Horrible Medical Advice: Martha’s DIY Plastic Surgery

Hi.

It’s been a while, I know. See, I finished school, and then I was desperately searching for a job, and then I got TWO jobs, which took up more time than I expected considering that I still work much less than full time. But you know what? I’m blaming the fact that Netflix has pretty much every show that I’ve ever thought, “Oh, I want to watch that, but I missed the first few seasons” on streaming, so sue me I’ve been watching a lot of Netflix recently.

But more importantly. Do you remember last summer, when I said that sometime I’d get drunk and write a post?

This is that time. This…is sometime.

And it’s more Horrible Medical Advice. I know y’all love that shit. And this is reader-request, so no one can even complain.

Dear Oh Rachael,

Ever since I became a real grown-up (as opposed to some whiny teenager who only thought her skin sucked), my skin has totally sucked. I have wrinkles and shit. What do you recommend I do for this?

Sincerely, Your Aunt.

(Okay, my aunt didn’t, technically speaking, write to me. But she did say I should write this, so that sort of counts.)

Dear My Aunt,

A lot of people think their skin sucks when they get past age 20. In fact, I’ve recently been plagued by the “Dammit Why Doesn’t My Skin Look Like It Did When I Was 18 Only Six Years Ago” Virus as well. However, if your problem goes beyond “my pores are bigger than they were, WHAAAAAAA,” then I highly reccommend the Martha Stewart Approach.

Has anyone else noticed that Martha Stewart doesn’t age?

I can't guarantee this is a picture from 2000, but it did come up in an image search for "Martha Stewart 2000."

Well, that might be a picture of her in 2000. And what does she look like now, a full 12 years later? And remember, she’s at an age where a 10 year difference should be HUGE. (I mean, I have friends who are 20ish and friends who are 30ish and they don’t look all that different to me, but from 40 to 50 and 50 to 60 and 60 to 70 and so on…those are supposed to make a huge difference.)

Showed up when I searched "Martha Stewart Current," so it might be a current picture.

You may notice that she looks exactly the same.

Okay, one picture is HD and the other isn’t. In that case, my advice is to not take pictures with HD cameras, because hot damn will they show off every imperfection. But what REALLY happened here?

What happened is that good ol’ Martha did some jail time. And by “jail time,” I mean “house arrest.” And by “house arrest,” I mean “the same ol’ thing Martha always does, except she’s got an excuse for the cameras not to show her for a while so if she has a visit from a little ol’ plastic surgeon no one will be the wiser.”

That’s right, folks. To look asthe-same-age-you-looked-ten-years-ago, all you’ve got to do is get arrested. Then, you’ll be free to do all of Martha’s DIY Plastic Surgery you can.

If you can’t afford an at-home plastic surgeon, don’t worry. A facelift is simple, and that’s the most basic of your underlying needs. One you have one, it’ll be a long time before you start worrying about your really minor imperfections!

All you need for a facelift is a scalpel and some medical tape. You can get the medical tape at any drugstore–just tell them you’ve got a kid with a sprained finger and you need to tape it into the splint and they’ll take you right to it. Hell, you might even have some on hand!

Now all you need to do is imagine your skin like a piece of plastic wrap over the dip-bowl of your face. Pull it tight in segments, starting at one temple. Work in opposites–that is, pull one temple fairly tight, then pull the other temple the rest of the way. Now move down a little bit. Repeat–pull one side a little tight, then pull the other side so you’re completely wrinkle-free. Keep working around your face.

Once you’ve reached your chin, you’ll be all set! All you’ll have to do now is let your project (that is, your face) dry completely (that is, heal completely) and you’ll have a full Martha Stewart DIY At-Home Facelift. You can start a little higher by cutting around your forehead, or customize your lift to focus on problem areas–it’s up to you! That’s the beauty of DIY.

Now, dear My Aunt, I hope this has answered your questions and concerns. I’m sure that in a few months, after hiding in your home and avoiding any social interaction for a long, long time, you’ll look just as young and beautiful as you did ten years ago. In the meantime, I hope to give you as much reading material as I can without getting distracted from the series I’m currently reading (just say NO to Netflix, kids!).

