the show must go on...

Alas, dear readers...or reader...

(I mean let's face it, most people find this blog by googling the word "farts")

I'm writing you to say that I am going to turn the lights down on the randonimity and set the stage for a new blog. A blog that talks more about what I'm doing now...a blog that will BLOW YOUR MIND.

(Okay, that's overstating it a bit...but still, go with me here.)

So, please, bookmark the following link...

http://www.tiffimprov.blogspot.com/

The new blog is called "Behaving Improv-perly" (See what I did there? A little play on words and shit? A lame attempt at humor...whatever...I was pressed for time. I went with my first thought. It's a lesson. A lesson, folks.)

So, feel free to reread the old posts here if you like, but really, you should check out the new stuff. Because that's where I'll be.

Thanks for letting me borrow your eyes this past year or so. You are [all?] fantastic.

2 months later...

I am a slacker.

I get it.

Don't sass me.

There has been too much going on to keep up. Lots of improv. Lots of harmless debauchery. Lots of fat, melting off my body (17 pounds...I know, right?!)

It's been about a year since I started this blog. Actually, I think it's been over a year. I think that perhaps I might just end this one, and begin anew. Something that tracks my summer. Because, you know what? 2009 is THE year.

For what?

Well, I haven't quite figured that out yet, but it's deserving of a fresh start. And with summer in sight, I feel like there will be much more to hammer out on this here keyboard.

Until that's set up, you know, check back and whatnot. Who knows, I might keep on updating the ol' Randonimity.

Betty freaking McCrocker

I know it's Betty Crocker...but I'll never forget the time at Indiana State when a bunch of us tried to make those cut and bake Pillsbury cookies and burned them to shit.

One of my good friends from that year was a bit baked herself, and when we laughed at her for burning the cookies, she replied with a slightly slurred, "What? I'm not Betty freaking McCrocker."

What followed was a perfectly placed bit of silence that turned into a fit of laughter.

Anyhow, that's all beside the point. Tonight, I bake. In the Betty McCrocker way...not the Cheech and Chong way.

Unless Cheech and Chong make Valentine's Day cookies.

And when I say bake...I mean bake. From-scratch sugar cookies with from-scratch icing.

It's gonna be nuts.

I may just capture this fiasco on video.

You know, thinking about my first attempt at college just brought up another memory about baked goods.

You know those Little Debbie brownies? The fudgy ones with the nuts in them? Well, I had bought some for my dorm room one time and it happened to be just before our RA called our floor to a meeting on our bathroom etiquette.

Apparently some of the girls had a hard time cleaning up after themselves...leaving things in the toilet...or dropping shredded pieces of t.p. all over the ground. Pretty disgusting.

What irritated me and my friends was the fact that we were getting scolded for other people's nastiness.

After the meeting we met up to discuss, and in turn hatched a plan.

We took a few of those brownies, warmed them up in our hands, and molded them like clay into, well, into a giant turd. It was brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.

We snuck to the bathroom, where we appropriately placed the brownie-turd on a toilet seat, and a little in the bowl.

Then we waited.

And waited.

And waited.

My friend's dorm was right outside the bathroom, so between snickers and laughter, we would just listen.

And then...the payoff.

The loudest, most disgusted shriek flew from the bathroom. There were even a few gags. Then a rush of people down the hall.

And finally, above all the commotion was the voice of our RA, "You guys! Come on. We JUST talked about this!"

She. Was. Pissed.

We were still in the room laughing our sneaky little asses off. They actually thought someone had shit on the toilet seat.

Amazing.

So...yes, tomorrow morning, if you work with me, expect cookies.

And I promise, no mushed up, turd-shaped brownies on any of the toilet seats.

accepting our oddities

I want to just put something completely random out there. (I mean, this blog is called Daily Randonimity...)

So, I've been thinking...every one of us has some sort of weird habit or routine or whatnot, that, more often than not, we keep to ourselves---only to be exposed to those who are extremely close to us. (And even then, it usually comes up by accident...)

Since turning 28, I've felt like really taking an inventory of my life---and owning up to every thing about myself: the good, the bad, and the downright odd. I think that's because I've discovered that I have a lot to well, discover about myself still. But the first step is to really look at the whole picture. I mean, sometimes I can absolutely loathe myself (typically about 3-5 days in a row, per month...) and other times I embrace myself. Not physically embrace, but you know, I think about what makes me like and unlike others and I try to appreciate it all.

But for the most part, I fall somewhere in the middle...one day I'm loving the way my butt looks in my favorite pair of jeans, or the way I took something overwhelming and turned it into something pretty darn good...while at the same time I'm hating my oily forehead and its never-ending crop of new pimples, or the way I stutter and trip over my words when I talk (which is, oddly enough, one of the reasons I adore the written word so very much).

