The Incredible, Edible Egg (Oodle Doodle)

I have long been a sucker for wacky Asian anthropomorphic foodstuffs. Be it Beer-Chan or that burnt bread guy, I just can't get enough. So, imagine my delight when I came across this egg song through one of my random, pointless searches online.

I was first struck by the bright colors and annoyingly cute singing. But oh, the lyrics, and if you pay attention, the storyline.

My favorite part is the egg that dresses up like a cowboy near the end, and then turns into a pacifier for the screaming baby. What baby wouldn't be screaming at a bunch of singing, dancing eggs?!

Come into my tummy, oh so very yummy.

Yours always,

Zoe Doom

P.S. I haven't been writing much lately because my life's been a bit hectic. I can't wait to start again!

Taco Tally- update

Tacos eaten in 2008 so far- 84

My taco addiction rages on!

Love, Tegan Jovanka

Electric weirdness

I've spent the past eight days in partial darkness. To quote my maintenance man: "This is some Twilight Zone shit going on in here."

I've been sick with flu-like symptoms for almost two weeks now. It's been hell. Eight days ago I was taking an afternoon nap because I had a hoity-toity social function to attend, I was sick, and it was important that I be there. I decided to rest up, and I set my alarm clock to prevent oversleeping. Being the lazy bum that I am, I hit the snooze button. When the alarm went off again, I shut it off and went to my bathroom to take a shower. The lights in my bathroom would not turn on. None of them. I went back to my room, and the power was out there, too. My living room, however, had full power. My alarm clock had gone off no more than 30 seconds earlier. I called maintenance and it took them three days to come out here. They sent out fellow #1, who couldn't find the problem (he checked the fuse box, just like I had before him...no trouble there). He had some fancy voltage meter thing that shows that I have electricity coming from all the outlets in my bedroom and bathroom, but nothing works in either room. I had to move my "office" to my living room floor, where I'm sitting as I type this. I can't sit at my desk because I can't plug in my computer or broadband router or lights or, you know anything. So, the past eight days I've been sleeping on the sofa, bathing in the dark, and doing hair and makeup in the hallway. It's tiresome. More electricians are supposed to be coming out next week. If they still can't find anything, I'm going to start flying kites with keys attached.

Much love,

Zoe Doom

Bite Me

I feel like such a tool when I follow Zoe's meaningful posts with my silly rants, but here I go AGAIN.

So, I went to business school, apparently the most woman hating anti-progressive MBA program ever, i.e. The University of Washington MBA program, which happens to be an excellent, usually liberal school so I don' know what's up with the MBA program. I recently went to an alumni function and asked the Dean what they were doing to boost female enrollment, and he almost choked on the olive in his drink. You see, the percentage of MBA's who are women are usually around 25-30%, and guess what, our status as a minority in this context seems to embolden the champions of the patriarchy, who positively relish the chance to reinforce their belief in the inferiority of the weaker sex. Case in point-

While in grad school, I was a member of Women in Business (WiB), a national organization with chapters in practically every MBA program in the country. The activities of this club are devoted to supporting the success of women in the business world, where, as previously mentioned, women are in the minority and otherwise disadvantaged. (If there is any doubt about this fact, quick, name 5 female CEOs!) WiB is open to, encourages, and is practically falling all over itself for men to join. Like, duh, of course we would want men to support the goal of equality in the workplace. The events that WiB put on were things like talks by, you guessed it, women in business, symposiums on work-life balance, weekend retreats, which were, again, open to men and men did attend them.

To this day, I still cannot believe how many times a guy from my class would ask me if, on our retreats, we danced around in our nighties and had pillow fights. Seriously, do you not understand how that is demeaning, or do you just not care?

So a group of guys decided it would be hilarious to start Men in Business (MiB, ha ha, funny), a club devoted to mocking WiB and getting together in secret locations and, this is the most important rule, NO GIRLS ALLOWED. At the time, it was suggested that this might be a tat bit sexist, backwards, and completely childish, not to mention a total insult to the women in the program who faced challenges in their careers that these guys were apparently completely unsympathetic to, and to an organization (WiB) that is actually trying to fight prejudice and make the world a better place for everyone. The women who dared to take this position were vilified as ball-busting feminists, and the men who objected to this embarrassing spectacle were ignored and socially isolated. Did I mention that the majority of MBA programs across the country are trying to increase their female enrollment by making their programs more supportive of women? Gee, I wonder why my MBA program isn't interested in this goal?

Here it is four years after graduation, and on a list serve that is for our whole class, these MiB guys are still sending out invitations, "gentlemen" only, for get-togethers, most recently taking a stab at Hillary Clinton in the process of encouraging the men in our class to join them for camping and air-guitar. (I'm not kidding.) Some of us actually protested this invitation, and oh boy, how dare we! The most common response we got was just to dismiss the idea that the message was even sexist, i.e., "What gives you the right to hurl charges of sexism where none exists?" "Agreed. The charges of sexism are baseless."

Well, thank you for clarifying. I, mistakenly, apparently, thought that an event in which everyone from my graduating class was invited EXCEPT the women was excluding people based on gender, which in my mind, is sexist. In fact, isn't that the definition of sexism? But apparently I was totally wrong to think that I could form an intelligent opinion on my own. Thank god the men are there to define my experience for me and tell me how to think! I am so grateful. Having to figure out this man stuff on my own is so hard with my pea-sized woman brain. I am going to go get in my nightie and think about how much I admire these manly business men who hate women, which is totally justified because we are so uppity. Thank god they are there to put us in our place!