Thank you all so much for your time.

Sincerely,

Oh, Rachael.

Do you have a question for Rachael? Well, she now has a special email address just for you! Whether it’s medical or just, you know, a random question, send Rachael an email at dearohrachael@gmail.com. She’ll respond with a Horrible Medical Advice post, a Horrible Advice post, or just a Horrible Advice email to help get you through your misery!

(Seriously, please email me. Your questions are inspiring, and I miss writing for you.)

DOCTOR BOYFRIEND SAYS: Dammit Rachael I thought you were done with this shit. PEOPLE, NEVER DO SURGERY ON YOURSELF. IT HURTS AND YOU MIGHT DIE.

Thank you, Dr. Boyfriend. We all appreciate your advice. However, you’re male, so you can’t possibly understand, and we’ll be getting back to our DIY surgeries now.

I’m Starting a Design Firm

In light of my recent job search, I have been forced to sit back and re-evaluate what I want in life. What I’m good at. And one thing I know I can do is design: I’ve been working with my aunt’s interior design company since I was probably around five. By this point, I’m good with colors. I get textures. It all makes sense.

What I didn’t realize is that it would be so easy to do!

Okay, so “Design Firm” isn’t really the right term. It’s more like…Design Inspiration Hub. But that sounds weird.

You want the full story? Okay. Are you on Pinterest? If you are, you’ve probably noticed these pictures going around. They’re nothing but cutesy pictures with some color swatches next to them, from this website called Design Seeds. They seem to be intended to inspire anyone who is planning to redecorate a room or a wedding.

Well, it seems everyone on Pinterest is currently planning three weddings and redecorating two whole houses. I can’t say I’ve never pinned something from Design Seeds, but seeing 500 of their pictures filling up my page gets annoying. And I’m sick of the cutesy pictures. Why can’t they find beautiful colors in less adorable things? Gross things, even?

So when Siren wrote a blog post about how, despite the fact that some pictures she’d taken made her really sad, she had to post them because she loved the colors, I knew exactly what I’m going to do with my life.

Behold, Siren’s Dead Dolphin:

Decomposing Dolphin consists of a gray-blue ombre with a coral highlight and a neutral sand background. It would be the perfect color theme for a beach wedding, a nautical-themed nursery, or a comfortable living area in your home. The colors will evoke the feel of the slowly decaying dolphin without being too blatant about it, but you can always add a framed print of the dolphin to complete the look!

And why stop there?

Dog Vomit is a beautiful array of fall colors, which would be–need I say it–perfect for a fall wedding. Getting married in October or November? Look no further for your theme, inspired by an image from Raising a Puppy. It would also be perfect in the kitchen, brightening up and energizing your cooking space to entice you to cook some fantastic foods. I know I’m in the mood for ethnic cuisine right now! Who wants Indian?

You may have to tilt your screen back a bit to notice the delicate bone hue at the end of Mass Graves, inspired by a National Geographic photo of skeletons of soldiers and babies, but trust me when I say it’s worth it. Planning a garden wedding, and don’t want a super bright palate to contrast with the natural beauty around you? Mass Graves is the perfect neutral, natural palette–just make sure to order your dress in Bone! Not planning a wedding? No worries! Because the colors are so simple and pleasing to anyone, Mass Graves would be a wonderful palette for a guest room. And if you throw a lot of parties, why not decorate your main party room with Mass Graves? The room will look gorgeous on its own, and the neutral shades won’t contrast with any temporary decorations you put up!

Of course, neutral isn’t for everyone! This moldy salad, inspired by a photo from New York Shitty, creates the perfect palette for anyone who wants a natural feel with a POP. The yellow and tangerine colors here are two of Pantone’s top colors for Spring 2012, so you’ll be right on-trend using them to highlight your sage green ombre. The neutral brown and gray provide some variety, allowing you to stray from the bright hues you’ve chosen while still fitting perfectly within a color scheme! And where couldn’t you put this in your house? Kids would be delighted by the bright colors, while the greens would make a perfect background in a master bedroom. Looking for something fun to do with your bathroom? Look no further than Salad Mold!

