Joelle said in the early morning on November 1, 2007
Every time I say NaBloPoMo, I think of that painfully catchy song by the Beach Boys, Kokomo… one of those songs that blows, but you sing along anyway. What kind of cruel joke is that?
So, this is my first entry for November. Hopefully I can keep up and not miss any days this month. There once was a time when I would blog twice, sometimes three times a day. Of course, that was also when I was working for The Man. If I weren’t blogging I just would have been inappropriately emailing on company time and wondering if the girl two cubicles over slept with that hairy guy from accounting. So, it’s not like it wasn’t time well spent.
Halloween was a non-event here. Around 5:30pm, my first trick-or-treaters arrived: a wee Spiderman, a pretty princess… and 3 heavyset, heavily hair-sprayed and heavily made-up grown women with their hands cupped and outstetched, leaning over their kids, waiting for me to load them down with Kit-Kats. (I actually heard a mom say as brought out the bowl of candy, “Ooo, she’s got Kit-Kats!") The moms were trick or treating, too… without costumes or sacks or anything! Apparently, these women figured if they had to schlep their kids around the neighborhood, they needed some kind of payola. Go buy your own, lady — this is for your kids. Have some dignity! I probably wouldn’t have felt that way if they had been dressed up or made some kind of effort, though. I wanted to say, “Sorry, you outgrew this 15 years ago.” but instead I just gave them Whoppers. No Kit-Kats for you!
Then next batch came about an hour later. My neighbor from around the corner rolled up with an army of kids. One right after of the other well-behaved, incredibly cute kids came up to my door saying “Trick or treat, please!” Please! How cute is that? Anyway, there was an abundance of candy given all around, but a little extra was tossed at the toddler in the monkey outfit. Toddler + Monkey Outfit = Comedy Gold.
And that was it! Not a soul showed up after that. Instead it was a Halloween edition of The Singing Bee and more mini-100 Grands than one girl should really consume in an evening.
How was your Halloween? 
Joelle said before her coffee on November 2, 2007
When I was a kid, 34 seemed so old and mature. I think that’s pretty standard among most kids. My parents had me around this age (mom at 33, dad at 35) and they and their friends always seemed so grown up. I often wonder, “When my mom was my age, did she chronically forget to buy toilet paper or dance around the kitchen to Prince in her bathrobe or laugh hysterically with her best friend at the word ‘tuber’?” Those don’t seem like things a grown-up would do, but here I am, 34 years old and that is my life. As a kid, you thought that your parents and their friends were wise, somehow know something you don’t, they were the grown-ups! Little did we know they were most likely wingin’ it, too.
My goals for this year are simple: just be. I want to be myself and not apologize for it, I want to be happy, I want less stress and more smiling. I want to stop and smell the roses. I want to travel, I want see my friends and the people I love more often. I want to accept that perfection is unnecessary and that my best is good enough. And I want to experience every last breath of awesome available in my life. I want a thrill, I want a wow, I want it all. I want it now! I want a pop! I want a… Shhhhhhasta! See? I can’t be serious.
So, this is 34. Now please excuse me while I spike my coffee with some birthday juice. 
Joelle said around dinner time on November 3, 2007
Today I drove with my friend mikey up to the Hidden Valley Hibiscus Open House in Fallbrook. I’m turning into a complete hibiscus junkie. I wanted everything I saw, but couldn’t afford much, since they’re about 3 times the price of what I normally pay for a hibiscus. But, they’re really worth it. They are absolutely stunning. Blooms as big as your head! I am so not kidding. Most of the blooms were as big as salad plates… if not dinner plates. Crazy huge. Colors like you would not believe…
If you’re into tropical flowers, even if you’re not turning into Crazy Hibbie Lady like myself, I highly recommend checking out their website. I chatted with the woman who runs it today (also the grower and… breeder? Are they called breeders?) of these dynamic flowers, along with her husband. She told me they’d met online, which I thought was really cute. Anyway, I gave her my card because she put my name down on the waiting list for Some Like It Hot and Gator Pride.
Oh my god, I’m backordering plants. Next thing you know I’ll be subscribing to Hibiscus Fancy and making gardening clogs my permanent footwear. If I start talking about how green my thumb is and wearing a big floppy hat, someone medicate me.
