Room 524: Earth Hour

About ten years ago, I did a six week tour of various cafetoriums, gymnasiums and hallways of Midwest elementary schools called "The Earth Protectors".   Besides forcing me to wear a silver hardhat and cape, "The Earth Protectors" was a show designed to teach kids about recycling.  "Reduce. Reuse. Recycle. Rethink." was the message.  (Although, I'm sure the underlying message was "Kids, don't be an actor unless you want to tour in a mini-van with faulty brakes and sleep in cheap, hygenically-challenged hotels and wear matching polo shirts."  But I digress.)   Reduce the amount of potential trash you make, reuse whatever you can, and recycle materials like cans and paper.  I can't remember what the "Rethink" was.  Probably something like, "Rethink how you live your wasteful life." Not that your life is a waste but all the waste you produce in your life.  We were Earth Protectors not Scared Straight.

I am a huge proponent of this mantra.  Yes, yes, I know that it takes a lot of energy to recycle things but that's why the Reduce and Reuse are first.  So say what you will about Climate Change, the condition formerly known as Global Warming, all you want.   I'm not talking about that.  I'm talking about Conservation, of which I am a big advocate.  I partly blame my ex-stepfather for this.  He charged me a quarter every time I left a light or the TV on when I wasn't in the room.  It used to really piss me off.  So you would think as an adult I would rebel and open all the windows and crank the AC, all the while biting into a styrofoam cup.  But no, weirdly enough, that quarter thing helped make me a believer.  And that's why I participated in the Earth Hour.  (I think I just heard "damn, dirty hippie" faintly in the distance.)

Earth Hour was tonight at 8:30pm local time and people were encouraged to turn off all electricity for one hour.  (I ended up in candlelight for two hours.  So if your schedule was not conducive to lights-out, I did an extra for you.) The Eiffel Tower went dark.  So did the Sydney Harbor Bridge and Opera House. And the Acropolis.  Which didn't originally have electric lights so not much of a sacrifice there.

I lit the candles at 8:15pm and enjoyed the quiet.  OK.  Not quite quiet.  There was some traffic noise. The baby next door crying on one side and the sullen 20-year-old knocking things over on the other.  And my dog sneezing from the scented candles.  But overall quiet.  Enough for me to reflect on all the electricity I use, how to embrace simplicity in my life and whether or not it would be cheating to open the refrigerator door for a drink (I refrained, thank you very much).

So you can think whatever you like about Climate Change.  I honestly didn't do Earth Hour for the Earth.  I did it for me, if I can be so selfish.  Because Conservation is selfish.  You are essentially hoarding your energy.  And you are ultimately saving money.  I'm not a damn, dirty hippie.  I'm a self-centered miser.  And I'm getting back all those quarters...

Amenities of Room 524: Bible made of Unbleached 100% Post Consumer Paper.  Timer-controlled lamps. Possibly clean sheets.

 

Room 1225: Farmville

I'm now begging my "neighbors" to send me paned windows so that I can finish my "maison".  That's what happens when you're on  the crack that is known as Farmville.  

I held out as long as I could but a friend of mine (I won't tell you their name but their initials are Krista) pleaded with me to be her neighbor so that she could get to the next level.  I was assured that I wouldn't have to do anything except sign up and accept her as my neighbor.  The Facebook application equivalent of "the first one's free".  Because you can't just do nothing.  I mean you can, but then your six plowed plots get nasty and withered and weedy.  And I was happy with that.  So what happened between seedy vacant lot and public implorations for virtual house building supplies?  I really don't know.  I think the tipping point was when I customized my farmer-self.  I didn't want pigtails.  And I wanted sassy red lips.  Bam.  Committed.  I started planting seeds.  And then people gave me cute cartoon cows and horses.  A pink diamond appeared over their heads.  I had to milk the cows.  Damn it. 

I've even started fertilizing my neighbors' lands and feeding their chickens.  Why?  Hello, experience points.  And if the chickens are really happy then they lay a mystery egg.  I'm now scouring my friends' pages looking to see if they found a mystery egg so I can hatch it.  (Side note: "hatching" consists of clicking a button that says "Hatch egg".  Just wanted to clear that up.)  But I'm now so entrenched in Farmville that I get pissed off when I hatch an egg and get another damn chicken.  Yes, yes, logic states that chickens come from hatched eggs.  But I've gotten collectibles from mystery eggs.  Oh yeah, I'm also desperately looking for collectibles so that I can complete a collection and get a special gift.  I actually did complete a collection once and my gift was fuel.  What do I hate more than hatching chickens? Getting more fuel.  I've seen farms with elephants.  I want an elephant.  Not gasoline.  I can get that in real life.   I don't, however, have many opportunities for elephants in Burbank.  

Excuse me, my raspberries are ready to harvest and my foal needs brushing. 