And with Valentine’s Day coming up, how could I leave out this gorgeous pink palette? Inspired by blood spatter from a real crime scene in Bermuda, this palette screams love. Are you an NCIS fan? Have you heard that Pauley Perrette, who plays the lovable Abby, is engaged? Well I can’t imagine a better palette for her wedding–or anyone who loves pink (or blood)! Young girls would love to have their rooms decorated in these gorgeous pinks, or you could create the most romantic atmosphere in your master bedroom! Get ready for some passion with Spattered Hues!

When you design, remember how important it is to look for inspiration everywhere. Any image that catches your eye, no matter how beautiful or grotesque it is, can have some gorgeous colors hidden inside it! For this reason, I’m willing to help any of you lovely readers who need help with design. Do you have some redecorating you need to do, or a wedding to plan, and no ideas? Well, send whatever awful image you have to me at dearohrachael@gmail.com and I’ll respond with your dream palette. If I like it enough, I may even feature it here, right on this very blog!

Have you looked for beauty in anything disgusting recently? Or possibly found the perfect use for Comic Sans? Because I’m pretty sure I just did.

The Hunt

In December, I finished college. I took my last final exam. I wrote a twenty page paper about how the common thread linking all epic heroes, ancient and modern, is that they’re family men. I made comics out of Shakespeare. I pulled at least four all-nighters in order to get everything done that needed doing. And now, I’m done.

And instead of thinking, “Yes! I’m done! I am finished with college!” my first thought was:

I’m unemployed!

Up until that point, I’d always been able to check off that “student” box on forms that ask for my occupation. I loved that box. It allowed me to acknowledge that, while I don’t have a job, I’m also not one of those people who sits around watching old episodes of Doctor Who on Netflix all day. 

Well, now I’m one of those people who sits around watching old episodes of Doctor Who on Netflix all day. Though, to be fair, sometimes I watch Psych or Burn Notice. If there’s an NCIS marathon, I’ll watch that. And of course, I read blogs and comics and obsessively pin things on Pinterest. 

And I look for jobs.

I somehow thought this would be easier than it was. Despite everything that is going on in the world, I felt sure that I’d be hired quickly. When people complained about there not being jobs, I always figured they meant in their field, and since I wasn’t restricting myself to any particular field, I though–Damn! I will have so much opportunity!

I started looking for office jobs. “Just a basic office job,” I thought. “Modest salary and benefits. That’s all I need.” But I guess you need five years of experience in an office to get a data entry job.

My search turned to secretary positions. “I can answer phones,” I figured. “I type really fast. I can use Word and Excel. I’m organized and friendly. I can definitely get a secretary job.”

You know what the saddest thing is? The saddest thing is realizing that all your years of schooling and your parents’ tens of thousands of dollars have not prepared you for a fucking secretary position.

I began to get desperate. My friend, who was also job searching, sent me a listing she found on Craigslist with the comment, “WE’RE QUALIFIED!” I looked at it. It was a part-time secretary position. The commute would have been about an hour and a half. Pretty much the only requirement was “Cleavage.” “I have that,” I thought. “In fact, that would make clothes shopping way easier!”

(Side note: Women with larger breasts who wear revealing shirts are often just wearing shirts that look perfectly normal and display no cleavage on someone with a B or C cup. IT’S NOT OUR FAULT.)

This job was seriously tempting. It paid $35,000/year plus benefits. Part time! All you need is cleavage! HOT DAMN.

Then Mike had to go and point out that the “benefits” it refers to might be not for me, but for the boss. At that point, my thought process went from “Would the absurd commute be worth it?” to “Well, I mean, how many blow jobs are we talking here? Once a month? Maybe I could do once a month.”

Suddenly, I understand why so many people join the military after college. If you go join the military, you’ll probably never have to sit there, staring at a job posting on Craigslist, wondering how many blow jobs justify a decent salary for a part-time job.

My current method is to send a resume and cover letter to any job I don’t think I’ll hate–that is, pretty much any job that doesn’t seem to require blowjobs or bootcamp.

