I Heard Tell

Molly.Schoemann@gmail.com (I Heard Tell) — Sat, 03 Jan 2009 15:46:00 +0000

Movin' on Down

Molly.Schoemann@gmail.com (I Heard Tell) — Tue, 05 Aug 2008 01:48:00 +0000

I've moved! But just a little. Now you can find me at I Heard Tell on Wordpress.

Come! Find me! There.

-Molly

Wedding Mania.

Molly.Schoemann@gmail.com (I Heard Tell) — Sun, 27 Jul 2008 17:01:00 +0000

Last night Brian and I went to our third wedding of the summer. Interestingly enough, all three weddings were for couples that had been together for around seven years. I think that seems like a good length of time to be together before you tie the knot. My parents were together for at least 5 years before they got married, thirty years ago. I'd much rather it be something where everyone says, "Oh, you're finally getting married, good."

Anyway! I always have fun at weddings, because I like to DANCE. That's right, I am one of those wedding guests. I will do the bump with your grandma, I will spin your 5 year old niece around, I will slow dance with your weird uncle (probably only once though). I will take my shoes off if they hurt and keep dancing. I will do the electric slide, the Twist; I will YMCA.

And that's the great thing about weddings, is that they are perhaps one of the few times when you are encouraged, nay REQUIRED to get out on the dance floor and shake it like no one's watching. Nobody wants to throw a wedding where no one dances. I am just doing my part. My gift might not be pricy, but my funky chicken will be priceless.

Movin' on Down

Molly.Schoemann@gmail.com (I Heard Tell) — Wed, 23 Jul 2008 00:15:00 +0000

After my last move, into Brian's house, ten minutes away, I swore I would never move again. Well, that was a lie. I am moving in approximately a week. This time not across town, but across coast! Along coast. Something.

Brian and I are moving to Garner, which is just outside of Raleigh, NC. I am excited about this change. Excited and terrified. I go back and forth between two extremes. Moving somewhere new, starting over and making new friends and finding your way in a new city and state, is fun and scary. Quitting your job without a new job lined up is inadvisable, but it's what I'm doing. My last day at work is Friday, and my next day of work after that is up for debate. On the one hand, I enjoy having time off of work. On the other hand, I also enjoy eating. Which of these enjoyable things will be in my future the most? We shall see!

Mmm, Sandwiches

Molly.Schoemann@gmail.com (I Heard Tell) — Tue, 15 Jul 2008 16:20:00 +0000

I have begun a small side-blog.

It's about sandwiches, because who doesn't love sandwiches?

A few weeks ago a group of friends and I emailed back and forth for several hours about different sandwiches we had loved and eaten, and I got to thinking. I decided to start collecting a list of these different sandwiches, in order to inspire the creation and digestion of yet more new and wonderful sandwiches.

Please, email me your favorite sandwiches, to molly.schoemann@gmail.com, and I will list them here:

www.mmmsandwiches.wordpress.com

May it serve as a sanctuary for lovers of bread, cheese, and everything in between.

Back in North

Molly.Schoemann@gmail.com (I Heard Tell) — Fri, 11 Jul 2008 21:38:00 +0000

Hi! I've been away! It's been awhile! I am sorry.

Holy Bat Museum!

I spent the last week in Louisville, KY for a conference. I have to admit that I LOVE traveling for work. At least, the traveling I have done for this job, which is the extent of my traveling-for-work experience. The only conference I go to lasts almost a week long, and the last two years, it's been in a neat city that I never would have visited otherwise. Last year it was Minneapolis, and this year it was Louisville. Last year I ended up having dinner with a friend of the family who convinced me to start this blog, and thus was born I Heard Tell. I also toured the Walker Art Center's Sculpture garden, home of Spoonbridge and Cherry:

Spoony spoon spoon

And visited the Mall of America. There were a total of FOUR "Lids" stores in the Mall of America. That's right, four of the same chain of baseball hat stores in one mall. It boggled the mind. In response, I bought a Mall of America shotglass.

Conference also means a week of high-class hotel living. This year my room had two beds in it! On the first night I started out in one bed, and then hopped into the other in the middle of the night for no apparent reason. I awoke in the morning confused, but somehow smug. This room also had two sinks, but no closet or fridge.

Which leads to the downside. Hotel living is not perfect. I don't love eating out for every meal, because I miss planning my own meals, cooking, and having a refrigerator. There is something bizarrely rustic about buying a bottle of cranberry juice and keeping it cold by storing it on a frigid air conditioning vent. And by rustic, I probably mean wasteful. You're kind of roughing it, but not really, but you're still not really comfortable.

