, myths, art, or music. Perhaps, for instance, we could develop an inspiring symphony or a magnificent piece of visual art that harmoniously combines our efforts and yours.”

Questions For ETI

"Have any other forms of ETI visited our solar system in recent years? Does any dangerous or hostile form of ETI pose any threat to us?"

Oh, if they only knew!


2. Start Eti Up

“We offer a 3-month, no-charge, evaluation edition for ETI. If you want to use ETI after the expiration, you can download a new version of ETI.”

How to start ETI

Start & Quit

1. Run the command prompt.
2. Type ETI.
Type q to quit ETI.

Load Rules
Type
Load "filename" to load rules. For example, load "test.eti"


3. Eti In the Red

“With a proud past and a secure place in explosives history, the ETI focus is fixed firmly on the future.”

Feel free to watch ETI set off a blast...


4. The ETI Band?

I bet there are plenty of groupies out there.


5. Why NOT Choose Eti?!

“ETI is a global leader in the field of geometric dimensioning and tolerancing.”


6. ETI Goes To Washington

“ The Senate today missed another opportunity to pass FSC/ETI legislation to reform the tax code and remove the underlying reason for the sanctions that have been imposed by the European Union on U.S. manufacturers, farmers, and other job creators....The sooner Congress acts to address this issue, the sooner these burdensome sanctions will be lifted. We urge immediate action.”

7. ETI Can Self-Clean

“With its small footprint, the ETI is ideal for wash water recovery in cramped plant floor environments”


8. Higher Education Eti

I’m like Einstein in Turkey.


9. Eti Does Dubai, Epoxy and Rabbits

Is it wrong that I’m kind of aroused by the fact that “ETI has also found success with its new 10 inch diameter...”

However, I’m kind of more aroused by the fact that “ETI is available in two viscosities: ETI-LV (low viscosity) and ETI-GV (gel viscosity) to handle a wide range of crack widths.

And yet, even more so by the fact that “ETI is currently designing the Rabbit 2000 into their flagship ADH-2A COM...”

HOT!

10. Miss Manners Eti

Take the test to find out your Eti-Q?


That's all I've got for now. But there are 83 pages of Google results, so I'm sure I'll have a sequel post...or ten. And, as Nick so poignantly pointed out: you can't spell "FACETIOUS" without ETI!