Baking Up a (Shit) Storm

Every year, I bake a billion pies for my family’s Christmas celebration. In fact, up until I started going to Mike’s family’s Thanksgiving, I baked two billion pies a year. TWO BILLION PIES, all completely from scratch. This started after the time that I was 12 and decided I should see if I could make a pie. It was delicious and I’ve been stuck with the job ever since.

However, as you might imagine, baking a billion pies in one day is difficult and highly stressful. This year, I thought it would ease the pain a bit to change it up–maybe not the same old apple, pumpkin, pecan thing I always do. I found some fantastic looking substitutes (though I’m not allowed to not make apple pie), bought seven hundred dollars worth of ingredients (fuck you, maple syrup pie), and decided that it looked kind of stressful after all so maybe I should have some booze so I’m not freaking out.

How to bake two Guinness Chocolate Cakes with Bailey’s Frosting, one Maple Cream Pie, and one Apple Pie in One Night

Step One: Wonder if the cake will actually taste like Guinness and, if it will, if you’ll even like it. Drink a bottle of Guinness to find out. Realize that the cake requires a springform pan, which you only have one of, so you can’t make them both at the same time. Use one cup of Guinness in cake batter, finish second bottle.

Step Two: Preheat the goddamn oven. Pour yourself a glass of wine! You deserve it.

Step Three: Stick the cake in the oven and set the timer. Drink more wine while you prepare the first pie crust. Bring a timer with you to your computer to watch an episode of Torchwood while the cake’s in the oven.

Step Four: Upon removing the cake from the oven, realize that you turned the fucking oven OFF when you set the timer. Pat yourself on the back (read: have a mild nervous breakdown, but you’ve only lost about an hour, which isn’t so bad, right?), wonder what you can mix with eggnog, and try heating the oven again. (Decide on butterscotch schnapps.)

Step Five: When you go to put the cake back in the oven, notice that the springform pan doesn’t seal properly and has dripped all over the stove. Don’t clean it up, but put the cake on a pizza pan so it doesn’t drip more in the oven, since you can already smell burning. Rinse out your glass and pour another glass of wine.

Step Six: Double-check that the oven’s heated. Watch another episode of Torchwood while the cake’s in the oven.

Step Seven: Prepare maple cream pie filling while you par-bake the crust. Wonder if par-baking actually does anything. Filling seems to go perfectly–have a glass of wine to celebrate! Lose track of alcohol consumption.

Step Eight: Remove par-baked crust from the oven and realize you forgot to line it before filling it with beans. Pull each and every individual bean out with your fingernails. Be very glad you didn’t cut your fingernails because fuck this is hot. Stick it back in the oven. Drink.

Step Nine: Pour filling into par-baked crust until it overflows. Stick it on a cookie sheet so it won’t drip and wipe up the huge mess that is now on your counter. Stick it in the oven, set a timer, make sure you didn’t turn the oven off again. Go wrap some presents. Drink.

Step Ten: You ran out of ribbon. Cry. Drink.

Step Eleven: Remove pie #1 from oven. Place on counter. Prepare cake batter #2. Make Harry Potter jokes as you melt two sticks of butter into a cup of Guinness. Things are running smoothly! Drink.

Step Twelve: Get extremely frustrated when the rolling pin seems to slide the entire crust-and-wax-paper assembly around on the counter rather than rolling out the crust. Eventually succeed. Drink.

Step Thirteen: Take cake out of oven. Prepare apple pie filling: Peel apples, cut into slices, cut anything you don’t want off the slices. Eat some apple peel. It is delicious with the Riesling. Start mixing all the sugar, flour, cinnamon, and nutmeg into the filling but the bowl’s too small and, really, that takes effort. Decide that it looks good enough and it’ll all melt together in the oven anyway. Eat some more peels. Drink.

Step Fourteen: While putting cinnamon and nutmeg back in the spice cabinet, knock everything onto the counter. Realize that “the counter” right there is actually the cream pie you already finished making, which used to be gorgeous but now is just gorged. Have another nervous breakdown. Cry. Drink.