You do get to expense your meals, which is exciting, although it still makes me feel guilty, because I work for a small nonprofit. Although last week one of my dinners consisted of cookies and pretzels, so I don't think the lifestyle to which I am accustomed was really a serious drain on my company's bank account.

During the one-week trip I suffered a fever and sinus infection. (Another thing I love about hotels is that you can pick up the phone in the dead of night and someone on the other end will tell you where you can buy Tylenol at 2am. ) I also endured a harrowing late-night illness after dinner at Joe's Crab Shack (perhaps I should have known that I was tempting fate by ordering the crab-stuffed shrimp; in any event I'm glad I didn't also buy a t-shirt from there because I now have enough memories from Joe's Crab Shack).

Despite all this, I had a fun time in Louisville. It seems like a city that's working hard to attract tourism. There were all sorts of cool museums that my convention-booth hours did not permit me to visit-- although I did get a chance to peer into the windows of the bat factory at the Louisville Slugger Museum. I think I gained about as much insight and entertainment by doing that as I would have by actually going on the tour, because they're bats.

The Strongman

Molly.Schoemann@gmail.com (I Heard Tell) — Sat, 28 Jun 2008 21:15:00 +0000

How do you go to the circus for the day and come back pregnant? Mrs. Bescombe asked her daughter. It was a good question. Sheila wished she could have answered it. However, she had
taken a vow of silence and did not feel at liberty to discuss what had happened with the Strongman.

His name was Stanley, and he was as charming as a monkey dressed as a dentist. Which is to say, that he wasn’t very charming, and there was definitely something unnerving about him.

When Stanley was a small boy, his father’s favorite thing to do was torment his son cruelly and
ingeniously.

“Stanley, you’re going to be a shrimp all your life,” he’d told him. At age six, Stanley’s father had his son convinced that he was in fact twenty-four.

“You’re certainly not a boy,” he’d say. “You’re a man all right, but a tiny one. Your mother and I don’t know how it happened, but the day we found out you were never going to grow to be a proper size was a sad one for us indeed.”

Stanley would listen, round-eyed. Had his father been a good man, Stanley would have worshipped him. As it was, Stanley spent a lot of time feeling conflicted.

“We kept it from you for as long as we could, but upon your twenty-third birthday” (actually his fifth), “we decided that it was high time you knew the truth.”

As was only natural for a boy in his circumstances, Stanley developed an unhealthy obsession with size. Once he figured out that he actually was a boy, a little boy but a growing boy, he stopped trying to worship his father and began to work on growing large enough to beat the living snot out of him. He achieved this goal at the age of 14.

His mother found this note on her husband, who had been left unconscious on the living room floor one Sunday afternoon. Dear Mom-I love you but it’s time I set off. Love, Stan

And that was that.

Stanley didn’t start out as a Strongman in the circus. He drifted from job to menial job and traveled from town to town looking for excitement. He stayed in motels when he had money and slept in bus stations when he didn’t. Eventually he got a job selling movie tickets and rented out a tiny one-room apartment above the theatre. Stanley didn’t mind the size of the apartment, though. It made him feel bigger.

Lots of things made him feel bigger by then, though. His favorite thing to do was eat, but his second favorite thing to do was to lift heavy objects. A large-framed young man to begin with, he was consumed by the need to make his body as towering and muscular as possible.

The manager of the movie theatre liked Stan because while he was rather insecure in person, he absolutely loomed behind the ticket counter. Nobody ever complained about the movies or the price of tickets or popcorn during Stan’s shift. The two of them got along nicely, then, and when the manager was given two free passes to the circus (which was in town for that week only), for lack of a son, he invited Stan.

Stanley had never been invited to anything before, and was delighted. He found the circus fairly amusing, although there were lots of little kids there, and little kids always made him feel uncomfortable. They reminded him of his childhood. When the Strongman came out, however, he was mesmerized.

Tim the Terrific was his name, and he had arms like cannons and pectorals like cannonballs. Three large barrels made of iron were rolled in from the sidelines. He hefted them up onto his shoulders one by one and then juggled them. Tim the Terrific signaled the end of his act by tossing the three barrels into the air and catching one on each hand and one on the bottom of his left foot, which he thrust out behind him.

But on the night Stanley was there, Tim, distracted by a pretty young mother in the first row, miscalculated slightly and kicked his foot out when the third barrel landed on it, sending it barreling out into the audience. A collective gasp rose from the stands.

Tragedy would have ensued had Stanley not acted immediately. He flung himself across the
bleachers and caught the barrel just as it was about to flatten a small boy and his dog.

There was complete silence in the tent. The boy’s snow-cone was crushed and he was badly scared, but otherwise unharmed. The dog had fainted, but it was a little dog and easily carried.