Joelle said during happy hour on November 4, 2007
Dear Thighs,
Full disclosure: I ate gelato today. I know, I know. You’re trying to get all svelte and glorious for SXSW, but seriously, have you had pumpkin gelato? I don’t think you understand the gravity of the deliciousness involved here. Besides, I’d never had gelato before, so if tasting that mind-blowing, taste-bud shattering goodness means a weensy bit more trunk junk in March than I’d planned, well then so be it. You’ll just have to make friends with the elliptical trainer because I make no apologies. Life is meant to be lived, not obsessing about whether or not one scoop of gelato will cause Your Royal Dimpleness to explode into cellulite like a Maguai after midnight. So guess what, Thighs? Just for tonight, I’m giving you the Finger. Right after I lick this drop of gelato off of it.
xoxo,
Joelle
Joelle said at some point on November 5, 2007 while listening to Julie London - Makin' Whoopee
I’ve long said that it bugs me when people clap for themselves. I’ve had people ask me what I mean by that, so allow me to set the scene for you.
You’re watching an episode of some talk show. The guest (it especially annoys me if they’re celebrities) is called out from backstage and the audience explodes into applause. The host is clapping, the crowd goes wild and after said guest’s jaunt to the stage, they proceed to stand there and clap along with the audience.
STOP. IT. Just smile or something. Sit down so the crowd will stop clapping. Or bask in the applause. Say thank you. Nod. Wave, even! But for chrissake, don’t clap. You look like a tool.
I have no idea why this bugs me so much. It just seems sort of self-congratulatory or indulgent to me. “Yes, continue to clap for me. Hell, I’ll clap for me. I AM AWESOME!” Or maybe it’s as basic as that “you look like a tool” explanation. It’s just one of my little quirks.
Another thing I’ve just realized bothers me, almost on par with the clapping thing, is the affinity for contestants on game shows or reality shows to be overly affectionate with one another. Now, I’m not talking about a hook-up on Big Brother After Dark, it’s much more vanilla than that. Again, allow me to set the scene.
You’re watching let’s say… The Singing Bee, or any game show where they pull from the crowd or there’s a group of contestants on stage together. Some guy gets picked from the audience and maybe he hugs the woman next to him. Now, that could be his sister, girlfriend, wife, whatever. I’ll let that slide. But, then he runs up to the stage where the other contestants are waiting and he hugs them. I don’t get that! I suppose you make friends waiting in line all that time, but I’m not going to hug virtual strangers I’m competing against… I don’t think. I couldn’t say for sure until I actually was in that situation, but my personality, no matter how outgoing I might be, doesn’t usually allow for sweaty excited strangers to hug me while jumping up and down. That’s just me.
And on reality shows, people are constantly saying, “I love you” to people they just met. Granted, I’ve never lived in a house with a huge group of people I was competing against, but seriously — you love them? How capricious! It sometimes take me a while to tell the person I love that I love them as I often wait for them to say it first (like most chicks), but these hoochies on shows like The Bachelor just throw it around like they’re saying, “Pass the salt.”
And even if it’s just friendly love… come on. I don’t hesitate to tell my friends that I love them. Ever. But you love that tramp in the slutty halter that you met 3 days ago? The one that kissed “the bachelor” before you did, told everyone you have crabs and stole your favorite Chanel lipstick? Really? Hm.
If that’s your definition of love, I know a great therapist.
Joelle said in the early morning on November 6, 2007
So last night, Kathy and I were on IM reminiscing about the “old days” when we first started blogging… when we first met back in 2003. Awww. Kathy pulled out a bunch of photos of this giant inflatable party penis I sent her in the mail. WHY I sent her a giant inflatable party penis, I have no idea. She sent me a tiara. But anyway, I did and hilarity ensued, which you can check out on Kathy’s blog. Bear in mind, that was back in 2004 or so. When you’ve designed 200 blogs in a year with practically no day off, that’s what happens.
So last night,after she posted her entry, I noticed her stylesheet wouldn’t load. For those of you looking at me like I have an extra head on backwards, it means all the “pretty” was missing. It was just a plain black and white site that looked all crazy. And this is the conversation that followed:
(And yes, we’re total blasphemers. You’ll get over it. )
Joelle: your whole site is doing it. I just tried to comment and the stylesheet just gave me the finger.