Step Fifteen: Assemble apple pie. Successfully put bottom crust in pie plate. Dump apples in. Don’t even pretend to spread them out evenly. Get top crust from refrigerator. Forget to let it warm up a little before you put it on the pie. Break it into a million pieces. Realize you now have to decide between really ugly pie crust and overworked pie crust. Reassure yourself that rustic patchwork style things are in and it’ll be fine. Make sure each piece of crust is connected to another piece at at least one point. Place pie in oven. Wait. Drink.

Step Sixteen: Remove pie from oven. Let cool. It is now almost 4am. Cover everything with plastic wrap and stick it in the fridge. You can do the frosting tomorrow.

Step Seventeen: Wake up at 1pm on Christmas eve, amazed at how not hung over you are. Brush your teeth. Trigger gag reflex with toothbrush and realize that you are, in fact, hung over. Whine incessantly about still having to make frosting. Drink some Pepto Bismol straight out of the bottle.

Step Eighteen: Begin to feel better. Prepare frosting for two cakes. Frost one cake, transport second batch separately. Wonder if you made the apple pie last night. Check the fridge. See apple pie. Wonder if you baked it long enough. It looks done. Hope.

Step Nineteen: Transport everything. You did it! Maybe. The jury’s still out on the apple pie. Agonize over the integrity of your apple pie, suppressing a third (mini) nervous breakdown.

Step Twenty: It is now Christmas. All you have left to do is frost that last cake, putting aside some of the frosting for the people in your family who can’t have gluten, and you’re good. (Except for that apple pie. Maybe. Still not sure.) Go to frost the cake and realize that the frosting has hardened in the fridge. Freak out. Attempt to stir frosting back into a reasonable texture. It won’t work. Attach to kitchenaid and whisk. Not changing anything. Finally, your aunt looks up how to fix a meringue buttercream and miraculously saves Christmas with a pan of hot water. Frost your cake. Realize that the apple pie is delicious, though it does seem like you may have put a quarter cup of cinnamon into it. Bask in the glow of a job well done.

–

My Holiday Miracle was that these desserts were finished and actually pretty damn tasty. What was yours?

What the fuck, Halloween?

Last night was my first-ever time handing out candy to trick-or-treaters from my own place. Sure, I’d been the one giving kids candy from my mom’s house before, but there was something different about it this time. I wasn’t the girl handing out candy in place of her mom anymore. That made a difference, and I cared.

Mike bought a ton of candy. To be specific, he bought 11 bags of candy. I put aside any multiples and poured everything into a 8-quart stockpot. With two bags of candy missing, it was still overflowing. Awesome, I thought. There’ll be tons of leftovers. Of course, I didn’t want it to all end up being leftovers, so when our first trick-or-treaters didn’t show up until 45 minutes into the time slot, I started giving out fistfuls of candy. See, Mike tends to get excited and buy tons of candy or baked goods or ice cream or what have you and then completely forget and I become responsible for eating all of it. I didn’t want to eat 11 bags of candy. I didn’t want to get diabetes because I was stingy with the kids. However, the kids then started pouring in, and by the end I was almost out and giving out two pieces. Maybe small handfuls next year, Rachael.

At the end of the night, it became clear that my expectations had been too high. I realize now that I shouldn’t have had expectations at all.

Did you, as a kid, hate those houses that made you say “Trick-or-Treat!” to get candy? I didn’t hate it, but I never liked it. I was shy and felt dumb threatening to play a trick on people who didn’t give me candy when, really, I’d just walk to the next house that had the bucket out with the ‘take one’ sign and take a whole handful. (How much do I love that commercial with the little “I can’t read” girl? So much.) But when hordes of children started showing up at my door and staring at me expectantly without so much as a “Hi!” or a “Please!” or a “Happy Halloween!” I understood. I mean, I at least always greeted people. So I became one of those people who makes the kids say “Trick or treat!” before giving them candy. Whatever. That’s not even the point.

The point is this one girl. She ran up to my door with her sister close behind her. When I opened with the pot o’ candy balanced on my hip, she reached up and pulled it down. She didn’t say a word. I was too blown away to hold it back from her. So she runs up to the door, grabs the pot o’ candy out of my hand, takes one piece of candy, and runs off. What the fuck? Okay, one bratty kid. I wonder if her sister told her about the handful I gave her for not sucking.