Stanley was a hero. The circus administration thanked him profusely and offered him a job as their new Strongman.

That is where he has worked ever since.

As for Sheila, she had been in the audience during the barrel-throwing incident. As a matter
of fact, she had been sitting right next to the little boy and his dog. The little boy was her brother, Charles.

Sheila and Charles lived with their mother in a tiny, run-down house on the corner of a run-down block in the less popular and more run-down part of town. But they were happy. Her mother sold cosmetics and her father was in jail for insurance fraud.

Stanley’s sheer enormity had awed her, as had his obvious pride in it. Most men as large as he walked awkwardly, as though they were ashamed of how tall they stood. Stanley, however, carried himself with the puffed-up, exaggerated manner of a much smaller, more insecure man. Sheila found it incredibly appealing.

She had gone home that afternoon with Charles’ hand in hers and his dog fainted away in her handbag. In the ensuing weeks, she found she could not get the picture out of her mind of Stanley crouched above Charles, his great strong legs planted on either side of her as he caught that barrel. Sheila knew she had to meet him.

Sigh.

Molly.Schoemann@gmail.com (I Heard Tell) — Mon, 23 Jun 2008 18:43:00 +0000

There is a certain children's book author that my company sells a lot of books by who comes out with a new 10 page children's board book every 48 hours or so. They're silly, and they rhyme, and they sell like HOT CAKES. I would like to be at that point in my career.

"Hey while I was waiting at the checkout line I wrote a rhyming book about toes. Now I have a billion more dollars! Sweet."

Sigh.

On the Loose

Molly.Schoemann@gmail.com (I Heard Tell) — Thu, 19 Jun 2008 17:31:00 +0000

Under the right circumstances, I get really excited about being locked out of my house.

The right circumstances mean:
-I'm wearing pants

-I have at least $5 on my person

Being locked out forces you to be spontaneous, and to fend for and entertain yourself with little more than the $5 in your pocket and the pants on your legs. Suddenly the day is full of unknowns. Anything could happen.

This happened to me the other night. I had planned on relaxing at home after a long day at work. Perhaps I'd make a martini, and see if I could cobble together a salad from the herbs I've been growing on the back porch (parsley, chives, oregano, basil...that salad would probably have been gross). I was even considering mowing the lawn, which is as high as an elephant's eye. Then I realized I didn’t have my keys, and no one else was home.

It's weird not being able to get into your own house. It makes you feel like a drifter, or a ghost, peering in the window at your unreachable possessions, freaking the dog out because he sees you and doesn't know why you won't come in.

After skulking around the perimeter of the house looking for an easy way in (i.e., a wide-open window with a ladder in front of it or an unlocked back door), I wandered back down the road and waited for a bus. Not THE bus, but really, any bus that would take me somewhere more interesting.

Waiting for any bus to come along and take you anywhere feels different than waiting for a specific bus to take you somewhere scheduled. It feels awesome! There you are; the wind in your hair, time on your side, destination unknown. For the first twenty minutes. Then it's boring and annoying, just like waiting for the regular bus.

I ended up in Sullivan Square, where I drank beer, ate Indian food, and watched So You Think You Can Dance. It beat mowing the lawn.

Column Archive: Honolulu Jobs

Molly.Schoemann@gmail.com (I Heard Tell) — Tue, 17 Jun 2008 22:04:00 +0000

Here's one from the good old days!

In the last few months, I have achieved a healthy balance in my working environments. In the morning I have an office job, and in the evenings I work at an Italian restaurant. While I am in the office, blearily watching the minutes tick by, I long for the hectic world of foodservice, and while I am at the restaurant, balancing awkward, heavy trays and splashing ice water everywhere, I long for the sweet, merciful release of death. So far, it has been a good system.

I wouldn’t mind the restaurant job as much if I weren’t in constant fear of being screamed at and/or fired. Mine is not a forgiving restaurant owner. There is a high turnover rate here—none of the other employees have worked for longer than a few months; all of us are fairly new. It is not difficult to see why; in this city there is a seemingly inexhaustible supply of bodies willing to bear steaming hot plates of gnocchi and salads buried in pine nuts across a polished wood floor, until the day they either die or drop something.

There is something almost exhilarating about knowing that your job hangs in the balance every time you cross the room. “Could this be it?” you think at every turn. Did I just make my last cup of coffee? Will this steak betray me? Might this soup be my undoing?

I am not good at selling things to people. I should probably not make a career of it, as it would not be a wildly successful career. I’m simply unable to make anything sound appealing that I don’t find personally appealing, which is a large part of selling things…possibly the whole part. I didn’t fully realize this until I began working with people who ARE able to sell things.