Kathy: maybe its these pics?
Joelle: I KNOW! I KNOW WHAT IT IS.
Joelle: It’s PENIS!
Kathy: HAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHHAA
Joelle: I used the word penis in an entry title once and it blocked it.
Joelle: take it out of the blacklist
Kathy: hAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
Kathy: I KNOW I KNOW WHAT IT IS… ITS PENIS
Kathy: HAHHAHAHA you’re so funny dude HAHAHA
Kathy: maybe I should change the title all together
Joelle: well, that blows! There has to be a way to fix this.
Joelle: We should be able to SAY PENIS.
Kathy: “penis breaks my css”
Joelle: HAHAHAHAHAHHA
Joelle: that made me think of “Jesus built my hotrod.”
Joelle: What did the CSS say to Expression Engine?
Joelle: “I break for penis.”
Then, quiet for about 3 minutes.
Kathy: May Penis be with you.
Joelle: and also with you.
Kathy: it would be so funny if you interchanged “penis” with “peace” during a catholic mass
Joelle: it would be funny to replace penis with anything in church, really.
Kathy: “Let us give penis to those around us”
Joelle: “Say 20 Hail Penises and your sins are absolved.”
Kathy: HAHAHHAHA
Joelle: “Spiritus Sanctus Penis”
Kathy: “In the name of the father, the son, and the Holy Penis”
Joelle: AMEN!
Kathy: LOL
Joelle: “Please open your hymn books to page 34 and let us sing, ‘What a Friend We Have in Penis’”
Kathy: HAHHAHAHHAHA
Joelle: What if Noah had to build a really big PENIS before the floods came?
Kathy: Noah’s Penis?
Joelle: that’s my favorite punk band
Kathy: *bangs her penis*
Joelle: HAHAHAHAHA
Joelle: “By the power vested in me, you may kiss your penis.”
Kathy: I promise to love, honor and cherish your penis
Joelle: “Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s penis.”
Joelle: gives a whole new perspective to Moses and the Burning Bush.
Kathy: oh my penis
Joelle: “Penis wept.”
Kathy: HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHHAHHAHAAHAHHAA
Kathy: this is possibly the funniest thing Ive read in months lol
Joelle: I may need to post this conversation tomorrow…
Joelle said in the early morning on November 7, 2007
Riddle me this, Internet: what the hell is a mochaccino? Has anyone ever had a mochaccino in real life? I always hear about mochaccinos on TV, but never in my 34 years on this earth have I ever seen one on a menu at any coffee place, not even the mom n’ pop shops. I’ve started to suspect it’s one of those faux general terms they use so no one gets sued by Starbucks.
I have to assume it’s a cappuccino with chocolate in it, based on the name — like a mocha, only a cappuccino and not a latte. I consulted the Oracle of Google and not surprisingly many things came up, but nothing really all that definitive. Wikipedia didn’t even have an entry on it and we all know that means it doesn’t exist. Ok, not really.
I did find a recipe for a hot cocktail called a Mochacino (with one “c"), courtesy of Flora’s Drink Hideout:
Mochachino
Ingredients:
- 1 ounce Semisweet chocolate, chopped
- 2 tablespoons Sugar
- 3/4 cup Boiling water
- 1 3/4 cups Freshly brewed coffee
- 1 cup Light cream, scalded
- 2 tablespoons Creme de cacao
- 2 tablespoons Coffee liqueur
- 1 tablespoon Sugar
- 1 teaspoon Unsweetened cocoa powder, optional
Directions:
Melt chocolate and sugar, taking care not to burn. Slowly beat in water with a wire whisk. Heat, stirring, for 3 minutes. Stir in coffee and cream until blended. Remove pan from heat and stir in cream de cacao and coffee liqueur. Divide among 4 heated mugs. Sprinkle with sugar and cocoa mixture, if desired and serve immediately.
Sounds good. A little sweet for my taste, and kind of a production, but I may give that a go. You know, for scientific purposes.
So, what do you think? Is the mochaccino the Unicorn of overpriced coffee beverages or does it really exist? Have you had one? Where?
(10 imaginary points that win you nothing but my admiration if you know the origin of the title.)
