WTF?

At the institution where I pick up my paycheck (no, not the unemployment agency), they offer a "personality" test as part of soft skills training. One in particular, the gateway course to other equally soft courses, is called TDF. The letters stand for Thoughts, Decisions, and Feelings. Once you complete a comprehensive vocabulary test of adjectives about yourself you are assigned the three letters in a certain order. The first letter is the most dominant trait you possess. Most participants who are analytical are often disappointed to learn they are an F--. Yet, in reality, the F'ers are better off than the T'ers because they are more intuitive and see the grand scheme beneath the surface. It turned out I'm a TFD, and I know this is true because I am terrible at deciphering song lyrics.

Lately, I've been introduced to Panic! At the Disco's "A Fever You Can't Sweat Out" album. Can I just say it is simply dyslexically brilliant. I didn't realize the irony of the title until after I listened to the entire album a few times and decided to take notice of the lyrics. (This is quite an accomplishment for a song, let alone an album, as I am a beats and melodies kinda gal. ) First off, the song titles alone are enough to get your mind wondering as to what the band is trying to get across. Then you move onto the lyrics and tunes as you peel back the layers of this discombobulated onion. Even the musical styles they incorporate are sarcastic. The whole album is brimming with symbolism and nuances someone like me would never fully solve in a lifetime.

Right now, my favorite song is Camisado, which in archaic Spanish (archaic Spanish?! Where do these guys come up with these things) means nocturnal ambush. The words that stood out to me the most were "Just sit back and relax...sit back and relapse...therapeutic chain of events." At first I thought the song was preaching don't sweat the little things, but upon further examination it takes place in a hospital. Some things that came to mind were child abuse, like a stepfather taking advantage of a stepchild in the middle of the night or perhaps domestic violence and the child ends up in the hospital while trying to protect his/her mother. In either case, the soul is floating around taking in the hospital as the corpeal entity is unconscious. Then I read some threads and people were saying the song was a Fight Club reference, which made the "decorated emergency" fit a lot better than when I thought it was "decorating emergency" and thought of a crack whore. The Fight Club reference really hit it home for me with the "therapeutic chain" of events; it reminded me of that one time when I shanked an old man at a pub. Good times, good times....


Lyrics for your reference.

PANIC! AT THE DISCO LYRICS -- "Camisado"
The I.V. and your hospital bed
This was no accident
This was a therapeutic chain of events
This is the scent of dead skin on a linoleum floor
This is the scent of quarantine wings in a hospital
It's not so pleasant
And it's not so conventional
It sure as hell ain't normal
But we deal, we deal
The anesthetic never set in and I'm wondering where
The apathy and urgency is that I thought I phoned in
It's not so pleasant.
And it's not so conventional
It sure as hell ain't normal
But we deal, we deal
Just sit back, just sit back
Just sit back and relax
Just sit back, just sit back
Just sit back and relapse again
Can't take the kid from the fight
take the fight from the kid
Sit back, relax Sit back, relapse again
Can't take the kid from the fight
take the fight from the kid
Just sit back, just sit back
You're a regular decorated emergency
You're a regular decorated emergency
This is the scent of dead skin on a linoleum floor
This is the scent of quarantine wings in a hospital
It's not so pleasant.
And it's not so conventional
It sure as hell ain't normal
But we deal, we deal
The anesthetic never set in and I'm wondering where
The apathy and urgency is that I thought I phoned in
It's not so pleasant.
And it's not so conventional
It sure as hell ain't normal
But we deal, we deal
Can't take the kid from the fight
take the fight from the kid
Sit back, relax Sit back, relapse again
Can't take the kid from the fight
take the fight from the kid
Just sit back, just sit back
Sit back, sit back, relax, relapse
Sit back, sit back, bababada
You can take the kid out of the fight
You're a regular decorated emergency
The bruises and contusions will remind me what you did when you wake
You've earned a place atop the ICU's hall of fame
The camera caught you causing a commotion on the gurney again
You're a regular decorated emergency
The bruises and contusions will remind me what you did when you wake
You've earned a place atop the ICU's hall of fame
The camera caught you causing a commotion on the gurney again
Can't take the kid from the fighttake the fight from the kid
Sit back, relax Sit back, relapse again
Can't take the kid from the fighttake the fight from the kid
Just sit back, just sit back
Sit back, sit back, relax, relapse
Sit back, sit back, bababada
You can take the kid out of the fight
The I.V. and your hospital bed
This was no accident
This was a therapeutic chain of events