The parents were the worst, though. Despite the fact that I had a lighted jack-o-lantern at the end of my porch, strings of Christmas lights lit up all along the railing, lights in the house on, and the porch light on, they wouldn’t let their kids approach my door unless they could see me waiting to give out candy. I was doing homework. I had to relocate to the chair in the corner of our entryway so that they could see me if they looked. One mom didn’t look and told her kid, “I don’t see anyone there, but if you want to go knock on the door and see if they’re giving out candy, you can.” Try to imagine the bitchy, skeptical tone of her voice, as if her kid was crazy for seeing a clearly decorated porch and thinking she could get candy from me. Isn’t the point of Halloween to go door-to-door and knock and ask for candy? Should I really have to leave the door open for two hours when it’s fucking cold out just because you don’t want to waste a few steps to see if I have candy when I clearly do? The rule as I always knew it was that if there was a light by the door, the house was giving out candy. Porch light’s on? Cool. We didn’t need decorations.

Who the fuck would put out a Jack-o-lantern and not give out candy?

At one point, a whole bunch of kids approached me in rapid succession. It seemed like five siblings from one family and two from another. They all said trick-or-treat, most of them without needing prompting, and they all got handfuls of candy. Then they all ran back to their parents (or possibly chaperones; I forgot that some kids go with their friends and their parents stay home). When they were out of sight, I could still hear the parents talking loudly to each other. One said something that sounded kind of worried about the candy her kids were getting–I wasn’t sure if it was the sheer amount of it or the fear that it was poisoned.

Another replied. “Oh, there are candy buyback programs.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, there are a couple places in town where you can go and they’ll buy all the Halloween candy from you.”
“That’s great! Where?”

What. The. Fuck. Seriously. That’s all I can say. No wonder kids are such brats–their parents aren’t even letting them keep the candy! Do they even get the money? And how much? At the end of the night, does each kid even have 5 dollars worth of candy? I feel completely ripped off. Do they even realize that Mike and I spent money on this? Would they throw a birthday party for their kids and then give away all the presents people bought?

Are parents treating this as a holiday to parade their kids around in costumes that the kids probably don’t even like? I’m reminded of women who buy tiny dogs and use them as accessories. Oh, look, I’m going to carry him around in my purse with this cute plaid jacket! People will love it! No, they won’t. We don’t want to see kids who don’t give a shit about the candy we’re giving them because you’re just going to sell it back for way less than they think it’s worth. I wouldn’t want to walk around for two hours in the freezing cold in a weather-inappropriate costume and knock on a bunch of strangers’ doors for nothing, either.

There used to be this house that I went to when I was little, sort of diagonally across the street from mine. The woman who lived there gave out candy, but she also invited everyone in. There was always plenty of mulled cider to warm us up from the cold, fresh cookies to enjoy, and I think there were caramel apples a few times. I loved going to that house. Maybe that is an unrealistic dream now, or maybe you’d at least have to live in a neighborhood where everyone knows you for anyone to come in. But the fact that Halloween paranoia has extended to not even keeping the candy is such bullshit.

Everything sacred about Halloween as a kids’ holiday is gone. There’s no knocking on doors, no visiting with neighbors, no saying “trick or treat,” no keeping your candy. All we’re left with, it seems, is awful parenting and the I’m a sexy candy corn movement.

Well clearly, I’m pissed about Halloween. What holiday traditions have you seen completely destroyed as you grew up?

ALIVE. With ANSWERS.

Every once in a while, something happens that causes me to disappear completely. Nobody sees me except for Mike and the people who see me in class and usually the barista at the Starbucks near school. (Which I can’t explain, because I don’t even do caffeine. I should cut that shit out.)

School starting is one of those things that happens that causes this. For the past few weeks, I have been overwhelmingly busy with homework and this neat new internship I’m doing. On the days that I’m not doing one of those things, it’s because my brain broke down and can’t handle to do anything other than sit on the couch and stare at the NCIS marathon that is inevitably playing on USA, or obsessively read through the archives of Overcompensating, or find out that there’s this book series called The Hunger Games that I somehow missed out on and then accidentally read the entire series in two days and then refuse to acknowledge any inquiries as to whether I cried at the end. I’m kind of a book addict. Sorry. P.S. Anyone who comments with a spoiler will get hunted down by one of my trained assassins, just in case someone else hasn’t read them and wants to.