Joelle said in the early morning on November 8, 2007
Recently, while shaving my legs, I rediscovered a scar on my knee. It’s always been there, but sometimes I forget it’s there. It’s so much a part of my body that it just seems normal, like everyone has a striated, tea biscuit-sized scar caused by lava rock on their left knee. When I was 11, I went to Hawaii with my dad’s lawyer (long story!) and during a tour of Mt. Kilauea, I tripped in one of those steam vents and fell about 6 inches from the edge of a huge crater. The Attorney Party Bus was only equipped with boxed wine and tour maps, so that’s what we used to clean my wound. Hence the lovely scar.
I have a dime-sized scar on the kneecap of the same knee from falling down several narrow stairs at my old job at Vons grocery store when I was 17 and half-dollar-sized one on my right knee from falling outside of my apartment a few years ago, like a total spazz. But, my personal favorite (mostly due to the funny story and not the hideous 2 inch scar it left) is on the back/inside of my left thigh courtesy of an ex-boyfriend, now a pastor, that may or may not be reading this blog. (I know. Me and a future pastor. Try to control your laughter.)
When we were kids, we worked as baggers at competing grocery stores. Our employees carried safety box cutters, but his store did not. One day, after school, but before work, we were at my house making out, like teenagers do and during one particular… um… let’s just say “move”, his non-safety cutter that was in the front pocket of his work shorts slid out of the protective sheath and sliced right through his pocket and into the soft, fleshy bits of my inner thigh. Give it second, you’ll figure out.
So, at first while it pinched, it didn’t really hurt too much, so I didn’t flip out. But he did! He ran to get me a towel to stop the bleeding and then vacillated between sitting statue-like on the couch, sweating and saying, “oh my gosh!” to pacing the apartment, sweating and saying “oh my gosh!” I went into the bathroom and climbed up on the toilet so I could get a better view in the mirror over the sink and let me just tell you… the back of your thighs is not something you want to look at under overhead 1970’s bathroom lighting, even when you’ve got a firm 17-year-old body. It’s just not ok.
Anyway, I’ll spare you the gory details that involve glimpsing one’s own fat cells and cut to the part where we go to the emergency room. After waiting 2 hours and both of us missing work, I was called in to be stitched up by a very large, very black woman with the biggest, most beautiful smile. She was really friendly,had a great accent I think was Jamaican and she talked me through it. The worst part was getting the numbing shot, to be honest. I’m not a fan of needles. Then she gave me a lollipop, swatted me on the ass and I was on my way. No, seriously. It was red. The lollipop, not my ass.
Now I have this scar “to remember him by”, which I guess I do when I remember it’s there. Unfortunately for him, that’s only when I’m trying on bathing suits and am forced to look at my own ass under overhead lighting.
So, dear Internet, hit me. What kind of scars do you have?
Joelle said in the early morning on November 9, 2007
Well, yesterday was a hoot. Thanks for sharing all your cool scar stories… unfortunately, I didn’t get to read most of them until this morning because yesterday after I posted my Internet started going all Sybil on me. It would go on… then go off… come back on… then right as I ready to do something… go off. I did the usual troubleshooting of rebooting the router, the modem, both computers, I unplugged everything, re-plugged everything, dusted, sang a happy song to it, did a dance, bowed down and faced east and eventually had to take 10 deep breaths and curse quietly under them.
I was very irritated, to say the least. I have two projects (and a rare pro bono job that I need to get off my plate, but wanted to do my part) that I really need to wrap up so a girl can eat pay her cable bill, but did the Internet care? Hell no! It won’t go!
Stupid cable. Oh! And then when I finally got a hold of the cable company and they told me it was “undetermined” how long it would be, I figured, “OK, well, I can waste my day trying to get something done fruitlessly at the computer, totally play hooky and sit on my ass watching Oprah, or I can clean out my closet, which I’ve been trying to do for months. Tomorrow is another day. I will totally kick ass. I’m in good shape. I have Thursday and Friday to wrap things up...”
So… yeah. All day yesterday, well into the evening, I thought it was Wednesday and that I had two more days this week for work-related awesomeness. *sigh*
Let’s all take a deep breath, shall we? Today is a new day in which I will get the work of two days accomplished. Hahahahahahahahaha! Yeah.
