Rant of the Day

There are things in this world that delight me. Freshly baked chocolate chip cookies, peppermint mochas, puppies, kittens, and The Dish with Danielle Fishel. Just to name a few. I just wanted to bring up the fact that I do find joy in the world before I let loose with another tirade.

There are things in this world that displease me. The aforementioned lack of toilet seat covers, for example. And now I would like to present another item to add to the list of Things That Annoy Me...

I discovered this annoyance on my last trip to Border's. The annoyance has been brewing; I have felt this way for a long time, but the gravity of the annoyance was magnified on this particular trip. I love to read, but when my favorite books are turned into movies, things begin to go horribly wrong. First there is the problem with the book being destroyed in translation to film, like with Confessions of A Shopaholic. All the charm of the book was lost, and all the things that made the book so endearing were changed, and the tone of the movie became shrill and silly. Or take the recent Harry Potter films. So much of the content is cut and even changed to keep the movie to a reasonable length. Supposedly. But let's face it, the true Potter fans would sit through a six hour movie if they made it exactly like the book. I know I would. But it's not even the plot changes and omissions that bothers me the most, it is the blatant disregard for the details that make it Harry Potter; the last couple of movies the Hogwarts students have been running around in Muggle clothes, Dumbledore is stern and abrupt instead of warm and kind, and don't even get me started on Harry and Hermione's hairdos.

These things are what make the movies less magical and charming than their books, and whatever they do in the films, they can't change the books I love. Until now.

The new Thing That Annoys me is (drumroll please) when books become rereleased with the movie poster as their cover. I enjoy book covers how they were meant to be. This is what makes them mine; I can imagine the characters as I want. I admit it, I enjoyed the Twilight series. I do not enjoy the new movie poster covers that look like a bad romance novel. I know the books are a little melodramatic and everything, but I feel like Stephenie Meyer wanted the covers the original way for a reason. I liked the original covers. Going back to my issues with miscasting the novels turned movies, Becky Bloomwood in the Shopaholic books is described as a brunette. And, in one of the later books in the series she says of another character "she's a red-haired bitch and I hate her." So why is a redheaded Isla Fischer on the cover of the book?? I don't want to see Isla Fischer or Dakota Fanning or Hayden Panetierre on the cover of a novel. They're actors, not fictitious characters; I want to see them in my local movie theater or television set, not in a bookstore. That is all. *gets off soapbox*

Official New Biggest Pet Peeve

As we all know, I have recently taken a drive across these great United States. This drive took me through the states of: California, Arizona, New Mexico, Texas, Louisiana, Mississippi, Alabama, Florida, Georgia, South Carolina, North Carolina, and Virginia. Phew. Incidentally, I visited public restrooms in all of these states, and it is this experience which brought about the discovery of my Official New Biggest Pet Peeve. 

Now, I am a person with quite a few pet peeves. Among them are: traffic caused by people slamming on their brakes to stare at accidents (hello, this causes more accidents, geniuses!), know-it-alls and one-uppers, people who think their dogs are people, and bad spellers. Oh I'm sure there's more; I am pretty readily annoyable. *note, "annoyable" does not count as bad spelling, I just like to make up words.

Anyhoodle, I have discovered that the pet peeve that now trumps all these other peeves is (drum roll please)... public restrooms with no toilet seat covers. In addition, what magnifies this peeve is when these restrooms have toilet paper that comes off the roll square by square. Then I have to sit there and make an origami toilet seat cover one ply at a time. I have also observed that the restrooms that lack said covers are usually the dirtiest, stinkiest ones with broken locks, doors hanging on one hinge, and toilets that won't flush properly. Hence the stinky. 

It blows my mind that in 2009 any public restroom would not come equipped with covers.  They are one of the most innovative inventions I can think of; not only do they provide sanitary protection, but they also save moments of your life that are wasted spent bending uncomfortably at the waist, pulling ply by ply off the roll to try and fashion something to protect you from whatever it is you can get from toilet seats.

Having said that, I am not a fan of those weird plastic covers that are attached to the toilet and spin around to the back, disappearing to wherever toilet seat covers go to die.  These new covers are allegedly cleaner and more efficient, as they protect the toilet from those thrill-seekers who dare to bare directly on the seat. However, I take issue with these "high tech" new covers.  I do not trust anything that thinks for itself if I cannot see where it keeps its brain. I mean, who knows where those used covers really go.