TL;DR: I’ve been super busy, and on the days that I’m not super busy, I’m fucking lazy. Also kind of burnt out. And really all that’s going through my head most of the time is that I love one of my professors and hate the other, and if I’m honest with myself, you don’t want to read about that.

I’m trying to start keeping a list of things worth blogging about as they come into my head so I’ll at least be able to think of something when it occurs to me that I should write a blog post. If you have any suggestions, I’m willing to take them, but no promises.

Anyway. You’re probably wondering about that “with ANSWERS” thing up there, aren’t you? No? You think I was referring to everything I just told you about why I suck at updating my blog when I also have other things to do? Well then you’re WRONG. (Thought that would be a very reasonable conclusion to draw. Now that I think of it.) I discovered these questions that some dude who was French and had a TV show used to ask every guest he had. They seemed fascinating. They are called PIVOT’S QUESTIONS and I thought I would answer them for you, so here goes.

(Are you excited? I’m excited.)

What is your favorite word?
Do people actually have favorite words? That’s news to me. Does it have to be in English? I wonder how Pivot would have reacted if someone’s favorite word had been in Klingon or something. (I won’t judge you if your favorite word is in Klingon. I just think he would have.) Okay. Mine’s schadenfreude. Which is German but is also technically in English dictionaries now so I guess it’s both. If you’re not familiar with it, it means “happiness at the misfortune of others,” and if you want to really understand it, you should go listen to this song from Avenue Q. You’ve felt it before.

What is your least favorite word?
Chunk.

What turns you on, excites, or inspires you creatively, spiritually, or emotionally?
Books. Good books can do anything the above question implies. Though most of the stuff I ready is too dystopian to actually, y’know. Turn me on.

What turns you off?
In the middle of the night, a train pulls up to a quietly sleeping city. The sounds emanating from the train gradually wake everyone. Just as they’re getting out of their cozy and safe houses to investigate, the train’s passengers burst out. Clowns. But not just any clowns. Fucking clowns. And I mean that literally. A fucking clown train. And I have some very special people to thank for this very specific mental image.

What sound or noise do you love?
Silence. Is that allowed? Probably not. Wait, no. I don’t want complete silence anyway. How about the sound of an air conditioner? Or a loud fan? Or a car engine? I don’t really like noise most of the time but those sounds are very comforting to sleep to. Now that we have the air conditioner off it is hard to sleep in the silence. (Ooh, add that to the reasons I’ve been absent. Lack of sleep. Fucking miserable.)

What sound or noise do you hate?
The voice of Mike’s Grand Theft Auto IV character saying “Howdy, partner” over and over and over.

What’s your favorite curse word?
If I say “fuck,” can it include “fucking”? Because nothing feels better than saying “fuck yes” when something is awesome except maybe saying “fucking” for emphasis. Fucking fuck yes. “Fucking” is more versatile, so I’ll go with that.

What profession other than your own would you like to attempt?
Whenever I’m watching NCIS I’m overcome by a desire to be a super badass federal agent. My spy name would be Raptor Fury. Either that or that’d be the name of some mission I was involved in. Or leading. That would be so fucking cool if it weren’t for the fact that I’m a total wimp and would not survive a day as a federal agent.

What profession would you absolutely not like to participate in?
I don’t want to be a teacher. Ever. Or a professor. Too few students would actually care for it to be worth it, and I’d constantly be a nervous wreck about that. I’d end up completely convinced that they hate school (or whatever class I’m teaching) because they hate me, even though it’s more likely that they just hate it in general anyway. Some people say it’s worth it for the one or two kids in your class who actually care and are excited to learn what you’re teaching, but I’d be way too broken up about the rest to be excited about them.

If heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the pearly gates?
I wouldn’t want him to say anything. Going back to NCIS for a second. You know how when Gibbs is really happy about something, he just kinda tilts his head a teensy bit and gets a slightly bemused look on his face and nods a tiny bit? Almost imperceptibly? If you watch it, you know what I’m talking about. That is what I would want him to do. Failing that, I would accept a Caff-Pow.