Oh! I forgot last week, so I tried to remember for this week: it’s Fridge Friday on NaBloPoMo, so I’ll be back with a riveting entry about the contents of my fridge later. I’m sure you’re all waiting on the edge of your seat for that. Heh.
Coffee, anyone?
Joelle said at some point
Kathy, on baby showers:
Kathy: Can’t we just show up with our shitcan genie and get drunk? lol
I don’t know about you, but we are of the firm belief that baby showers should be open bar.
Joelle said around dinner time
Internet is down again, has been all afternoon. Of course. I heart technology! Does it somehow KNOW when I have deadlines?! Bah.
posted from my cell phone
posted from my cell phone
Joelle said around mid-afternoon on November 10, 2007 while listening to Blossom Dearie - You for Me
When I opened this post and titled it, I thought I wanted to write the whole sordid double-feature story of the Little Router That Couldn’t and The Pokey Little Cell Phone. But I seriously don’t even want to get into what has been my own personal electronics hell for the last few days, so I’m just going to jump right into the highlight of my hell — Debbie Diapers, some miscreant mom in the parking lot of the Sprint store.
I dragged mikey to the Sprint store yesterday with me in a fit of “I’m Getting a New Phone Before I Throw This Against the Wall” and parked next to us was a fairly nice black town car of some sort. Mike got out of the driver’s side and as I was about to exit the passenger side, I noticed a woman slowly making her way from the passenger seat of the town car. She saw me waiting for her, but she took her sweet time. I realized she had a very wee baby with her, so I took a deep breath and tried to be patient. Finally, she rolls out of the car with her baby and starts to walk away.
Using his Spidey Sense, Mike immediately ran over to the town car, bent over and looked underneath. The look on his face said it all. Oh yeah. Diaper.. Used, stinky, poo-laden, stranger-person’s diaper left in the parking lot. That has long been a “thing” with me… I hate littering of any sort, I hate it. But leaving a napkin on a table is a far cry from leaving feces under your Lincoln. We have laws against leaving your dog crap on the ground, you’d think that it would be understood that people crap is pretty much a no-go.
It was confirmed that yes, there is, indeed, a diaper under the car and I noticed that as the woman was walking away, she glanced back at us a few times. I was certain she knew we were talking about her. Perhaps it was my, “She did WHAT!?” that tipped her off.
So, anyway, maybe it was my already foul mood, but I’d had enough. I figured, “Who cares? I’m never going to see this woman again. What’s she going to do? Shank me?” While she was still a good few hundred feet ahead of us, she entered the Sprint store. How convenient! With purpose I marched right through the doors, right past the front desk helper girl (mike stopped to give her the dish) and straight up to Debbie Diapers, who was standing with her assumed husband at the counter. In a voice loud enough for people nearby to hear, but not loud enough that I looked like a crazy person, it went a little like this:
Me: Excuse me, ma’am?
(She turned around, still bouncing the baby, with a tight-lipped “What the hell do you want?” look on her face)
Her: Yes?
Me: Were you planning on leaving that dirty diaper under your car in the parking lot?
(Looking me directly in the eye, the red splotches of embarrassment creeping their way up her cheeks)
Her: Yup!
Me: Wow. Really? So, you’re just going to leave your kid’s poop in the parking lot to rot? To harm the environment? For someone else to pick up?
(Her lips are pinched into a Renee Zellweger-esque onion stink-face by this point and her face is pretty flushed)
Her: Uh huh. Yeah.
(Mind you, all of this monosyllabism is presented with a very adolescent, “What are you going to do about it?” kind of tone.)
Me: Really? You’re just going to leave it there because you were too lazy to walk it to the trash? You passed three trash cans on the way to this store… you couldn’t have just dropped it in?
(Her face is red hot at this point and I can see her eyes are glassy and her jaw clenching. Finally, she said nothing, but broke my gaze — I WIN! The best part was that her husband just let her stand there and get her ass reamed by a stranger. Now that’s commitment!)
Me: That’s lovely.
Then I turned and walked away from her.
I was so just… offended! Grossed out! Disgusted by her lack of decency, laziness and outright just… ICK factor. In fact, Sprint should give her a discount because she redirected the anger I was winding up to pitch at Sprint.
