gmail

You may have heard about it. And let me assure you that everything they’re saying about it is true.

I got my gmail account about a week ago from the wonderful Katie and, though I don’t intend on using it as my primary email address, caseypeterson (at) gmail (dot) com has assured me that the new wave of nifty internet conveniences is just around the corner.

A gigabyte of space? I’ll never use it. But if, somehow, I become insanely popular while in Indochina and I can’t access my Outlook Express, I can store loads of emails on Google’s servers.

It’s got a super-awesome layout, too.

You can only get an account via invitation and as of now, I haven’t received any. If I do, I’ll post here and the first posters who I know don’t have accounts already will get them.

The Doctor is In

I work at a summer camp at my church counseling elementary-aged schoolchildren. A few days ago, a little girl of no more than 6 told a younger girl that she wanted to kill her and her family. Oh, the hilarity.

In other news, my car broke so we took it to the guy who’s been our mechanic for 3 generations. His name? Charlie Brown. Seriously.

Redesign

I spent last week redesigning the Web site because, honestly, who uses phpBB for a blog?

Now made spiffy with Textpattern.

Plus, I got tired of the boxy blue background of the old site. It was like the Volvo of the World Wide Web.

Ugh, it’s running slow, though. I’ll work on that.

My Haircut

I broke down last night and got a hair cut. All of them.

Back in the day, when my parents would tell the barber (or, to be politically correct, hairstylist) how to cut my hair, they’d demand a #2 buzz on the side and hair relatively short on the top.

But since this past school year, longer hair has sort of been my thing. So, I told the young lady cutting my hair exactly what I wanted.

“I have grown on the thought of long hair as it has grown on me, so I propose a hair cutting as long as can be without curling. You see, my hair curls at one constant length on each strand. This creates sort of a wave effect, you see. I would like you to find this point, we’ll call it the apex of curlation, and cut roughly 1.5 centimeters below it.”

The young lady looked at me. I looked at her. She had no clue what I was saying.

“Oh, and a #4 on the sides.”

That did it. She didn’t want to play my childish, though thoroughly entertaining games. She started clipping away in an effort to speedily move me out of the local Supercuts.

That’s when it all began.

It started as mere molecules of water nestled within its safe spray bottle. But then the problem built itself up.

She sprayed to the upper left of my head, attempting to wet my hair. And that she did, although a rogue droplet distanced itself from the others that were meant to dampen my follicles. Harmless at first, it crept down my cheek inch by agonizing inch, coming to rest in the middle of my left cheek. And there it stood like an indignant child refusing mother gravity’s demanding grasp. It was there to stay.

Normally, an immobile water droplet wouldn’t be so bad. But in this situation, nothing could save me. Having already irked the hairstylist, I dared not move my arms to my face. She may have cut them off. Then what?

Minute by minute passed, each second becoming longer with the anxiousness built up within. Just then I realized. The young lady was Asian!

“Chinese water torture,” I said to myself. “What a gruesome practice for Supercuts!”

After I surmised this, my hairstylist caught on to the fact that I knew. She had to get me out as soon as possible, before a ruckus came about. She told me I was done, and I paid and left. She must have thought she got off scot-free. Wrong she was, ladies and gentlemen.

Right here, right now, I am proclaiming to the masses on the World Wide Web – Supercuts endorses torture within their properties in these United States!

Let it be known.

Smarter than the average bear

I remember one day during this last school year, as I was walking through the courtyard at school I overheard these kids and they said I looked like a bear.

Roar.

He's always around

I work now so I can generously give a mandated portion to him.

I can’t take right hand turns into the left lane because he says so.

I can’t become a hairdresser without a license because he doesn’t want to trust me enough to snip his curly locks.

Crossing at places other than intersections? Not on his watch.

I have some freedoms, but I’m not going to receive them if I don’t have the necessary paperwork.

What’s worse, my voice means nothing to him; I can’t even vote for him.

He is The Man.

And from this point forward, it has been stuck to the aforementioned man.

The Hot Game

Hot Game, The.
noun
1 : Game played by traversing long distances by automobile with windows rolled up and heater on its highest setting. Normally played in summer. Players win when the other gives up or dies, depending on the order in which such events transpire.
2 archaic : Title of cheap pornography from the 1970s.

Walking Across Hot Places Barefoot Game, The.
noun
1 : Game played by abandoning all footwear and running through paved areas in the hot sun. Normally played in summer. Players win when their opponent’s feet burn off and walking can only be achieved on the left over nubs of melted flesh at the bottoms of the shin.

Ian and I played both of these games today, the Hot Game on our way to and from the beach and the Walking Across Hot Places Barefoot Game (WAHPBG) when we got there. Now we’re predicting that blisters are to form on the bottoms of our feet. Oh well, life goes on.

Taco Bell

Today, myself being the healthy young lad I am, I walked up to the local Taco Bell for lunch. It’s not a long walk, three blocks and across Gulf-to-Bay Boulevard.

I started off at about 3:10, and made it there at about 3:20, maybe later. Anyway, I walked into the store and there wasn’t anyone at the register. No problem, I just stood there and waited. And waited. And waited.

I’m not a very vocal fellow, so I didn’t pipe up so that Maria in the back could notice me. This didn’t stop another customer who had already sat down with his food.

“Service to front!”

I thought this cry to be funny, so I chuckled. I wouldn’t be chuckling for long.

I made my order: A combo number 7, containing a chicken or steak quesadilla and a taco. I put some parameters on my meal, demanding the quesadilla be of the chicken variety and my taco be soft and lacking lettuce. Lettuce is gross.

No problem – I stated my case, had a $5.00 bill in my hand, and the transaction was going smoothly. That is, of course, until she did the unthinkable.

After I hand her my money, she dispenses 83 cents change, I say, “Thank you much,” and she says, “Sure, hun.”

I’ve never been particularly fond of pet names, but I’ve put up with them. Until now. The superfluous “hun” that little Maria entered into our business transaction wasn’t the sort of “hun” that a female says to a male. The way she presented it, she used the “hun” that one uses when talking to a six year old. A condescending, patronizing pet name. Granted, I’m short. Granted, I was walking up to the Bell in 90 degree heat. Granted, I may have looked helpless. I was not, however, helpless enough to warrant a name such as this.

And another thing. You do not introduce personal conversation into the transaction. Your job is to sell me tacos. My job is to eat them. Any other discussion or odd names takes from the professionalism of the two-bit operation you call Taco Bell.

Dimples

Sarah sent me this:

And what’s this?! I have DIMPLES!

This, if nothing, must make me cute.