I hope this has been eye-opening for you. It would be really cool if you answered your favorite question in the comments.

Fixing Your Stupid Traffic Problems

As a person who drives a lot, I am frequently reminded of exactly how dumb other people are. Traffic seems to bring out the worst in people, especially in Massachusetts, which is where I spend a lot of my time driving. (This isn’t to say New Hampshire isn’t occasionally at fault, though. Seriously, NHers–you don’t need to slow to 50 when you see a speed trap on a highway with a speed limit of 65.)

It’s so easy to look at traffic and be pissed off at all the cars around you. Someone up there ahead of you fucked something up. Going for the horn is, for some people, the easiest way to let that frustration off. I get that. For me, it’s usually swearing (big surprise). I also kind of have this middle finger reflex in stressful situations. See, when I was in middle school, I got hit with a penguin right on the top joint of my middle finger and had to wear a splint on it for a while. I think stress just reverts me to that position. But that’s neither here nor there.

The problem is that, so much of the time, the person who’s causing all the traffic problems–the asshole who’s making you late to your meeting or class or date or just keeping you from getting your coffee NOW–isn’t in the traffic at all. Just not there.

I know. It sounds crazy, right? How could someone who’s not even there be fucking up my traffic? Well, lovely readers, the answer is simple. Some asshole designed that intersection.

Like, for example, this one:

Genius.

I didn’t draw the lights going the other way because the lights going the other way aren’t a problem, though that SHOULD be a solid line in the middle of that side road and I’m sorry for that inaccuracy. But I’d like for you to think about this one for a second. The left lane here–people can go straight or turn from it. Either one. But when the turning light is green, the going-straight light is red. And then you get a red arrow when the main light’s green. So if the person in front of the line doesn’t want to do what the light says, no one’s going anywhere. And if the person behind them doesn’t want to do that, only the first person is going anywhere. For this lane of traffic to move, every. single. goddamn. person. needs to be doing the exact same thing. When’s that going to happen?

So I fixed it.

WOW!

By the way, YES, I am TOTALLY aware that I flipped the lights over. I was drawing at 2am or something. Opening Photoshop takes a while so no, I’m not going to edit them.

ANYWAY. Me fucking up the lights isn’t the point. The point is, how brilliant am I? MAKE THEM GREEN AT THE SAME TIME. Oh my god. I mean, there are plenty of intersections that do that. Only one way goes at once. Why not here? There is, of course, another option–paint some black over the “straight” part of that left-lane arrow. Holy shit, guys. Let’s see if I can do this again.

Okay seriously now.

Backwards though my lights may be, you can still see the colors (actually, can you? Are you red-green colorblind? Shit.) and realize that these lights aren’t green at the same time. Which means that everyone who goes through that first light immediately gets stuck at the second one. There are about 30 yards between them. So really, what happens is everyone inches forward a little bit. Then the cars that fit in that 30 yards go and everyone else is stuck at another light. The problem is that little one-way road there. People have to get out of that road, so there has to be a second light, right?

BAM.

Check it out, guys! A ROTARY! Or roundabout or traffic circle or whatever the fuck you want to call it. I don’t really care what you call it, because, see, it can solve your problems. You don’t like rotaries? Well, I don’t like waiting 20 minutes to go through one light on my commute. I know they slow things down a bit, but traffic moves. You get through them. And you’ll never have to sit at a red light when the rest of the road is empty.

Seriously, I should become a civil engineer. Not that I’d go to school for it or anything. I’d just do what that guy on that show on USA does, where he didn’t go to law school or anything but convinces people to hire him because he’s just that awesome. That’s me.

It’s like I’m a fucking savant or something.

(Er…the fucking there is for emphasis. Not for specifying what kind of savant I am. Civil engineering savant. Mom, just…ignore this.)

Of course, there are times when the problem really is other drivers, and I’ve got a solution for you there, too. I just need someone to buy the idea and mass-produce it:

Well, look at that. I guess I can’t actually be a civil engineering savant if I’m so good at weapons design, too, can I? I guess you can have it all.