In other news of interest (to me), the Pittsburgh Penguins have made it to the Eastern Conference final for the Stanley Cup thanks to my goalie (and some other players, I suppose). Good luck Pens!


Love,
Tegan Jovanka

P.S. Ace!

Let's hear it for the rat-boys

(Cecil, left, and Roman, right)

My love affair with rats began in my 7th grade science classroom. My teacher, Mrs. Broyles, had two rats named Patches (a girl) and Justin (a boy). She bred them, and that's how I got my first rat, Toby. I've since loved rats, but didn't have any more pet rats until 2006. My desire for pet rats as an adult started on a whim. I scoured craigslist.com and found two boys that interested me. I named them Roman and Cecil. It was love at first sight.

Cecil, born in August 2005, was about a year old when I got him, and Roman, born in February 2006, was six months old. Rats only live to be 2-3 years, but Cecil was a charming boy and he needed a good home and I was more than happy to take the boys in.

Roman, the first day I met him (August 2006).

Since he was six months older, Cecil was the dominant male. I used to watch their cage like a television set; Roman would grab a bite of food and begin to eat it. Cecil would snatch the food from Roman's paws. Roman would look sad and then get more food while Cecil scarfed down the food he just grabbed. Cecil would then grab the next piece of food from Roman. Roman couldn't eat a thing without it getting stolen, and Cecil wouldn't eat anything he didn't steal. Sad, but funny.

Cecil had chronic respiratory problems, even when I first got him. He was always wheezing and coughing.

Cecil, December 2007

He was a dumbo rat, which means he had a genetic mutation that causes big ears low on the sides of his head. Sooooo cute.

He liked to run around the living room and chase my cat, Cleo. He also liked bananas and peanuts. On the morning of January 16, 2008, I found Cecil cold and limp on the floor of his cage. He was still breathing, but barely. I had him euthanized immediately.

Roman was the sweet boy. He was a blue berkshire rat, with adorable pink ears, feet, and nose. He was the more laid-back of the two. He preferred snuggling to exploring, and would fall asleep on me while I watched TV. My wonderful veterinarian told me that Roman was the most laid-back rat he'd ever met. Coming from an exotic pet specialist, that's saying a lot. Roman was a good match with Cecil, because he never fought.

When he was 15 months old, he had a bad ear infection which led to a permanent head tilt as seen here:


The head tilt led to a lot of confusion in my poor little boy. He often thought he was upside down, and he would flip over when it wasn't necessary. He always looked like he was asking a question. He still loved climbing up into his hammock, though.

I had Roman euthanized on April 23, 2008 after he'd felt cold to the touch for three days. He was responsive, but just barely. He couldn't reach his water bottle, and I saw him fall over backwards while sitting on his haunches. I didn't want to do it, but I didn't want him to suffer. I didn't want to find him like I found Cecil.

Roman, April 2008

He slept in my bed his last few nights. I slept with him nuzzled in my shirt to keep him warm. He didn't move much during the night, and he didn't chew anything up. All he did was sleep, cuddle, and give me little kisses. He didn't even do that much on his last day. He was just lying quietly.



I miss them both dearly, and they will never be replaced. They made my life much nicer for the short time they were with me. I love them both so much.

Cuddlebugs circa September 2006.

Rest in peace, Roman and Cecil.

Love, Zoe

Freaky Stalker / Sharkies!

You know those car rental commercials where the person's regular car is all jealous of the rental car, and is saying things like, "Oh, so she just goes to Miami and leaves me here for two days, and I'm supposed to pretend like she doesn't smell like new car? Oh, she was with a Prius. So suddenly she's an environmentalist," dripping with sarcasm? (They are showing the commercials non-stop during hockey games, so I've seen it, like, a million times.) That voice makes me cringe EVERY time I hear it. Waaaayyy too realistic. I've heard that voice before, and it's not a good sign. I don't know who that commercial is targeting- psycho ex-boyfriends? Disturbed individuals who relate to cars? Stone Temple Pilot fans? I'm not going to say which rental car company the commercials are for, but I'm never renting from there again. Seriously. Who is their ad agency, Stalker, Domestic Violence, and Murdered My Ex-Wife And Her New Boyfriend? Simpson, Dangond, and Peterson?

At least they are more tolerable than the eHarmony and Girls Gone Wild commercials.

Go Sharks!

Love, Tegan Jovanka

An exception

I'm on record with my lack of romantic / sexual interest in hockey players (despite my deep and enduring love of hockey). The official haircut of the NHL is the mullet, for crying out loud. Missing teeth, broken noses = not attractive. However, there are always exceptions.

As much as I love a guy with glasses (and I do), this picture of Pittsburgh Penguins goalie Marc-Andre Fleury doesn't do him justice. You have to hear him talk. He has the heaviest French-Canadian accent ever, and it’s unbelievably hot. I'm not usually a sucker for accents, but I guess the warm fuzzies I feel for Canadians cancels out the inherent sleaziness of the French, which confuses my brain when I hear the two accents combined, thus leaving me defenseless against the raw sexual power of the French accent and my repressed desire for Canadians. Yes, I admit it. Canadians turn me on. They are the perfect combination of niceness, intellect, tolerance, unpretentiousness, and beer-swilling passion for hockey fights.

Furthermore, goalies have been toying with me for years. In-between plays, they are constantly doing the splits and these stretches that make it impossible for me not to stare, entranced, at their ass. They may be covered with pads, but it’s still sexy. I am not ashamed, damn it. I am hot for Canadian goalies.

Love, Tegan Jovanka

P.S. Zoe, you’ll have to forgive me for following your touching and heartfelt post with my fantasies of touching our neighbors north of the border. I feel so dirty.