“The Tiramisu? Oh, uh, it’s ok. You might like it. I mean, I’ve never had it, but it’s…I mean, it looks pretty good.”

This is not the way to sell a dessert. My boss at the restaurant, the gay French boss, the one who could not be either more French or more gay or he would risk exploding in a blinding flash of gay French light, the one who spanks me when I mess up orders and who made me call his old restaurant on April Fools Day and make a reservation for Joan Rivers; now HE knows how to sell things. He could sell a can of ravioli on a doily on a plate for $23. Oh, you need a can opener? Excellent choice. Of course, there is an additional $7 charge for that.

In his case, the key to selling things appears to lie in mispronouncing words to make them sound more exotic and less intelligible. Somehow, when he says “Beef Onion soup,” it sounds like a magical, tasty elixir. When I say it, I sound like a grouchy, world-weary cafeteria lady.

Actually, my favorite thing to do is to warn people away from certain dishes. If my boss were aware of this, I would doubtless get more than a spanking. But I can’t help myself sometimes. “Don’t bother with the Lemon Delicious cake,” I’ll murmur, leaning in closer as the table falls silent and round-eyed, hanging on my every word. “It’s not that good. People don’t usually finish it.” If I know a certain dish is good (usually only because I’ve slunk behind the ice machine and scarfed up untouched portions when the boss wasn’t looking), I recommend it, but people are never as impressed by my assurances of deliciousness as they are by my candid admissions of mediocrity. Perhaps my real calling lies more in the area of food criticism.

How to Fight Aging

Molly.Schoemann@gmail.com (I Heard Tell) — Tue, 03 Jun 2008 15:19:00 +0000

One of the biggest problems with living is that it ages you. Every second of every day, you are literally becoming older and losing your attractiveness. You may also be gaining wisdom and insight, but last time I checked, those things don't tone your upper arms. While you may possess a multitude of scintillating qualities, flab and wrinkles are the easiest to spot. Sadly, you can't flaunt your life experience from across the room at a cocktail party, or put a pushup bra on your integrity.

The bad news is that you can't technically halt the aging process. The march of time is of course relentless and inescapable. The good news is that modern science has blessed us with a great many expensive and difficult solutions to the unsolvable problem of aging. So be a good sport, and consider a few of our suggestions. Look on the bright side—it's easy to get so caught up in desperately fighting the effects of aging that you soon forget that your efforts are ultimately pointless!

Without further ado (since reading gives you crows-feet) here are some handy tips for reversing the aging process:

No Laughing Matter

Whoever said "laughter is the best medicine" probably had a face like ET's elbow. The only thing laughter will ultimately get you is the fear-laced laughter of others, who are chuckling only because screaming is impolite. While it has long been lauded for tightening the abs (far better done at the gym anyway), and releasing tension (but tension keeps you young!) laughter also contributes to the deepening of lines around the eyes and mouth. You can call them “laugh lines”, but the joke's on you, Wrinkles McHideous.

Express Yourself: Depress yourself

You may be surprised at how detrimental facial expressions are to your quality of skin—and thus your quality of life. A friendly smile here, an anxious glance there—those superfluous actions add up. Every flicker of emotion that passes across your face takes its toll—and most of them are completely unnecessary when it comes to getting your point across. Unless it's the triumphant feeling of "It's my 20 year high school reunion and I just got carded at the door!", most feelings you have can be easily summed up by jotting them down on a post-it note, which can be presented to the necessary party. Not only that, but the by-products of emotional expression often include messy substances like tears, which deplete your system of vital nutrients like salt and self-pity.

H2-No!

Dehydration is another key factor in the fight against aging. While the constant consumption of liquids is often encouraged by clueless doctors and experts, drinking water leaves you bloated and puffy by causing your cells to swell unattractively with life-sustaining fluid. The human body can survive for nearly seven days without liquid—did you think it was a coincidence that it’s the same length of time as Fashion Week?

In closing, always remember: You can never be too rich, too thin, or too fetal. Every time you enter a cocktail party and all heads turn toward you in jealousy and despair, an Angel gets an eye-lift.

Damn you, Jordan's Furniture!

Molly.Schoemann@gmail.com (I Heard Tell) — Thu, 22 May 2008 15:03:00 +0000

I baked a chocolate cake last night, and it's Jordan's Furniture's fault. I had neither the time nor the energy to bake that chocolate cake. I needed to pack for a weekend wedding trip, and before I packed, I needed to figure out what dress I was going to wear to the wedding, and what outfit I was going to wear to the Friday night dance party before the wedding, and before I picked out my outfits and packed them, I needed to shower.

