That's Money, and Pizza, Down the Toilet

Lately, wherever I roam, I am treated to an abundance of information that makes me wonder who thought of it and what caused them to present it to the public. Last night while waiting for THIRTY MINUTES at the pharmacy, (that's another story that just upsets me), a display called My Alli caught my eye. Well-packaged in white and bright colors, I decided to allow it to entertain me while I waited THIRTY MINUTES at the pharmacy.

I didn't read too much of the brochure because it appeared to be another Metabolife-, Hoodia-, TrimSpa (baby!)-type of weight loss pill. These are my favorite because they claim that with fewer calorie consumption, exercise, answering to a personal trainer, AND religiously pooring your money down the drain for a pill, that even the fattest homebound person can lose weight. Allow me to steal Hyundai's most awful marketing campaign by saying, "DUH!" Of course rabbit food and running on the treadmill like a gerbil will cause weight loss. Not to mention less weight in your wallet as you donate all your cash to some guy selling sugar pills. Anyway, as this blog's tagline states, this is not political.

So onto what really made me ill. Ever since the 1998 "anal leakage" follies of Olestra, I love to read the side effects of drugs and food additives. Nobody could ever guess the side effects of My Alli, let alone fathom that this is what the brochure says: Undigested fat cannot be absorbed and passes through the body naturally. The excess fat is not harmful. In fact, you may recognize it in the toilet as something that looks like the oil on top of a pizza.

If I don't receive that within 30 minutes is it free?

Thank You, Japan

Many thanks to Japan for endowing the world with the Wii, being overly fashion-confident with the socks and flip flops and now for betsowing upon us the following. Whatever this is, it's entertaining for a minute.

http://www.1-click.jp/

That's the Ken Gurff Gurantee

Usually I try not to venture south of Draper but my other half is from the Provo/Orem area so I actually get to go there a lot more than nature probably intended for a University of Utah Alum. Last Friday night, following a ragin’ family BBQ, we nixed going to a movie and headed to Ben’s office in Orem to pick up our Brian Regan tickets.

Just before exiting I-15 southbound at the University Parkway exit in Orem there is a digital billboard that changes every 15 seconds or so. I kid you not, just as we passed I was elated to see the next muse for my blog. A Ken Garff sign, in large red lettering that says, “Best Price Gurantee.” Man was I irritably happy. On one hand, poor grammar and most of all childishly careless spelling frustrate me to no end. Yet on the other hand, I just relish a blog idea practically handed to me on a silver platter—or on a red and white digital sign lit up like a blogger’s Mecca. With it only rotating through every two minutes or so, I am assured that this was meant for me. Maybe Ken Garff should just concentrate on backing up every car they sell and leave the marketing to a consultant.

This picture is brought to you by Ben exiting I-15, re-entering I-15 northbound, re-exiting, and re-re-entering southbound so I could gleefully await on the shoulder for a “guranteed” blog post. It has also been brought to you by the letter I, the number 15, and of course the absent letter A.

"Was she drunk?," they cried

Having considered this post for a few days now, it's high time I wrote it. MSN Messenger is really the only way I keep tabs with a few people--my sisters included. Last Tuesday one of my sisters logs on and writes, "So I need to tell you my story."

Mar (thinking I'll hear a ditty about a funny stay-at-home mom mishap, or a laughter-inducing story about one of her children): Ok.

Sister: So our neighbor drove her SUV up over our curb, across the lawn, through the flower beds, and into our house."

Mar: WHAT?! Was she drunk?

Sister: Nope.

Mar: What the heck? (Now I have started a conversation window with Ben and another window with my other sister, to which they both reply "Was she drunk?")

Sister: She left the gym and took off her shoes so her feet were slippery and she ended up flooring the gas.

Mar: How does she floor the gas up over the curb, across the lawn, through the flower beds, and into your house?

Sister: Don't know.

Mar (now secretly wishing this had happened to me so I could blog it as my story): LOL! Will you take pictures?!

Sister: Yeah but she already drove off the lawn and went home.

Mar (now imagining what the slippery-footed, SUV-driving, alledgedly-not-drunk crazy lady looked like backing off the lawn): I know it's not funny but I am laughing so hard.

Sister: Yeah.

Mar: (now replaying, ok making up, what it looked like when she came barrelling down the cul-de-sac, wearing her Jane Fonda workout clothes and leg warmers, hair standing on end, with wild blood-shot eyes, and rage in her voice as she maniacally screamed, "Death to curbs, green lawns, and flower beds, and down with brick and mortar houses!" Then WHAM! And insurances companies cheer as crazy lady's rates sky rocket!) Nothing fun happens to me--I just have to go to Staff Lunch on Thursday.

Sister: Good luck with that.

Staff Lunch = Torturous Junior High Flashbacks

Once a month, the company that controls 40 hours per week of my life holds a Staff Lunch where employees are “treated” to a free sometimes-catered, sometimes-ordered lunch. I like to eat and I love it when it’s free, however every time I attend, I have insane flashbacks of junior high where I nearly blackout and writhe on the floor in misery. If you have read Harry Potter you might think of it as hearing a cold high-pitched voice and seeing a flash of green light. I imagine that I am 13, brace-faced, sporting a mean brushed out perm with bangs three inches high off my forehead, and pegged Girbaud jeans.

I have friends at my office and I make great conversation of the social variety, but I wouldn’t say I am part of the “in” crowd at work. The male-dominated environment in which I work provides men who would prefer to be friends with each other rather than befriend other un-cool, un-male friends. So after carefully deciding on whether the Marie Callender’s pot pie or the Marie Callender’s artichoke chicken is my best food choice for lunch, I head into the lunchroom and feel like I have nobody to join and like I have everybody staring. (And it’s not because of how hot I am.)

As a 29-year old college graduate, social butterfly, and generally damn funny person, one would think that I could nip this problem in the bud…but then again Staff Lunch only rears its ugly head once a month…so why bother?

Bridge collapse kills four, toll likely to rise

A Bankok Post Headline reads: "Bridge collapse kills four, toll likely to rise"

I just want to know, is that the bridge toll or the death toll that's likely to rise?