Interview with JTT!

Question: Did I, with vague wording, entice you to click on the title of this post, thinking that I, lowly SVB, interviewed the one and only Jonathan Taylor Thomas?

Answer: Yes. Yes, I did. I make no apologies. Because while I myself did not interview the late 90s teen heartthrob, Entertainment Weekly did. To be honest, the interview was actually pretty boring. The kid (well, he's--gasp!--30, so I guess he's no longer a kid) hasn't done much of anything besides a few stints on Smallville and Veronica Mars and generally LIVING LIKE A BOSS:

"I’ve been going to school, and traveling quite a bit, getting to read a lot of books I’ve wanted to for quite some time."

But no matter. Just the mere mention of the letters "JTT" transports me back to a time when piles of Bop Magazines took up way too much space under my bed, posters of JTT were plastered on my walls, and Home Improvement and Man of the House were considered regular viewing.They also bring back the memory of when Meagan and I co-wrote a fan letter and decorated the envelope with sayings such as, "I <3 JTT" and "Home Improvement RULES!" in colorful magic marker, because BOP said that decorated envelopes were more likely to get read by the celebrity. Here's what we got in return:

A mass-generated auto-response.

Don't worry, we weren't disappointed. Receiving a picture of JTT, even one as impersonal as an auto-response, was still thrilling. He could just do no wrong. We understood that he was very busy filming Pinocchio and Tom and Huck.We didn't hold it against him.

Entertainment Weekly also organized a Home Improvement cast reunion, which made me curse the fact that I do not read entertainment magazines. Sometimes the loss of a few brain cells is worth it to see Al Borland still working that flannel LIKE A BOSS in 2012. But you know who I was most surprised by? Patricia Richardson and Heidi. They are looking phenomenal. And as for JTT? Aside from being a little pale with messy hair, he's still adorable. In other words, I'd still hit it. 

I'm going to wrap up this nonsensical post with the wedding scene from Man of the House because it's awesome and features that bad-ass Enigma song that I will forever associate with the movie. 

I'm Afraid I Might be a Hipster

Last week, I shared an elevator with a woman who was raving to her friend about the Starbucks Gold Card. I asked if she was a member, and she enthusiastically responded in the affirmative. The thought that immediately popped into my mind was, Ugh. That's so corporate, even though I have had more than my fair share of Starbucks.

I'm not proud. It's thoughts like this that make me scared I might be turning into a hipster. That and the fact that although I *technically* don't own any ironic tees  (verdict is still out on the hot pink "Pink Ladies" shirt I bought at Old Navy), I do tend to gravitate toward them and have the desire to purchase one that has the Camp Anawanna logo.

Help!

Why I'd Never Use Elimination Communication With My Future Children

While I was screwing around online the other day, I ran across the "latest technique" in parenting: elimination communication (EC). Basically, EC is a method that doesn't utilize diapers. Parents watch for cues from their child that indicate the child needs to use the bathroom, then haul ass to get that kid over a toilet, sink, garbage can, bush, paint can, dog's water bowl, you name it, so the kid can do his or her business then go along his or her merry little way and resume playing blocks or writing on the walls with crayon or whatever it is kids do. No muss, no fuss. The parents save a shit-load of money on diapers and feel like they're doing something positive for the environment, and the kid gets a head-start on potty training. Everyone wins.

If I ever have kids, chances are I will not use this method. Aside from offending my fashion sense (for someone to wear only half an outfit, even if that someone is two, is just plain wrong), I wouldn't use EC for the simple fact that it's not fair. To me.

Kids have the maddening advantage of being able to get away with stuff adults can't on the premises that they're cute and young enough to get away with it. Thus, a kid gets away with being able to run around without pants or undergarments because nobody is offended by his or her lower torso nudity. DO YOU REALIZE HOW COMFORTABLE THAT KID MUST BE?! He or she can just play with his or her Barbies or He-Man action figures without a frigging care in the world, unhindered by clothes. If he or she has dimples on his or her butt, it's adorable and not, "OHMYGOD, has that person ever heard of lunges? What a nasty-ass cottage cheese backside!" The only judgement would be directed at the parents (for letting their kid run around pantsless) and not at the kid. Sounds like a pretty sweet deal to me. But switch out the adorable toddler for a 45 year-old woman named Greta, and people are all, "What is wrong with that woman? Why doesn't she have any pants and underwear on? Is she mentally handicapable?" Poor Greta. All she wanted was to walk the high school track in comfort.

So, no, EC is not in the cards for my future children. They'll be able to get away with enough things based on their cuteness, and I'm not consciously adding a sweet, pants-free life to the list.