The Procrastination-Driven Life

I've thought about starting a blog for awhile now, but every time I've gotten on the computer to do it, something distracts me.  I find a hilarious site I can't seem to navigate away from, or I quiz my life away on Sporcle, or I remember someone I've been meaning to look up on imdb and then I have to check the progress on Harry Potter 7 and the Arrested Development movie and...where was I? Oh yes, I get distracted far too easily and then by time time I remember what I logged on to do it's late and time to watch Entourage and/or Dexter. I mean, there are only so many hours in a day!

Anyhoodle, I was thinking about how I always joke about my procrastination, which I have truly turned into an art form.  I have thought for awhile that I would like to write a book a la Chelsea Handler or David Sedaris, and that I would call it The Procrastination-Driven Life.  This title is of course a play on the book called The Purpose Driven Life, which incidentally I have never gotten around to reading. I did start roughly writing my book, but I haven't gotten very far. Kind of like this blog.  So, here I am, sitting here and thinking about my procrastination skillz and what a loser I can turn into, and I remembered that I can't feel too bad about myself because I read somewhere in one of my psychology books that procrastination is actually a sickness and cannot be helped. Seriously! I mean, I'm sure there's some sort of cure for it, I just haven't gotten around to making that doctor's appointment to find out. Besides, I'm sure my psychology book has solutions and cures.  I'd look it up for a reference, but I really don't feel like getting up.

The Big Easy Does It

I have always wanted to visit New Orleans.  Ever since watching Interview With TheVampire I've been fascinated by the old-fashioned charm it holds onscreen.  Now having been there, I'd like to inform you that New Orleans looks and feels nothing like it does in the movies. Nothing.  I'm so glad I got to visit it, but I have no desire to ever go back.  Perhaps I should have visited New Orleans circa 1854 and I would have enjoyed it more.

After another looooong drive through boring stretches of highway in Texas, we pull into the Big Easy around 4 am.  Oh, and side note: we had the joy of visiting a gas station restroom in the bayou where I was pretty sure we were either on location for the filming of True Blood, or had found the exact people the animatronics in the Pirates of the Caribbean ride were modeled after.

Once again, I mistakenly booked us a hotel smack in the middle of downtown.  The good news: our hotel is right on Canal Street, walking distance to the French Quarter.  The bad news: there's nowhere to park the freaking car again.  As per usual, Michael drives around looking for parking while I settle us into the room.  He comes back up around 5 to tell me there was nowhere to park, and he left it on the curb in the covered valet area, but that we have to move it in a couple hours.  We decide that it is time to bid Chucky freaking adieu, and we find the nearest U-Haul which, bless them, opens at 7.  We take a short snooze, and off we go to get rid of the evil, fun-sucking trailer, which has been like a dark cloud hovering over our trip.

PEACE OUT CHUCKY!!!!!!!

On the way to U-Haul, I call their customer disservice line to make sure it's okay to drop the trailer off at this location.  I have the following conversation:

Me: "Hi, I'd like to make sure the New Orleans location will be able to accept my trailer"

U-Haul Lady: *sigh* "What's your order number?" I tell her. Long Pause. "It's a full service station, so they'll probably be able to."

Me: "Probably?" Like how I'll probably be writing a scathing review of my experience on U-Haul.com?

U-Haul Lady: (contemptuously) "Well they should be able to, but just so you know they can charge you up to $600 for a wrongful destination fee."

Me: "Wrongful destination? But we don't even have a destination point selected yet."

U-Haul Lady: (even more contemptuously) "Well, it says you were planning on dropping it off in Florida, so this is the wrong destination."

Me: "Got it. I'll try my luck anyway."

So, we pull into U-Haul, and this one looks a little more promising as it is an actual U-Haul location and not just some crappy towing company renting U-Hauls out of their back room like before.  Enter Marty Martin, the savior of our vacation. He decides to be a New Orleans Saint (get it??) and accept our trailer with no fee. Cue angel chorus.