But before I knew what was happening, right in the middle of Two and a Half Men (come on, it's a pretty funny show, don't judge me), a Jordan's Furniture commercial came on, and that white-bearded and bespeckled Jordan's Furniture guy was standing in front of a bunch of beds, holding a giant piece of chocolate cake. I didn't hear a word he said. "I want chocolate cake!" I blurted. Brian looked at me. "So do I," he said, in wonder. Brian doesn't really care for dessert. Chocolate usually leaves him cold. But damned if we didn't both burn for chocolate cake with a passion that could not be ignored.

I cracked open 'Joy of Cooking', flipped to page 645 (Chocolate Cake Cockaigne-- Joy of Cooking delightfully adds the word 'Cockaigne' to the title of every recipe they think is especially delicious) and got to work. I melted down 3 oz of bittersweet chocolate, creamed butter and sugar, separated eggs. I picked out an icing and measured out butter and cream for it. The house filled with the scent of Jordan's Furniture-inspired cakelust.

Two hours later, while watching the dubious "My Super Ex-Girlfriend" (did they write that movie in one sitting and shoot it without a single re-read? What a waste of Uma Thurman) we sat down to piping-hot slices of Chocolate Cake Cockaigne. I hadn't packed, showered, decided on outfits. But I guess sometimes you have to prioritize. Sometimes the siren-call of chocolate cake must be heeded.

It's Edu-tainment!

Molly.Schoemann@gmail.com (I Heard Tell) — Mon, 19 May 2008 13:00:00 +0000

Any Book Club in which we spend the last 20 minutes casting the film version of the book, is the right Book Club for me.

So Many Damn Holidays

Molly.Schoemann@gmail.com (I Heard Tell) — Fri, 16 May 2008 15:32:00 +0000

Yesterday I opened an envelope from a school and found an invoice with a dime taped to it. My company had sent an invoice for $0.10 to a school, and this was their response. It seemed fair to me.

Later I got a letter from a customer with a $0.41 cent stamp on it, and a penny taped next to the stamp, in lieu of postage. Apparently you can do that, and it works. Or maybe the postal inspector was feeling generous.

Apparently, Thursday, May 15th was Tape a Coin to a Document Day. No one told me!...With words.

Can you please repeat that?

Molly.Schoemann@gmail.com (I Heard Tell) — Thu, 15 May 2008 15:37:00 +0000

Lately I have found myself saying 'What?' a lot when people are talking to me, because I didn't understand something they said. I mean, I say it a LOT. The scary thing is, I only say it around half the number of times that I WANT to say it-- meaning that the other half, I do my best to interpret, through context and tone, the general idea of what is being said to me, and I respond accordingly (and vaguely). This tends to work pretty well-- I don't find myself responding in a totally inappropriate way very often, because conversations don't tend to switch gears suddenly. By which I mean, if I am talking to someone about how lame our respective commutes are, and the person says something I can't quite make out while making a wry face and I respond with, "Right, totally, that sucks", chances are they will nod and continue, because they probably said something about how the T smells. However, in one case out of ten, they might have actually said something like, "But at least I can drive sometimes, and I really love my car," so that when I respond with "Man is that lame!" it throws things off a bit.

The problem (well, one of the problems) is that constantly saying, “What?” to the person you’re talking to also puts a damper on a conversation. So, it’s a tough call for me either way. Maybe I need to get my hearing checked. Maybe my ears are lazy—or maybe the part of my brain that interprets sounds is lazy. I feel that laziness is the root cause of this, and not hearing trouble. But you never know. I used to listen to the Mighty Mighty Bosstones pretty loud in highschool. Not their new stuff—the oldschool screaming Skacore stuff they did in the beginning. That’s right! I was cool.

Riding the Red Line, Part XVIIVXCM

Molly.Schoemann@gmail.com (I Heard Tell) — Wed, 14 May 2008 02:13:00 +0000

Blonde girl on the bench
your bright pink heels are awesome
and I covet them

Graffiti on T
dated with tomorrow's date
Boston thugs are dumb

Miracle Foods!

Molly.Schoemann@gmail.com (I Heard Tell) — Thu, 01 May 2008 01:55:00 +0000

If you’re like us, you try your best to eat healthy, but it isn’t always easy. With so many frozen pizza styles to choose from, how are you supposed to know which one is right for you? The microwaveable kind, or the kind that goes in your toaster oven? The single-serving kind where it actually is a single serving, or the single-serving kind where are you serious you’re supposed to only eat one I’m heating up all four? Wouldn’t your life be easier if you knew which kinds of fruits and vegetables are actually proven to possibly fight heartburn, and which kinds don’t do squat?