Drunk Baby Boomers Can Be Assholes

Tonight, I went to the Tab Benoit concert at Skipper's Smokehouse. If you have never heard of Tab Benoit, you should check him out. He is awesome.

What wasn't so awesome? The drunk, belligerent Baby Boomers that seemed to be in abundance. I am going to chalk up tonight's crowd to it being Friday the 13th, because I refuse to believe that people old enough to be my parents would carry on like that normally: pushing and shoving their way to the front, spilling their drinks all over people, dancing like they have full range of motion and there wasn't about 100 people crammed in like sardines in the immediate vicinity, and BEING FUCKING UNAPOLOGETIC FOR IT. I'm pretty sure the crowds at Slayer concerts were more polite. 

I'd like to go on record and say that when I drink, I'm not belligerent. I'm rather a happy drunk, and everybody I encounter is my BFF and they are hilarious as all get-out. Hell, I wouldn't even describe myself as "scrappy" either drunk or sober. That's just not my way. I'm laid-back. I'm all, "Can't we just get along and enjoy the show?" But tonight? Tonight was, "I AM SO GOING TO BITCH SLAP SOME 50 YEAR OLD MAN AND NOT EVEN FEEL BAD ABOUT IT SO HELP ME GOD." The crowd was that obnoxious and I had had just enough drinks to where I simply did not give a shit. And there was one person in particular I had my sights set on: Nike Ball Cap Douchebag Asshole. I wanted blood. 

Nike Ball Cap Douchebag Asshole made himself known when he pushed and shoved his way to the stage, plowing over people rather than politely asking to be excused, and spilling his beer all over my friend Jen in the process. When he finally found a good spot, he then proceeded to dance and flail about, like he had all the room in the entire fucking world, oblivious that the rest of us were packed in like sardines. This guy looked to be about 40, making him more Generation X than Baby Boomer, but I didn't care. After having put up with rude behavior from people much older than him, and having had a few Jack and Cokes under my belt, I wanted to kick his ass. 

For awhile, I managed to hold it in. The music was good, my friends and I were dancing, and Nike Ball Cap Douchebag Asshole wasn't in my way. But then he began to back up into where Jen and I were dancing, oblivious that he was running into us. At the same time, this other douchebag couple, who were Baby Boomers, had pushed and shoved their way into Jen's and my personal space and I was pissed. I elbowed the douchebag nearest me and said, "Really? Come on," which managed to get her to move maybe a millimeter away. But then Nike Ball Cap Douchebag Asshole backed up into where my friend and I were standing, bumping into us. Having had enough, I went for his ball cap, intending to throw it behind me into the crowd. He stopped my hand, then left. Victory for me. 

Jen and I ended up moving out of the area nearest the stage and enjoying the rest of the show from a safe distance because the assholes were rampant, and we were pretty sure that had we been there any longer, one or both of us would have ended up going to jail. Just before the encore ended, we decided to leave and beat the crowd out of the parking lot. No sooner had I gotten into my car and locked the door, when guess who showed up at my window? NIKE BALL CAP DOUCHEBAG ASSHOLE. 

Oddly enough, I wasn't alarmed, although I probably should have been. I did not roll down my window. I did not open my car door. All of my car doors were locked. The way I figured, I had an advantage because I was safely enclosed in a however-many-ton motor vehicle and he was not. He could either get out of my way or I would hit him with my car, simple as that. I had absolutely no qualms about the latter possibility. Luckily, when I started the car, he moved, and I made it safely home. 

Moral of the story? I should probably not drink Jack and Coke while out on the town. Apparently in my older age, they make me scrappy. And I should probably stay away from Skipper's for awhile. At least until the memory of the asshole Baby Boomers and Nike Ball Cap Douchebag Asshole fade away to the point where I forget why I decided to stay away in the first place.

EDIT: I would like to clarify that when I drove home, I was not drunk. I actually was not drunk the entire night; I had had a few drinks at the beginning of the show, and then stopped because I knew I needed to drive home. So by the time I got in my car, I was fine. Just tired. And pissed. Safety first, kids. 

Ticking Time Bomb

Hi there. My name is Sarah. I'm 28 years old. I'm currently in possession of my appendix, tonsils, and gallbladder, which means that at some point THEY ARE GOING TO MALFUNCTION ALL AT ONCE AND I AM GOING TO DIE.

I'm not crazy. I'm not. I have no actual research data to back up what I'm about to say, but I figure that by the time people reach my age, they've had at least two of the three removed. The fact that I've made it this long with all of my organs still kickin' means that Murphy's Law is about to drop a death bomb on my unsuspecting ass and my appendix will burst, my tonsils will inexplicably burst into flame, and my gallbladder will do...whatever gallbladders do when they malfunction. And I will die. Either that, or they will fail in succession like the Old Testament plagues.