We watched, along with our Sprint agent, to make sure she didn’t get creative with that diaper. But, much to my delight, when we left, the diaper was gone. I can only assume I shamed her into picking it up and while I am not the type of person to take pleasure in embarrassing someone, in this case, perhaps it will make her think twice before doing it again.
Hmph! 
Joelle said around dinner time on November 11, 2007 while listening to A Fine Frenzy - Borrowed Time
Friends, if I do nothing else for you this week, let it be this: Do not watch Evening if you can help it. If you have a choice between, let’s say… waterboarding and renting Evening, I’d seriously give it some thought.
Or, alternately, if you are riddled with angst over your squandered, pathetic, life of feculence and you’re looking for a film to slit your wrists by, I’d say Evening is a fine choice.
This morning I was up very early, so after zipping down to Starbucks for a white peppermint mocha (swoon!), I curled up on the couch with my coffee to get my bearings before beginning my workday. I figured I’d see what was on In Demand (pay-per-view, whatever). I remembered Evening being in the theater this summer and while I’m not usually one for the extra schmaltzy chick flicks (I’m a romantic comedy sort of girl), I figured I’d give it a go.
About half way through, I would have gnawed off my own arm to make it stop, but fortunately, that’s why we have remotes. I stopped it and ran to Home Depot for some wall anchors (I also hung some cabinets today) and once that was finished, I figured I should just man up and finish it.
I hate to say it, but I couldn’t wait for Vanessa Redgrave to buy the farm so I could move on with my life. Skip this movie. You have been duly warned.
Joelle said in the early afternoon on November 12, 2007
I’m sort of “phoning it in” on my NaBloPoMo post today. I’m swamped and am trying to get stuff done so I can finally go to the grocery store for the first time in a month. But Mr. Phillip said he would be hitting the Lamplighter tonight with some friends and I promised him I would be there to sing a song or two. So, if you are in the San Diego area, have a stomach for a bartender who means business and feel like hitting the Lamplighter on Washington tonight around 9pm, I shall we there, doing some singing and having a cocktail. I warn you now, it’s not fancy. If you like dives, this one’s for you.
Hope to see you there, be sure to say hi. Please do not stalk and kill me. Thank you. 
Joelle said in the early morning on November 13, 2007
Here’s a tip: When you inadvertently elbow a stranger in the gut at the bar, makes sure he’s completely soused, out of his mind and mildly obsessed with you. This makes for a good evening.
Last night, as I mentioned, I went to the Lamplighter for a little karaoke. I met up with Daniel, his fabulous partner, Richard and their lovely friend Amy (who can also sing — well!). I may have found my new best gays! My stomach hurt from laughing so hard. We had a really good time.
It was just ridiculous at the Lamplighter last night. When I got there, I went up to the bar to order a drink and accidentally elbowed someone in the gut who sneaked up behind me. Upon impact, I turned and was face to face with a guy that looked like the lovechild of Ben Stein and that designer with the black glasses from Extreme Home Makeover. Right then and there, in a slur, he declared his love for me and kissed my hand, going on and on about “my beauty” and all this garbage. I was gracious, but managed to extract myself from his clutches by saying I was looking for friends… which I was.
Later on as I’d come back from singing, Ben Stein Home Makeover Guy came over to our little group and started waxing poetic about my beauty again and how amazing I am, “Just look at her!”, blah blah blah. Daniel was such a good sport, he just stood there and took it. But finally, I had to cut in and let BSHMG know, “He likes boys. You can cut the hard sell.” which he promptly followed up with a whisper in Daniel’s ear indicating that BSHMG liked boys, too. 
Cozy.
There are too many stories and some of them are a little fuzzy thanks to all the “Mandarin Squishes” that Richard kept bringing. It was actually a Mandarin Press — Absolut Mandarin, half 7-up, half club soda, but I think I like “Squish” better. Like I said, my stomach hurt from laughing at the running social commentary we had about everyone in the bar. It was like watching Mystery Science Theater 3000, only the bar was the movie and Tom Servo was extra catty. Such. a. blast. I really look forward to hanging out with them again… assuming they’ll have me.
This is the part where I tell you if you want to hear me sing (gulp!), go over to Daniel’s blog. He recorded me last night with his iPod and while the sound is a little wonky at times and the crowd is noisy, you can hear me getting my Etta on. After 3 cocktails. But we won’t tell anyone…
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