It's official...

I work too much. Not only because by the time I got home from work last night, my number of works hours for the week had already reached 35, but because I actually dreamed about work on Tuesday night. And it was a bizarre dream. We sponsored an educational conference last night, which provided the backdrop for my dream...

I dreamt that I left the office early, for no reason whatsoever, and found myself walking around in a tank top and undies. So I decided to take the bus home, and get another outfit, because I had to be back at the office by 4pm in order to make it to the conference on time. But when I got on the bus, I realized that not only did I not have clothes, but I had no money or house keys with me. So I had no way of getting into my apartment, and no way of getting back to work. I got off the bus in the park, and as I was walking home, I encountered one of my colleagues, who said she was there to help me find some clothes. Together, we walked to my place, and ran into my brother talking to a friend on a street corner. He lent me his house keys, and so I was able to clothe myself. But by that time, it was after 4pm, and I was late. And then I woke up.

Identity crisis

I'm a little disturbed by this...

Partly because I know the guy who wrote it. But partly because only 35% of them are true in my case. Does this make me only 1/3 Jewish? Or only 1/3 girl? Or only 1/3 Jewish girl?
I'm so confused now. My entire world is crashing down around me!

Google Update

As requested, here is the article in which I'm quoted as saying something extraordinarily dumb. You may need to be a WashU student/alum to access it.

I had to re-Google myself to find the link, and I saw a new entry. My name somehow made its way onto search site for cleaning ladies in Lincoln Park, NJ. How? Because I'd sent in an e-mail to Bangitout.com, and my e-mail was posted on the same page as the words "cleaning lady" and "Lincoln" (as in avenue). I never knew it was so easy to become a professional cleaning lady.

Tofutti Cream Cheese

...is really extraordinarily disgusting. If rubber were spreadable, that's exactly what it would taste like.

Someone's got a case of the Mondays...

I saw something truly depressing this morning. I had to be at the office at 7:30, which meant catching my bus a full hour earlier than I usually do. I figured the bus would be fairly empty. After all, how many other people go to work at 7:30am? The bus was full, passengers standing all the way to where the driver's seat. Somehow I doubt that all these people were going to work unusually early, like I was. This means they normally get to work at 7:30am. That's just wrong. And very, very sad.

I believe that there is equilibrium in the universe, which means that for every workaholic, there is a person out there partying away their life. Now, I've been working long hours for the past month, and that means someone else has been having extra fun for each extra hour I've worked. Well, whoever you are, I'm cutting your party hours down to 40 per week. I want my fun back! It's mine, and I no longer feel like sharing.

I got your Google right here...

I Googled myself. Not sure why. And I realized that, based on the sites that came up, my 'Take Over the World' campaign is not going very well. The sites were either from high school activities, my shul and community in St Louis, and a newsletter from a synagogue in Chicago I don't even attend. I tried to donate blood in their gymnasium, and my name somehow ended up in their newsletter.

The best part was the link to an article in my campus newspaper from my junior year, in which I'm quoted as saying something incredibly dumb about diversity. And I don't remember being interviewed, let alone saying anything that stupid. I say dumb things all the time, but I'm usually more eloquent about it.

Happy Happy! Joy Joy! #2

Yesterday was quite the day for simchas! First, a most heart-felt Mazel Tov to my wonderful supervisor, Karen, who became a grandmother yesterday, to a baby girl. Mommy and Baby are both doing fine, and Karen reports to this blog that not only is the baby adorable, but huge. 9 pounds, 2 ounces, and 21 inches long. That's a big bundle of joy.

Second, an equally heart-felt Mazel Tov to my buddy Yosef, who got engaged yesterday to his lovely girl, Tova. I had already been in a good mood before I got that news, but hearing about their engagement made my evening that much better. Not that it really matters, since it's their simcha. But we all like knowing that our friends are happy.

Mazel Tovs all around! Everyone go have a L'chaim this shabbos in honor of people who become grandparents, and people who find the person they hope to someday share and spoil grandchildren with.

Spring is here.

Big Brother really is watching...and corrected the previous version of this post.
Spring has begun. Summer begins in 39 days.

Fashion Preview:
The colors of Spring, Summer, and Fall 2004 will be Red, White, and Cubbie Bear Blue. This trend will continue through the month of October.

Oh, and by the way:
Welcome home, Greg.

Office Etiquette 101

The Coffee Maker is a sacred object. It pours forth that life-giving substance known in this dimension as "Caffeine." Some of us rely on this substance to help our brain cells function for a full day of staring at a computer screen.