Understandably, this inevitability makes me a little paranoid. Sometimes when I feel a pain in my side--no matter which side it is--I will automatically think, "OH CRAP, IS IT MY APPENDIX? DO I NEED TO MAKE UP AN OVERNIGHT BAG? SHOULD I QUICKLY DRAFT UP A WILL ON THE BACK OF A NAPKIN AND EMPHASIZE THAT IT IS 'LEGIT' IN CASE MY APPENDIX BURSTS IN THE NEXT 20 MINUTES AND I DIE AND MY PARENTS NEED TO KNOW WHAT TO DO WITH MY AMERICAN GIRL BOOKS?" (Yeah, I have some AG books. Jealous?) When my throat gets a little scratchy, my thoughts race: "I REALLY HOPE IT'S NOT MY TONSILS I CAN'T AFFORD TONSIL SURGERY NOW, WELL MAYBE I COULD IF I DIDN'T BUY MY ACNE MEDS, BUT THEN MY FACE WILL EXPLODE AND I'D RATHER HAVE MY THROAT ON FIRE THAN LOOK LIKE A HUMAN PIZZA, ESPECIALLY IF THERE ARE CUTE GUYS AROUND." Then I think that if I had to bite the bullet and get my tonsils removed, I'd be able to justify feasting on popsicles and ice cream 24/7 and then I'm straight. If my gallbladder were to explode or do whatever it is that gallbladders do when they break, I'd be shit out of luck because it is clear I know nothing about gallbladders, and their role in the human body, and I'm too lazy to go on WebMD to find out.

The point of my seemingly pointless rambling? If I'm found dead in my apartment in the next 5-10 years and the doctors determine that it's natural causes and they're puzzled because I was a seemingly healthy woman, YOU'LL KNOW WHAT WENT DOWN.

First person to leave a comment gets my American Girl books! I have 5 of the 6 Samantha books and all of the Addy ones. Jealous?

Awkward Moments With Mom AND Dad

Growing up, I've shared more awkward moments with my mother than I think are healthy or normal. This holiday season, I was transported back to those mortifying moments when an unfortunate commercial came on while I was watching TV with not only my mom, but my dad too. That commercial? The Trojan Twister vibrator.

I'd like to point out that I never, ever see this commercial when I'm alone in my apartment watching television. However, when I was home for the holidays, I saw it approximately 20,000,000,000 times, three of those occasions being in the company of my parents (one time during Thanksgiving and twice during Christmas). To make matters worse, it was more like a minute-long infomercial, which made the awkward moment feel like five hours. And my mother, always stepping up to the plate, somehow managed to make the situation even more unbearable by asking, "What does it mean when their hair is blown back?"

"Google it," I replied. So not having this convo, Mom.

ASPCA and Chocolate

The other night I was watching television and eating a chocolate orange when a commercial for the ASPCA came on. You know the kind of commercial I'm talking about: the kind that show three-legged dogs looking all pathetic against a backdrop of sad-sounding Sarah McLaughlin music. Normally when these commercials come on, I get teary-eyed, but on this occasion I was particularly sensitive, and I bawled. Like, try-to-hold-it-in-then-you-remember-you-live-alone-and-don't-care-how-ugly-you-look-when-you-cry kind of sobs. But mere gut-wrenching sobs weren't enough. I also had the urge to hold my dog, as if that simple embrace could somehow cross space and time and magically heal the abused animals and transport them into forever homes. So I picked up Ava, who was dozing on my lap, and cried into the back of her neck. Having been woken up, she was understandably all, "What the hell?!" but she knew it was futile trying to escape. I had her in a vice grip. Resignedly, she lay still while I wept into her fur, probably wondering when she could return to her nap.

Here's thing: while all this was going on, I was still SHOVING FISTFULS OF CHOCOLATE ORANGE INTO MY SLOBBERING, BLUBBERING, PIE-HOLE. It's like I was sad, but not so sad to where I still couldn't enjoy a chocolaty treat while weeping for abused animals everywhere. So there I was, Ava in one hand, chocolate orange in the other, alternating between burying my face in my dog's hair and raising my head to gobble up another slice, trying not to choke on it between my sobs. I learned an important thing about myself that night. Apparently tragedy, not even heinous tragedy like animal abuse, can keep me from enjoying chocolate.

It's times like this where I am glad I live alone. I don't know if I could have done that in front of another human being and still retained any dignity.