But I'm digressing.

So, I've realized (and perhaps some of you have too...) I have this...well...I have a slight vocal tick. No really. It's like a little hum or vocal sigh that I don't typically notice. It's actually pretty funny (especially when I catch myself doing it).

Jeff calls it "beeping" which is a pretty good description of the sound. But it's something I can't really control. It just happens.

For the most part, nobody ever brings it up. I'm pretty sure it's because they don't want to hurt my feelings or have no idea how to approach it. But really? It's not a big deal. It's just a part of who I am---and it's involuntary...so there isn't much I could do about it anyway.

But anyways, after 28 years, I've decided to stop feeling self conscious about it, and instead I'm just going to accept it as a quirky Tiff-ism. Inner-randonimity if you will.

And I'll tell you what...it's pretty darn freeing...

*Beep*

$25 for 3 shrimp and 1 tbsp. of (mediocre) crab dip

So, my 10-year high school reunion was this past Saturday. I didn't post a picture because, well I didn't actually take any.

That's right. No pictures of my 10-year reunion. Why?

Well, although the effort was there, and I did have a nice conversation with one girl in my class, in all, the gig was lame. L-A-M-E.

Put it this way: Instead of wanting to find out how we all spent this past decade, the cliques of high-school past returned, successfully clustering together and not talking to anyone else.

It was brilliant. But I didn't feel bad. Quite the contrary, really. I was willing and eager to talk to everyone. I mean, 10 years is a long time, and it would have been nice to see what everyone's been up to. I said hello to everyone, tried to engage in small talk. Smiled. Laughed. Etc.

And when the responses weren't returned, I just sat back and watched the room. I didn't feel like I was the bigger person, or that I had matured more. What I did realize was that I have reached a point in my life where I know that I can't control the behavior of others, and that I can't hold it against them either. They are who they are. I am who I am. (That's very Popeye-esque, am I right?)

I left at a little after 10PM and headed elsewhere.

And, by the way, can I just say? The gas station attendant at the BP where I stopped to get a Red Bull was taken aback by the fact that I was attending my 10-year reunion.

"You're kidding me, he said. "Let me see your I.D."

I obliged.

"Wow. You look too young to be 10 years out of high school," he said.

"That's awesome of you to say that," I replied.

"It's awesome of you to look so young," he said.

(Okay, so I realize that last response was more awkward than flattering...but I digress.)

Regardless of the perviness factor in the attendant's amazement, it was nice to think that after 10 years I'm not showing my age.

Not so nice to think that I might have left the guy with a boner.

Hey, I'm just sayin'...

cooked carrots

I'm probably gonna get some slack for writing this. I mean, I know the past is the past...yadda yadda yadda. Whatever.

But look, I feel like I should note this realization about myself...because it's important...at least to me anyways.

I hate cooked carrots.

Seems like a non sequitur, I know. But really, that fact sparked the basis of my realization yesterday. I will keep this short.

I dated this guy for 2 years. Without going into details, it was bad news and he was completely wrong for me. Completely wrong.

He once cooked me dinner, and as a side dish he made...you guessed it: cooked freaking carrots.

To make matters worse, he cooked them in *gag* orange freaking juice.

My hatred of cooked carrots can be blamed on the odd sweetness the possess once they've been heated, combined with their semi-mushiness. Crap. I'm making myself ill just writing about it.

Add orange juice and you've successfully tripled the effect. So, in essence, you are now eating semi-sweet, orange flavored pieces of, well, if I may be blunt, poop.

It was disgusting. But what's more disgusting...

...I lied and told him they were fabulous. I even suffered through 2 helpings. Why?

Because I didn't want to admit to him, or worse, to myself, that this guy wasn't right for me. I was so concerned about making something impossible actually work, that I completely disregarded my own needs and feelings.

And I did it for two full years after that moment.

I heated up a Lean Cuisine meal yesterday. It contained cooked carrots. I did not know this and took a hefty bite...filling my mouth with those putrid buggers. The rest of my lunch, I managed to eat around them...but as I pushed them out of the way I thought about those carrots cooked in orange juice and I realized how far I'd come.

And I just wanted to put this out there:

A.B., your stupid orange juice carrots sucked...horribly. They were not yummy. I would not eat them in a box. I would not eat them with a fox.

moustache day

Today was Mustache Day at work.

This was what I brought to the table.

Of course, this was before my work logo, a set of keys, and Jimmy Hoffa found their way inside the 'stache.