Amenities of Room 1225: Paned windows.  Adjacent to petting zoo.  All-You-Can-Eat Omelette Bar.  

Room 735: Blame Canada

I love the Olympics.  Not just because I have a weird--not quite sexual but not sure what it is--crush on Bob Costas.  I mean, "love", as in I've watched curling.  And I've said to the TV while watching curling, "Sweep! Sweep! Sweep! Sweep!"  So I'm all over Vancouver right now.  And understandably, in between the Morgan Freeman narrated Visa commercials and the various Olympic athlete endorsement deals, there is a "Come to British Columbia" ad.  Did you know that Kim Cattrall is Canadian?  Me neither.  (Insert Sex and the City, Eh Joke. Or Insert Sex and the Territory Joke. Or Insert Government Funded Health Care and the City Joke.  I'll stop.)  Did you know Ryan Reynolds is Canadian?  I think I did for some reason.  The ad features Reynolds looking all rugged and wildernessy.  I think he's by a campfire.  I'm sure that fire will figure heavily in many women's Ryan Reynolds Lumberjack fantasies.  Not my fantasy though.  No offense to Reynolds but I delighted in seeing Michael J. Fox pimp out his home territory.  I definitely knew he was Canadian.  In fact, I recall thinking he was exotic because he was from Canada.  Hey, I was ten.

Sarah MacLachlan was also in the ad.  It's terrible that when I hear her voice I think of abused animals.  I blame you, ASPCA!  Take back your free mailing labels!

Amenities of Room 735: Complimentary breakfast of Canadian bacon and Canada Dry.  Offered every four years.

Room 622: Sending a Nickel to get $25

My Poor Man's Mentality cannot bring myself to throw away personalized mailing labels, pens, nickels, or (randomly) gloves that non-profits send me to get a donation. And Poor Mandy cannot always donate. So what to do with all the "Please Accept Our Free Gift"'s? It's not really free since it is designed to guilt you into donating and if you don't or can't then it costs you an ounce of self-respect when you use those "gifts". I thought I had put myself on a "Don't send me junk mail" list and maybe I did. But I guess I found myself on a Sold List. And I blame the ASPCA. Because I give to them. And now I'm getting Wildlife stuff, Save the Wolves, Humane Society, and some one about horses that I didn't open. I was afraid of being confronted with Sad Horse Eyes. But if it was only a letter then I could confidently say, "I have to limit my giving so I shall tear my name and address off and shred it and then recycle the rest." That's not actually word-for-word. I guess I'm trying to win you over with my conscientiousness to justify keeping the LA SPCA wrapping paper this past Christmas...and actually using it. So that there is the problem: it's not just a letter. It's free stuff. Free stuff that borderline hippies like me will feel guilty about throwing away and guilty about keeping without donating. However, I don't feel bad about the mailing labels anymore. Someone once said to me, "I see it as free advertising for their cause. And that's my donation." I know: weasel. But it's enough to reserve my guilt for something else. Like those damn nickels that some organizations tape to their solicitation. What's that about? I'm assuming they did some research that assured them that the return would more than make up for the lost coins. (Side note: when I was younger, I was afraid to use those pennies and nickels for fear they were counterfeit. I guess I thought they were like the fake credit cards that came with the applications. You know, like Amex's with the name CF Frost. Remember that faux dude?) But I CANNOT. THROW. MONEY. AWAY. So I bury it in my plastic Improv cup with the legitimately earned nickels and dimes. And then I won't know I'm using tainted money when I later on need vending coins. Not that it always works. I know it's in there. Waiting...

The Fret Level is overwhelming enough that I need to go lie down and snuggle with my Humane Society blanket...

Amenities of Room 622: Special WWF Suite.  Fridge stocked with National Park Service water bottles and Baby Seal Snicker bars.  Pay What You Can laundry bags.

Grand Staircase: Me and My Inflatable Donut

I spent most of the Christmas holiday with a cold. And just when it was tapering off, I celebrated by falling down my stairs. In mid-flight, I accidentally knocked my dog over but she recovered much quicker and far more gracefully than I did. It was dark. And turned my head to see a police car go down the back alley and suddenly my bum was step-surfing. I haven't injured myself in quite a while but I fully expected to unleash a string of exquisitely detailed obscenities. Much to my surprise, I yelled, "Oh! Shoot! Shoot! Shoot! Ow! Ow! Ow!" I apparently was momentarily possessed by Grandma. I guess I didn't want to offend my pot-smoking neighbors whose window was open very near to where I fell. Which was very kind of me, considering it was midnight. And since it was midnight, I continued with the ritual of taking my dog out for the Quick Pee In Front Of the Bank. Upon returning...slowly...to my abode, I turned on the computer to consult the World Wide Web for a "What To Do". Because "It's Midnight" wins out over "Real Doctor Advice". I wrapped up my jammed fingers and went to bed.