Office coffee must be hot. Not lukewarm, and certainly not cold. The longer it sits in the little pot, and the colder it gets, the more sludge-like it becomes. The reason for this could undoubtedly be explained by some scientist with too much time on his hands. I'm not concerned with the reason. I simply know this to be true. It is also true that office coffee, by nature, tastes bad. Similar to how opening bands (unless they happen to be Ra'ashan or Farbrengiton) have a tendency to suck. It's just the way of the world, I suppose.

Therefore, there is no reason to not put on the warmer underneath the coffee pot. We all know it won't keep the coffee genuinely hot, but it will keep the worst of the sludginess at bay. I'm pretty sure that failure to keep the warmer on is an offense punishable by death in Texas.

This is Fun!

In that "really frustrating until you figure it out and feel smart" kind of way.

The Quest for Carbs

Where did they all go? Not too long ago, America was the land of the chocolate chip bagel (not a genuine bagel, but tasty nonetheless), muffins the size of your head, and greasy meat slapped between two buns. Carbs give you energy, they said. We could practically walk outside and pick the carbs off the trees. Those glory days are no more. It's gone beyond "low carb" menu items, and bestselling books on how to avoid the little buggers. It's now gone so far as to affect that most holy of art forms: alcohol commercials. Bacardi Rum has released a commercial advertising "Bacardi and Diet Coke: 0 carbs, 0 sugars, 65 calories." This is tragic, and a sign of a deeper evil: Dr. Atkins is trying to take over the world. I'm not even sure he's really dead. I think he's hanging out with Elvis, on a secluded island in the Seychelles.

The bad guys have been identified. Cara's World is now on a mission: to find, and consume, the missing carbohydrates. This is my world to take over, and I will not stand for any rivals. In order to prepare for my mission, I'm going to go make popcorn. This training will be very difficult...

Happy Happy! Joy Joy!

The guys on the radio said this morning that Valentine's Day (and Valentine's Day weekend) is the most popular time for men to pop the question. This year, Cara's World is pleased to report that such a statistic might possibly be true. Don't get excited...we're not talking about anyone directly associated with this blog. However, I would like to give a most heartfelt Mazel Tov to Jason and Noa, who got engaged this weekend. I can't wait to dance at your wedding this summer.

I'm so happy for my friend and his lovely bride-to-be that it doesn't even matter that my red rose died over the weekend. Apparently, they need nourishment. Something to live on, to make them thrive. This might be a metaphor for something else related to V-Day, but I can't quite figure out what the rose is trying to tell me...

Important Service Announcement

It is this blog's pleasure to provide you with this insight into Dubya's head. This is not to be undertaken by the faint of heart. His head is strange, uncharted territory, where no man has gone before. Or is it a hostile, barren wasteland? I can never tell...

Velvel, my friend...

You may be a Jewish rocker. But I am a Fraggle Rocker!

A rose by any other name...

Most people who know me also know that I despise Valentine's Day. It's just not romantic to plan a special evening because Mr. Hallmark says so. Besides, if your guy is so unromantic that he needs Valentine's Day to be pre-printed on all of his calendars, chances are he's not going to come up with something truly romantic for that day anyway, so you're just going to end up even more disappointed. A romantic guy doesn't need a reason to be romantic.

I usually tell my guy friends to make this stupid day romantic by doing something for their girl before February 14, when she isn't expecting it. Surprise them with flowers on February 10 or 12. Make them (or take them to) a candlelit dinner the weekend before. Show them that you care about them, not about impressing them and appeasing Mr. Hallmark.

That said, I do have to give major Kudos to the management of my office building, who handed a single red rose to every female tenant as they walked into the lobby this morning. That's both sweet and cute. It's also the only time I've ever been given a rose for Valentine's Day, which is really sad. Well, in high school, my friends and I would buy a flower from whichever student groups was selling them, and send them to each other. Senior year, I actually sent one to a boy. He was a sophomore, and my partner for an upcoming Model UN conference. I wrote a friendly little note, just thanking and supporting him for all the work he'd put into our preparation. Nothing romantic, just appreciative. The little punk then assumed that not only did a senior have a crush on him, but that he was cooler than she. Neither assumption was correct.

The Music in My Head...

I had a really random, annoying song stuck in my head as I was on the bus home from work last night, and I'm not sure how it got there. The worst part is that I only know two lines, so I was mentally singing "Jump! Shake your booty! Jump, Jump!" And I had this flashback to my summer camp days, and how we would have this all-camp dance once per session, with a DJ group called A-Z Entertainment, who would always play that song. We thought it was great. When we sang "Jump!" we would jump and turn 90 degrees. Then we would shake our 11-year-old booties. And then at "Jump, Jump!" we would turn 90 degrees each time. So we pretty much jumped about in circles and wiggles our bums, and we thought it was cool.