We’ve put together a quick guide to help you navigate the treacherous aisles of your local Market Basket. You might be surprised at what some of your everyday eats really bring to the table.

Avocados:
Eating too much of this fatty, pear-shaped fruit will leave you pear-shaped yourself. Lots of people tell you that avocados are ‘nutrient-packed’ and full of ‘good fat’. Those people are what we like to call ‘packed with lies’ and full of ‘bullshit’. They’re just trying to make you fat, so they look good when they stand next to you. The next time someone serves you anything with avocado in it, look him or her in the eye, spit on your plate and push it away. They’ll get the message that you’re onto them.

Pomegranates:
These shiny red fruits (or are they vegetables? we can’t remember) pack a walloping eighty percent of your daily requirement of pretentiousness. Seriously—all of a sudden everything comes in Pomegranate flavor, from lip balm to dish detergent. Pomegranates are the new “It” fruit because they’re supposed to be full of antioxidants or something. You know what “antioxidant” actually means? “Good PR.”

Potatoes:
These are apparently the vegetables that chips come from. You can actually eat them before they are made into chips, but we don't know how. Wikipedia tells us that another name for them is ‘tubers’. We think that’s pretty funny. Say it! Tubers.

Beets:
You may have grown up thinking beets are gross, but take another look. Still gross? Yeah, they totally are. Forget beets.

Wood:
If you’re a fully-functioning adult, you are well aware that wood is inedible. Which is too bad, because just two ounces of white oak contains enough vitamin C to fulfill your daily requirement seven thousand times over. Too bad all those nutrients are completely inaccessible, right? Mother Nature, you cunt.

Free Movies

Molly.Schoemann@gmail.com (I Heard Tell) — Mon, 28 Apr 2008 23:35:00 +0000

When Brian and I are feeling movie watchey lately, we try to find a very random free movie to watch (thank you, cable plan that offers free movies and is affordable when split between 4 people). We have done this twice and have thus far not been disappointed. The first movie we watched in this fashion was called "They Live". Directed by John Carpenter and starring Roddy Peeper (damn straight), it was thoughtful and engaging while still managing to be timefully 80s. The premise of the movie: Earth is gradually being taken over by skeletor-looking aliens who mask themselves as wealthy and powerful humans. You can only tell the alien from the human by looking at them through special (and hilariously dated) sunglasses. Looking through the sunglasses also reveals that every billboard, poster, newspaper and magazine in actuality has no content save the same few simple, subversive messages—“CONSUME”, “MARRY AND PROCREATE”, “STAY ASLEEP”. During the middle third of the movie, the ‘hero’ and his reluctant sidekick engage in a no-holds-barred alleyway brawl while the hero tries to get the sidekick to don the sunglasses. They beat each other brutally for over five full minutes, which felt like an hour. Every time one of them gets up and helps the other up and they start to laugh and you think they are going to stop fighting, one then sucker-punches the other. This kept happening until it was funny, and then stopped being funny, and then was funny again, and so on. Good free movie!

Shame is the New Pride!

Molly.Schoemann@gmail.com (I Heard Tell) — Thu, 17 Apr 2008 14:59:00 +0000

(A Women's Magazine Satire)

It's not easy being a single woman in these troubled times. A crumbling economy means shoe prices are skyrocketing. With our country at war, the best and the brightest eligible bachelors have been shipped overseas for increasingly lengthened tours of duty—and most will return with crippling physical and emotional problems that will make them depressing to be around.

Recent studies have shown that a single woman past the age of twenty-seven has a better chance of finding a door in the back of her wardrobe that leads to a magical land of enchantment than she does finding a date for Saturday night.

The odds, in other words, are against us. So what's a girl to do? Desperate times call for desperate measures. But there's no rule saying you can't be desperate with flair. After all, desperation in three-inch red spike heels and fishnets looks hotter than desperation in sensible flats. In this spirit, we hope you enjoy these three simple rules designed to help you feel like it’s raining men, even as the dating pool continues to drain.

Rule # 1: Stop Kidding Yourself

So your Mother insists that you're a great catch? Your coworkers are always going on about how they can't believe you're still single? Snap out of it, sister. You're no prize. You're still single because you've got problems. Did you think it wasn't obvious to everyone that you let your roots grow out completely in the last three months? Your cuticles are a disgrace, your taste in music is questionable and there's dust on your houseplants. People notice these things, for heaven's sake. Remember that guy you turned down for a date because he was only a plumber and you thought you could do better? Think again. Do you see any other men lining up to snake your drain? Maybe you'd better pick up the phone. He could be your last chance. Of course, you're welcome to wait around for someone more deserving to come along, but don't come crying to me in ten years when your cat has a restraining order against you.