I went to work the next day. My co-workers' reactions ranged from "What happened?" to "Why did you come into work?" The latter was an excellent question. Why? Well, first off: good story. Secondly: sympathy and attention. Like I said, it's been a while since I've been injured. Should I pass up the opportunity? But eliciting sympathy is a little precarious. Overdo it and you're not Poor Bruised Tailbone Mandy. You're a pain in the ass. GET IT?!?! Bruised Tailbone? (Side note: I can't believe this joke never occurred to me until this moment. I'm slipping...GET IT?!!? I fell!) Yes, I bruised my tailbone. Or as many delighted in telling me, I may have cracked it. So maybe I should have gone to the doctor. Apparently it wouldn't matter. Bruised or cracked, all I can do is wait it out. Just like the jammed finger. (I self-diagnosed that one as well. I could bend my finger without screaming Grandma-style again so I figured it couldn't be that serious.) Oh, that jammed finger? Of course, it had to be on my right hand. Specifically, my middle finger of my right hand. You use that finger quite a bit, I realize, when you're right handed. And it swelled up nicely. It was like that finger was replaced by a burly man's middle finger. I had an obese bird.

Now just over a week later, the finger is still swollen and bruised. The tailbone still hurts like crazy. Mainly when I've been sitting for a long time. Hence the Inflatable Donut. Hence not seeing Avatar yet.

And I bought that mini inner tube with no embarrassment of any kind. The shame only kicked in when others called it a Hemorrhoid Donut. Awesome. I feel I should go back to the CVS and explain to the cashier why I actually bought the donut. (Side note: I've been spelling it donut and not doughnut. It feels correct to leave "dough" out of it.) It's gotten a wee bit better though. Or I've gotten used to it. Or I've finally perfected the Art of Standing Without Engaging the Coccyx.

Warning: Staircase is steep. Please proceed with caution.

Room 1100: Where In The World Is...Me?

It's amazing all the things you can find in this world to waste your time. Some much more justifiable than others but diversions and avoidances nonetheless. I haven't updated this blog in over a month. Nothing happened at all worth mentioning? I'm sure something did happen. Political crap, celebrity deaths, new PBS specials. But I couldn't be bothered. I was too busy doing geography quizzes on Sporcle. Sporcle is the devil in website form. It's not overtly evil but you start one timed quiz and then another and then you're ninety. And you look back and think, "What is my legacy?" And it turns out it is the knowledge of East Timor's capital. (It's Dili!) There's all types of quiz categories but I'm currently obsessed with geography ones. Particularly, naming the countries of the world. I can spell Kyrgyzstan. And I didn't look it up either. Yeah, I know the former countries that used to make up Yugoslavia. But I don't want to brag. I do, however, think that one of my Time Machine wishes now would be to go back and compete on the kiddie game show Where In the World Is Carmen Sandiego? (I know, kill Hitler first. But if I also had time for something frivolous...) Remember the theme song by Rockapella? I'll give you a hint: it goes "Where In the World is Carmen Sandiego?" You may know it better as "Where In the World is Matt Lauer?" Yep, they adapted it for the special segment on the Today show where Matt Lauer travels around the world while the other three try to guess where he's going and try to guess what gifts he's bringing back for them. (Side note: they changed the Matt Lauer theme a while back and then this year scrapped the segment all together. Too expensive? Maybe. Meredith, Ann and Al complained? Let's start that rumor!) (Side note of Side note: How come Ann Curry gets all the dangerous locations when they send the four of them out? The Antarctic where she's freezing? Kilimanjaro where she gets altitude sickness? I bet Lauer's behind it. Let's start that rumor!)

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone! Really? Where was I? OK. Merry Christmas, everyone!

Room 1100: Located next to International House of Pancakes. Check-in in 8 minutes or less.

Room 333: I've Started This Thrice

My topics were "Wasps", "Retinol" and an untitled about how Jesus himself would have to come back to Earth to get me to go see New Moon. I scrapped all of them. Why? The wasp at lunch was annoying/funny/terrifying but not sure if the little guy warranted an entry. Not enough drama. No one was allergic and no one got stung. I cannot regale you with tales of epi-pens.

I also decided against going into detail about how Retinol is wreaking havoc on my face. I went to the dermatologist as a referral for a mole and left with Retinol samples and a $50 off coupon in case my insurance doesn't cover the full prescription. Also, got a crazy price list of cosmetic procedures that are definitely not covered. Again, not enough drama. The mole I had forever and was not the least bit worried about it. If it was going to cause trouble, it would have done so a long time ago. Unless, of course, my mole is as lazy as I am.

New Moon. Enough said. The only drama here is the insane rant that bubbles up in my throat at the mere mention of it.

Amenities of Room 333: Three complimentary meals. Three towel sets. Third Floor Suite.