Not much has changed, has it?

Now if they only made a special beer...

...to go with this wonderful food concept. If they leave off the oysters and sparrow brains, maybe Hungarian will start carrying it in the frozen section. It'll be great for all those couples who only have 4 children at the moment.

Three times the charm?

I realized that I neglected to include one particular piece of advice for guys in my earlier post:

5) Do not ask a question multiple times in a row.

To illustrate, let's create a scenario. Let's say you gave the Girl your phone number at the same time you asked for hers. This means she has your number. Therefore, the following dialogue should never take place at the end of your phone call:
Guy: Do you have my number?
Girl: Yeah, I have it.
Guy: So you have my number?
Girl: Yeah....I have your number.
Guy: You have my number, right?

Now let's fast forward a couple of days. Let's say the Girl calls you, mostly because you've already called her twice in 3 hours, and she assumes you won't stop unless she calls back. Now, in order for her to call you, she has to have actually dialed your number, which means she has it. Therefore, there is no reason whatsoever to end the conversation by asking:
Guy: So, you have my number, right?

The Doctor is In

Please note the recent addition to my world: you may now leave comments on each and every post! Now your thoughts can also be read around the world.

Disclaimer #2: Cara's World, its subsidiaries, employees, groupies, and stuffed animals do not guarantee that they will particularly care about what you have to say. But they will read your comments nonetheless. Anything deemed inappropriate and/or offensive will be deleted by yours truly.

What's in a name?

Have you ever really thought about the silly things we name our pets? I'm sure that somewhere out there is a dog named "Mr. Kibbles" or a guinea pig named "Taffy." It's pretty cruel, actually. We don't name our children after foods (or shouldn't), so why do it to our pets? You wouldn't want your driver's license to read "Stir-Fry Smith" or "Cheerios Johnson," would you?

That said, I will acknowledge that there are parents out there who delight in giving their children names that will guarantee them lots of bloody noses on the playground. This is wrong. Kids will find enough awful nicknames for your child anyway, so you really don't need to give those bullies a helping hand.

Now, with all this in your mind, I want you to think very hard about the following crucial question:
If you had a pet platypus, what would you name it?

Announcement

I hereby draw your attention to a new blog link (Look left. See the category "Links"? Good! It's the one at the bottom.) This is the blog of my favorite munchkin in the whole world, who will someday call me Auntie Cara. First he needs to get really good at that whole walking thing, and then we can work more on talking. In the meantime, I invite you to read the thoughts of the cutest toddler in the world. He may even be more interesting to read than I am.

ADVICE TO THE MEN IN THE AUDIENCE:

When you first call a girl, after getting her phone number, DO NOT:
1) Call her cell phone at 10:00 am on a weekday, and wonder why she doesn't have time to chat. Some people have "jobs". They go to these "jobs" during weekdays, and do "work."
2) Respond to her "Hello?" with "Who is this?" You called her, remember?
3) Call her back two times within three hours, simply because she didn't call you when she said she would, and then ask her why she didn't call. Maybe she was trying to gently hint at something...
4) Try to be romantic in your very first conversation. Phrases like "You have a voice I could listen to for hours" are more likely to make her want to hang up quickly than call you again. Or at least, they will if that girl is me.

Unofficial Musical Review

After much careful deliberation, I hereby declare the plastic electronic saxophone to be the strangest, most un-cool instrument ever. This is the best picture of this bizarre noise-maker I could find for you. You really have to see it to believe it. I've only seen this thing played by one person, so I'll try to describe it for you: it's about 14" tall, made of silvery-grey plastic, and it plugs into an outlet. Then you blow into the mouthpiece while pressing whichever key you want (it makes no difference really, as this thing has no actual tone), and lo and behold! You are now the most irritating "musician" ever. Scariest part: these wretched things run about US$75 retail. I can't imagine paying that kind of money for such a strange, annoying "instrument." And this is coming from someone who plays an autoharp!

Dr. Howser, may I see some I.D.?

I was watching "I love the '80's strikes back" a couple weeks back, and I found myself watching whichever episode mentioned that TV classic "Doogie Howser, MD." I don't think it had ever really hit me before just how young that kid looked. This is probably because I was only half his age when the show was still on air. But now that I'm an adult (in age only), I have to admit that if someone who looks like that walked into the operating room and introduced himself as the attending physician, I would certainly have a few qualms. (Note: 'qualms' is a good word. Try it in a sentence today.)