Rule # 2: No More"What Ifs"

We've all had that relationship that seemed perfect at the time, but somehow just didn't work out. Well, we're all fools. Stop biting your nails and watching Gilmore Girls reruns while wondering what it would have been like if you could have just tried a little harder with that special ex. Get out your little black book and call him up, right now. I'll wait here.
Why, maybe it was just bad timing the first go-around. Maybe he wasn't ready for commitment, or you had just gotten out of another relationship. Maybe you hated his family. Or he wanted you to get a boob job. Or you belittled his limited vocabulary one time too many. Maybe he kept knocking up stewardesses. Whatever minor quibble came between you, surely the passage of time has healed it by now?

Where love once grew, love can grow again, if you only open up your heart and make a few sniveling phone-calls. Don't forget that as an ex, he already knows that you have hideous morning breath and ugly toes! If he's even willing to give it another shot with someone like you, consider yourself lucky. Even if you find yourself in the exact same unhappy boat you were in before, you should cling to him for dear life. After all, you're older now, and it's scarier to be on your own. You don't want to worry about "what if" you find yourself dying and alone and have to dig your own sad little grave.

Rule # 3: Listen and Learn

This rule is very straightforward, and it can be boiled down to one simple phrase: Do what others say you should. Why bother learning to trust your own confusing instincts, when it’s so obvious to everyone around you what you’re doing wrong? Never underestimate the authority of family, friends, coworkers, and complete strangers when it comes to telling you how to dress, who to see, and what to do with your life. If I know you, you are deluged every day with well-meant words of wisdom that you do not heed. Thoughtful advice like, “you’d look better with blue eyeshadow”, and “maybe he wouldn’t cheat so much if you weren’t such a needy whiner”. You hear this advice, but you don’t listen, and it’s probably costing you valuable happiness.

In Closing:

Ladies, remember those heady days of your youth, when you struck out on your own, determined to make a name for yourself in the world and compromise nothing for your values? You were so funny back then. And you've learned quite a lot in the intervening years; the most important thing being that your values are meaningless if you can't even keep a man around to half-listen amusedly while you try to explain them to him. I hope these three simple rules will provide you with the support and guidance you clearly need in order to make it in tough times.

Always remember, there is no shame in being alone, as long as you are always and at every moment doing your best to claw your way into the arms of a man.

Mail!

Molly.Schoemann@gmail.com (I Heard Tell) — Wed, 02 Apr 2008 19:40:00 +0000

There is never a dull moment when I open the mail at work.

Well, all right. That's not true. There are mostly dull moments. But I am guaranteed that at least one or two pieces of mail a week will make me laugh. This is partly due to my low amusement threshold, and mostly due to the fact that weird stuff comes in the mail.

Monday we got a flyer from a company that sells urine and saliva drug testing equipment. They had little cups laid out on an attractive background and spoke glowingly of fast and reliable results. Mm!

Today I received a mailing from American Express offering us a business credit card. The mailing was addressed to "Menopause Society" at our company's street address.

For those of you who are not aware, I do NOT work for the Menopause Society, as disappointing as that might be. In fact, the name of my company could not ever remotely be mistaken for the Menopause Society, which, Google tells me, is actually located in Ohio and is called the North American Menopause Society, or NAMS.

Heehee. NAMS.

Oh the Hubranity

Molly.Schoemann@gmail.com (I Heard Tell) — Tue, 01 Apr 2008 01:57:00 +0000

I made bran muffins this weekend. I was really excited to do so. I even invited friends to come over and have bran muffins with me, which is borderline insane. They passed on the offer. At the grocery store checkout I looked at the items in front of me on the conveyer belt and felt shame. Bran, Honey-flavored Wheat Germ, raisins, applesauce. The excitement!

Then when I made the muffins, I forgot to add baking soda to make them rise. I took them out of the oven looking more or less the same way they'd looked going in.

"At least I didn't waste any tasty ingredients," I said to Brian over the phone. "I'm not going, 'oh no! My expensive chocolate chips and my dried cranberries!' I'm going, 'oh, darn. My bran.' "

Although their consistency more closely resembles a giant rubber bathtub drain stopper than anything else, all things considered they're kind of tasty. To me. I will eat them. All I wanted was something to eat in the mornings that would keep me from being hungry for hours, and that's just what they do.

Sometimes it's fun opening the mail at work.

Molly.Schoemann@gmail.com (I Heard Tell) — Tue, 01 Apr 2008 01:55:00 +0000

Yesterday I got a press release "Introducing the Wireless Moose Fence".