(Or maybe, it's decrying the horrible state of our healthcare and hospital system. Perhaps a personal experience had them so frustrated they went ballistic in the ER and had to be calmed down. Any takers?)

See Through, or not See Through? That is the Question.

Now that Memorial Day is over, fashionistas everywhere east of the Mississippi herald the short window to wear white until Labor Day. No, I am not talking about the KKK convention but white shoes, pants, shirts, or all of the above. Unfortunately, the biggest trap of wearing white in the summer is the see-through factor, especially magnified by the blazing sun. For most, and by that I mean women, see-through clothing whether accidental, incidental, or intentional, is less of a fashion faux pas than a male counterpart commiting the same crime.

However, if you are blessed with a penis and you must wear white pants that are see through against your own best judgement and the advice of your gal pal, here are a few tips:

1. Don't wear picket fence white, it's too harsh. Look for off-white or linen pants.
2. If you don't/can't try on the pants, then do the hand test. Place your hand under the fabric as it is meant to be worn (i.e. if it's lined then put it under both layers). If you can see the outlines of your fingers through the fabric of the pants (especialy at the seat), it's see through.
3. If you try it on and you can see the pockets through the pants, it's see through.
4. Should you still buy the pants after it fails steps 2 and 3, make sure to pair it with a shirt that is long enough to cover your bum. And most importantly, DO NOT tuck in the shirt! Tucking in is a dead giveaway, think step 3.
5. It also doesn't hurt to wear nude color underwear (that does not mean commando).

If after following steps 1-5 and you still solicit giggles from ladies or outright ridicule from your buddies who know better, you have no one to blame but yourself. Just because you think you look like Derek Zoolander and have perfected Magnum, that doesn't mean you can wear see through pants with your red Transformer underwear.

Ode on a Wine Bucket, Part Deux

Recently, we wined and dined at our usual wine and dinner place. To our great disappointment, the food and wine was not worth blogging about. Although, there were some memorable moments as we made fun of each other in our drunken state.

The night started tame, starting out the gate with a Sauv Blanc. Unfortunately, it was too happy for Aling's palate. The second wine was a Chard, suprisingly good, but I am a firm believer in not paying over $20 for white wine, especially a Chardonnay. Third wine, Pinot Noir, one step behind Sideways' F***ing Merlot (shhh, there are wine present). This one was fruity, like our friend Renon. Unfortunately, it could not stand on its own without the sausage dish it was paired with, again, much like our friend Renon. Last, but not least, good ol' Cab. The nose holds potential for the future. Definitely a teenager in wine years. I highly recommend to pedophilic oenophiles.

Roommate Rant

It's nearly 11pm, and I'm in my room with my door shut. The news is on and I'm surfing the net. My roommate comes home and calls out my name. I don't answer hoping he would think I'm asleep. He proceeds to knock on my door. Seriously? A closed door should signify I'm turning in for the night but maybe not in crazy Bible land. I get off my bed and open the door.

Me: What's up?
Roommate: Does it feel humid to you?
Me: (puzzled look) No?
Roommate: It's nice and cool outside, but I come in here and it's humid. (Gestures imaginary weight bearing down on him)
Me: (shakes my head) No, I didn't notice anything...

This goes on for about 5 minutes. And he finally gives up. Is it possible he's getting male menopause? Humidity flash? Seriously? I cannot say that word enough. He does have a cold after all. Did it ever occur to him that his body sensors may be out of sync?

I could understand if there's a broken window, a flood, or even a fire to disturb me. But humidity? Lemme call the fire Marshall.