Anyway, what brought good ole Doogie to mind today was someone actually making a Doogie Howser reference during a lunch meeting. This made me ponder what it takes to make a truly memorable television sitcom. I don't think it has anything to do with humor or the quality of the writing, but simply the preposterousness of the premise. Think about it: once upon a time, in the mid-80's, a group of TV people were sitting around a table, brainstorming for new ideas. Suddenly, someone sits up and says, "I've got it! We make a show about a kid genius who becomes a doctor, and then has to juggle the usual trials and tribulations of being a teenager with the grueling lifestyle of a medical residency program!" Even more bizarre is the thought that everyone else at that table then said, "Yeah! That's a great idea!" (Note: 'tribulations' is also a good word. But not quite as much fun to say as 'qualms.' Go ahead, give it a try. You'll see that I'm right.)

Shameless plug

I know all three of the people who read this blog are desperately wondering "Where will Cara be this Saturday night?" Wonder in desperation no longer, my friends! I'll be enjoying the wildly phenomenal musical talents of Farbrengiton, and YOU CAN TOO! 8:00pm, 2706 W. Touhy.

In all seriousness, these guys rock. As people, as musicians, as nice Jewish boys, they've got it down. And since I get absolutely nothing out of plugging their gig, you can actually believe me.

Quick Word from our Sponsor

Velvel, you will note that I have taken your hyperlink suggestion under advisement, and made changes accordingly. Your diligence is appreciated. Next time I see you, I'll pour you a drink.

Brownies, anyone?

Little known fact: back in the day, I was a Brownie. No, no, not that kind. I mean the junior Girl Scout variety. I remember that we had this induction ceremony every year for the poor girls whose parents conned them into joining our troop, and, during one part, we had to stand in a circle, holding hands with our arms crossed, and sing this little song that went something like: Make new friends, but keep the old/ one is silver and the other's gold. It came to my attention last night that, despite the somewhat nauseating rhyme, that little song is actually pretty true. Not in the literal sense of "Your friends are made of precious and semi-precious metals," (although I'm pretty sure at least one of the girls I lived with in college was actually a cyborg), but rather in the sense that hanging on to old friends is pretty fantastic. Life changes, people change, but some people remain just as awesome as they were when you used to hang out in the hallways in junior high. Here's to you, Xander. You rock.

Disclaimer

I realize that I have thus far neglected to add one very important disclaimer to my blog: I do not guarantee humor. I don't even promise it. My instinct tells me that many readers who stumble upon this blog may find my thoughts strange. Some may find them funny as well, but I think 'weird' is about the most I can give you on a consistent basis. That is all. You may go now.

Laugh with me...please

While I was watching the superbowl, I kept seeing commercials for the upcoming Grammy awards, and I couldn't help but notice Britney Spears posing while wearing...well, just glitter. This got me thinking about fame and the power of the public. I have clear memories of other less-than-talented young artists who acquired a bit of fame. Like the Hanson brothers, and their musical masterpiece with the genius name of "MMM...Bop." Sure, the song was on the radio for a while. But then we all got smart, and started to laugh at them, and lo and behold! They soon vanished, like chocolate at a slumber party. Now, I keep laughing at Britney. And she's just not going away, which makes me think that my laughter alone is simply not powerful enough. So I think we should start an international "Laugh at Britney" campaign, and together we can doom her to a life spent playing Tiddlywinks with the Hanson Brothers. Laugh with me, friends. It's for a good cause.

T-One Month and counting...

I get to see Adi in exactly one month. This makes me happy.

And since I want all of you to be equally happy, here's one of my favorite time-wasters. Now you can make yourself into someone else entirely. And then you will be happier. Or so one would assume.

Deep thoughts....?

Everyone, at some point in their childhood (preferably before they're old enough to be drafted), has the uncomfortable epiphany that other peoples' lives go on, even when they're not around to see it happening. I find it a far more bizarre notion that other people think when I'm not around. Consider it: every single person you know is thinking about something right now, and they're probably not thinking about you. They could be thinking about a tuna fish sandwich. Or perhaps contemplating Dubya's amazing resemblance to a monkey. Or perhaps attempting to decide if they would rather vote for Dubya, a monkey, or a tuna fish sandwich. Maybe they're not even thinking about tuna fish at all. Regardless, unless you happen to be a mind-reader, you have no way of knowing what other people are thinking.

This brings me to disturbing concept #2: mind-readers. What it they're real? What if that goofy-looking guy with the big nose on the bus can hear me thinking about how goofy-looking his big nose is? What if the thought-police actually are out there, and Big Brother really is watching? Have you ever thought about that? And if you have thought about it, and Big Brother does exist, then he knows that you've thought about it as well...