It will instantly train Moose to stay out of my yard and garden.

Each box contains 3 posts and one year scent supply.

I really liked wolves that time.

Molly.Schoemann@gmail.com (I Heard Tell) — Mon, 31 Mar 2008 15:56:00 +0000

There's a story by Jack London that ends with a man who commits suicide by swimming out and drowning himself in the ocean. I can't remember what it's called and google isn't helping me right now. Wait-- it's called 'Martin Eden'. Having had asthma since I was a child, I have always been terrified of dying by suffocation. The haunting description of the character's drowning has always stayed with me, even though I clearly don't remember much else about the book. I have always remembered the last line, which was, "And at the instant he knew, he ceased to know."

Man, I used to love Jack London. I remember reading Call of the Wild and White Fang, which were more or less age-appropriate at the time (I was ten or eleven). But then I went on to read The Sea Wolf, which involved murder, attempted rape, horrible wasting diseases and keel-hauling (from what I can recall), and John Barleycorn, which I now know is the story of Jack London's alcoholism from a very young age; at the time I had absolutely NO idea what it was about. Really. I didn't even know it involved alcohol. I was a naive kid. In fact I even remember writing a book report on John Barleycorn. It was probably not a very good book report, because I probably thought the book was the story of John Barleycorn's life, as told to Jack London by John Barleycorn. This is untrue.

I also loved the story "To Build A Fire", about a man who freezes to death in the fridgid wilderness (of Alaska?) after his matches go out and he can't make a fire to warm himself. As a desperate last resort, he tries to kill the dog he is traveling with, so he can stick his hands in its insides to warm himself. I remember thinking that was pretty cool. As naive as I was, I was still a ten year old.

A Friday Work E-Mail

Molly.Schoemann@gmail.com (I Heard Tell) — Thu, 27 Mar 2008 13:13:00 +0000

From: 'Molly Schoemann'
Sent: Friday, December 28, 2007 2:04 PM
To: 'Dave'
Subject: Redwall Books

Hi Dave,
Below are the titles from the NINETEEN Redwall books, by Brian Jacques. I think I read about 3 of them back in the day. For each title, if it’s possible to also know how many copies were produced, and what we billed for the job, that would be great.

Please let me know if there’s anything I can do to make the search easier? Thank you!

-Molly

Redwall

Mossflower

Mattimeo

Mariel of Redwall

Salamandastron

Martin the Warrior

The Bellmaker

Outcast of Redwall: A Tale from Redwall

Pearls of Lutra: A Tale from Redwall

The Long Patrol: A Tale from Redwall

Marlfox: A Tale from Redwall

The Legend of Luke

Lord Brocktree: A Tale from Redwall

Taggerung

Triss

Loamhedge: A Tale from Redwall

Rakkety Tam: A Tale from Redwall

High Rhulain

Eulalia

Brian Jacques Needs a New Condo in Bermuda: A Tale from Redwall

(Ok, I made that last one up.)

I should be ashamed, and I am.

Molly.Schoemann@gmail.com (I Heard Tell) — Fri, 21 Mar 2008 17:45:00 +0000

I have become obsessed with several celebrities lately. ‘Celebrity’ might not be the best term for any of them, but it’s probably the kindest. Since the internet is the internet, there are myriad ways for me to indulge this new fixation. I can find dozens of pictures of them, read interviews with them and find news stories and gossip about their crazy lives. This only fuels the fire!

First Up: Gary Busey.

There is almost nothing about Gary Busey that doesn’t simultaneously fascinate and terrify me. I love his pearls of crackhead wisdom. His face looks like a bowl of angry bread pudding with dentures. He rambles on like a drunken prophet and you can’t help but think that he’s either out of his mind or he’s on a completely different level of consciousness than the rest of us. If I ever reached that level I would be dead in 5 minutes.

I marveled at his interviews from the DVD Extras for 'Point Break'. While every other interview took place on a sound stage (and I think they interviewed everyone who had anything to do with that movie, from some random surfers who saw it to the guy who stocked the pastry cart), Gary was filmed on the porch of a cabin somewhere in the woods. I think he told the producers, “You want to talk to me? Fine. Come find me.” He is wearing a hunting cap, and even though you only see him from the shoulders down, it’s obvious to me that he is cradling a shotgun in his lap. His answers to questions are completely random and even though they probably tried to edit them into some semblance of a normal, linear conversation, it’s clear they would make the same amount of sense played both forwards and backwards.

As much time as I spend googling him, were I to actually meet Gary Busey on the street I would run the other way. This is a common theme among my internet obsessions.

Next Up: Pete Doherty.