With the dark cloud lifted, and Chucky laid to rest, we are finally able to relax a bit, and we take in the sights and sounds of the city.  I don't know if it's just being in Louisiana in July or if the weather is always like this, but I am absolutely choking on the humidity. It is so uncomfortable, I can't understand the mass appeal of this city.  It is also by far the worst smelling place I have ever visited.  The stink just hangs in the thick, wet air, and I think I want to check out this place quickly because I am ready to move on to the Happiest Place on Earth.

Bourbon Street does hold that New Orleans charm one expects, and we walk up and down, drinking in all that it has to offer. Literally.

Or at least I did.

I mean, I have to take advantage when in a city that allows you to take your beer to go.  As we're wandering along, Michael notes that these bars we keep passing sure have a lot of guys in them. I suppose he didn't notice the rainbow flags flying outside, or the name of one of the bars in question:

I somehow doubt we will be finding a bunch of lumberjacks inside "Napoleon's Itch".

Getting S*@% on in San Antonio

After breakfast in a Tucson BBQ joint, we stuff the kitties into the crate and leave the sweltering heat of Arizona for the steamy heat of Texas. We notice that the trailer is dangerously close to the ground, but I watch Michael drive and it doesn't seem to scrape the ground at all, so we deem it safe for the day of driving ahead of us.  Still not learning our lesson about how long it took to get to Tucson from San Diego, we head out around noon, figuring that since Google tells us it will take 11 hours, we'll probably get there around 1 or 2 in the morning.

The drive itself is fairly uneventful. Just boring and long. One of my former coworkers suggested we get books on tape, and she is a fricking genius.  We got 3 David Baldacci books along with Are You There Vodka? It's Me, Chelsea and they have been life savers. It really makes the drive go by faster and more bearably.  

We are still driving at midnight and realize we forgot to factor in a crucial aspect of this leg of the trip.  From Tucson to San Antonio, we will be driving through not one but two time zones. By the time we finally pull into town, it is 5 o'clock in the morning local time. Then we discover another crucial thing we did not factor in when booking hotels.  We are towing a vehicle behind our truck.  And when I booked the hotels, I did so based on proximity to the local attractions we wanted to visit.  Well, our San Antonio hotel is smack in the middle of downtown, right by the River Walk, which is convenient, but with a parking garage that will not fit our trailer. After checking in, Michael returns to where I am sitting in our illegally parked car, and we make a mad dash with our belongings upstairs, and he drives around looking for a spot. Finally, at 6:45 he lets me know he was able to park in a valet lot at another hotel, and now he's walking the mile back to our room.  

At this point, we have hit our second wind and decide to go explore.  We get breakfast at Starbucks and enjoy the River Walk while it is still early, thus less hot, muggy, and crowded. While enjoying our leisurely walk, I feel something hit my shoulder and look down. It's bird poop. After the hellacious daylong drive, dealing with our catatonic kitty, and Chucky, I get effing s*@% on. Fabulous. A nearby busboy setting up his tables lent me his towel, and I cleaned up and had a laugh. I mean really. What else could go wrong?

I'm so glad you asked. We stayed two nights (not including the first night, which we didn't actually spend in the hotel, but in the car. And the upside is we didn't have to pay for that night since we checked in at 5 am! Yippee!!) and made sure to visit the luxury outlets in San Marcos where we managed a little retail therapy. When it was time to go, we trekked back to where the cars were waiting, and noticed the driveway we'd have to go out had a bit of a dip, which could prove problematic for our low-hanging hitch. I stood outside to watch and make sure everything was okay, and I watched as what we feared became reality.  As he slowly drove the truck out the driveway, I frantically waved that it was scraping the ground. But really, what could he do? We had to drive it out somehow. So he keeps going, slowly, and as the back tires clear the bump of the driveway, the hitch, which was scraping the ground the whole way, detaches from the truck and Chucky slides under the truck, stopping just short of crashing.

After completely blocking a street for a few minutes, Michael is finally able to reattach Chucky, and we wearily get on our way, glancing behind us constantly to make sure Chucky and Wilma (my car) are still there.  Next stop: New Orleans.

U-Haul? More Like Poo-Haul.

Our road trip's frustrations begin before the trip even starts. We are scheduled to leave Saturday morning, and stay the night in Tucson.  We figure it will take about 9 hours, but that we will get there in plenty of time to watch the UFC fights. Friday morning, Michael goes to pick up the trailer to tow my vehicle on, and we hit the first snag.  Apparently they have rented us a trailer that isn't there yet.  Considering the reservation was made far in advance, we are being charged by the day and we paid ahead of time, this is incredibly frustrating.  However, they tell us they open at 8 am the next day, and we can just get there then and it won't be long before we will be on our way, so we schedule our appointment.  Like we have another choice.  Thanks for the amazing service, U-Haul!

With all our furniture gone, we spend our last evening reading on the kitchen floor, and fall asleep on our less than comfortable air mattress. It's pretty much like sleeping in a bounce house. When morning comes, we still have to pack the last of our things in our cars, which takes much longer than anticipated.  We end up getting to U-Haul at 10:30, 2 and a half hours later than our scheduled time.  No matter, because they still are not ready for us.  The trailer is at least there this time but apparently now the problem is that there's only one person employed there who is capable of hooking it up for us, and he hasn't shown up to work yet, nor do they have any clue as to where he is or when he will be there. So, with our keys turned in and no place to go (except Tucson), we wait. And wait. And wait some more.  Finally, at noon, he shows up for work. Employee of the freaking year.  After reluctantly helping us attach the trailer (um, isn't that your job??!), he vehemently refuses to help us put the car on the trailer, because he says it would be a liability. Luckily, after careful driving and waving on, we are able to do it on our own, which was totally scary, and we are finally on our way at 1 pm.  Driving with my car precariously hanging off his truck is a lot scarier than we anticipated.  We can't drive faster than 60 miles per hour, and we finally pull into our Tucson hotel at 12:30 am.  Poor Tito is scared out of his mind at his new surroundings, and promptly hides under the bed from the time we arrive until we pull him out the next morning, only to stuff him back in the crate to do it all again.  Next stop: San Antonio.

From San Diego to Quantico

I had the recent joy of participating in a cross-country road trip with my husband, two cats, and the U-Haul trailer we affectionately dubbed "Chucky" because it was red and it was evil, just like the doll.  

There were two large roadblocks- pun intended- on our trip that managed to suck all the fun out of it: 1.) Chucky, and 2.) the cats.  When planning the road trip, we thought towing my car behind his truck would be a good idea because we would have it when arriving in our new home, without the wait or worry associated with shipping, and we'd be able to ride together in one car. We were wrong.  I don't know if anyone is aware of this, but when you Google Map your directions, the estimated time it shows that it will take to get somewhere is calculated under the assumption that you will be driving the speed limit, which is up to 80 miles per hour in some stretches.  When towing a vehicle, you will be lucky if you can get up to 60 miles per hour.  So instead of taking 8-10 hours to get to each of our destinations, it took 12-14.  

The extra time, however, was the least of our worries.  Our sweet, lovable little house cats had never left the comfort of our San Diego condo.  So sticking them in a crate in a car for 12 hours, then letting them out in a strange place turned Tito into a frightened shell of his former self. Mr.Belding was, for the most part, less traumatized, but I managed to fix that a few days into the trip. Luckily, our trip ended in the happiest place on earth (well, before we made it to our new home, which was the last last stop, of course) and it definitely ended better than it started. Mostly.

Bizarre Pet "Tricks"

Tito, pictured, is our loveable little weirdo.  He has a strange habit that I find both amusing and slightly creepy.  He likes to watch me go to the bathroom. Seriously. I like to think he does this not because he's just a perv, but because he heard that girls like to go to the bathroom with their friends, thus meaning he considers me to be his BFF. Which is really sweet. Especially when you consider that means he chose me above his brother, Mr. Belding, and Michael. Yay, me!

Anywho, without delving too much into TMI (or is it a little late for that?), this is how the routine goes:

I walk into the bathroom, and leave the door open a crack.  Hearing this, little Tito comes trotting in behind me and shuts the door fully (so polite, he likes me to have privacy... aside from him). I sit down, and he weaves in and out of my legs lovingly as cats do, waits for me to scratch behind his ears, then jumps on the counter and waits patiently. I do my thing, flush (duh), wash the hands (cleanliness is next to godliness), and open the door. I then say "let's go!" and he jumps down and trots back out.

Tito: crazy or genius? You decide.