Dreyer's is having a contest for kids to come up with a specialty ice cream to represent their state. Being a great fan of ice cream, I find it painful that I don't qualify for the contest. I've thought of ideas that would work for Dairy Queen ("Lizard Blizzard") or any basic fast-food restaurant ("RattleShake"), but nothing so far that would fit this particular contest, even if I did qualify.

Aren't I clever, nonetheless?

The new film From Justin to Kelly looks so lame, even my die-hard "American Idol" fan is thinking about going to a late-night showing, hoping nobody she knows will see her.

I ran across an ad for a company that sells supplies for the art of papercutting. It's not a hobby I'm familiar with, but I found myself captivated after reading this sentence: Specializing in paper-cutting patterns and supplies for the beginner to the advanced scissorist. I wanted to respond right away - not to explore the hobby, but to ask, "Is scissorist really a word?"

I think it’s interesting that some people dismiss all television as worthless - especially those who aren’t all that selective about what they see on the big screen. A guy I knew a few years ago bragged that he never watched television, but he went to see the Lost in Space movie three times.

I agree that television can be a time-waster, and I’m selective about what I watch. I have little appreciation for sitcoms that rely mostly on sarcasm for humor. And I dislike being in homes where TV provides continual background noise. Still, I do have a few favorites that I find worthwhile:
Gilmore Girls
Alias
Ed
Monk
(The West Wing would have been on the list a year ago, but lately viewers need a degree in political science to follow the show.)

How to Buy a Pepsi - Karen's Complicated Version

1. Determine, mid-afternoon, that you will fall into a coma if you don't get a Pepsi into your system soon.
   
2. Remember that the Pepsi machine in your building has eaten your money, while delivering no beverage -- twice. Decide not to give it the satisfaction a third time.
   
3. Walk outdoors, through the blazing heat, to a machine in front of an adjacent building.
   
4. Insert three quarters, and listen to them drop abruptly into the change slot. Try again. And again.
   
5. Walk to another outdoor machine, in front of another building. Repeat step 4.
   
6. Resort to the indoor machine after all, becoming optimistic when you see that the original offending machine has been replaced.
   
7. Insert coins, press the Wild Cherry Pepsi button, and listen to the satisfying clank of the can hitting the bottom of the machine.
   
8. Realize that you've accidentally pressed Mountain Dew Code Red.
   
9. Return to the office, and find that Mountain Dew Code Red is so detestable that you can't even give it away to the student employee who will normally consume just about anything.
   

I read an article yesterday that suggested McDonald's could be in trouble (in January, the chain reported its first quarterly loss since the company went public in 1965). It's hard to believe the chain could be in any real danger, given the restaurant's enormous popularity with children. Give a bunch of kids their choice of restaurant to go to, and - unless a competitor is offering a better toy that month (kids are fickle that way) - McDonald's will be the hands-down favorite. It's an unexplained phenomenon.

I'm driving a rental car this week while my car is in the body shop for repairs. Insurance covers the cost of renting a compact car, which is fine, since that's what I'm used to driving. After telling the Enterprise people that no, I didn't want to upgrade to a Tahoe for $10 more per day, and, no, I didn't need the extra leg room offered by a Taurus for an extra $2 per day, they handed me the keys to a Suzuki Aero. I've never seen or heard of this car, nor had the Enterprise woman who was helping me. (Granted, it was only her second day on the job.) I'm starting to suspect that Suzuki made only one of these cars, and I'm driving it.

This is sad on so many levels.

A friend and fellow weblogger keeps telling me I need to add Commenting to my blog so that people can make their own clever observations about the things I write about. The thought always makes me nervous, though. For one thing, what if I add Commenting and nobody ever comments, and I'm forced to realize that I actually have no readers out there? Or I could end up with a string of comments like some I've seen that start out with remarks related to the topic but finally digress to probing inquiries such as, "Hey, are you going to Jared's party this weekend?" followed by compelling responses like, "Yeah, but I'm gonna be late. It's my mom's birthday."

But aside from such tangents, my real fear is that the comments will be more interesting than my own writing. (Humility just isn't my thing right now.)

Some of my friends were trying to name the Seven Natural Wonders of the World. Someone named the Grand Canyon right away, and another followed with Mount Everest. Without thinking, another chimed in, "Mount Rushmore."

Amazing how the faces of those presidents just happened to appear on that
mountain.

I had to attend Defensive Driving School after getting a photo-radar ticket for speeding. Part of the six-hour class was devoted to listening to people complain about their tickets. One woman got on a soap box about photo radar being unconstitutional (in her case, at least), while others were figuring out ways to beat the system. Yesterday a neighbor complained to me that half the money collected from photo-radar tickets goes to the companies in charge of the systems. But since Phoenix ranks sixth on the list of most hazardous cities for driving, I'm all for the effort to crack down on lawbreakers. Even though I've now proven to be one of them.

Karen's Layoff Aftermath Journal, Day 72
I miss my job.

I've been battling ants in my kitchen the past few weeks. They're the tiny black ones - not really disgusting, as bugs go, so I feel sort of guilty killing them. But I douse them with Windex nonetheless, hoping to keep the population under control. Knowing what I do about their lifting abilities, I'm afraid a bunch of them will join forces one of these days and start carrying my appliances away.

Sometimes I'm not sure if the Internet has made job-hunting easier or more difficult. It's nice to be able to click on various company websites, check out their job openings, and send a resume electronically. But some companies require you to customize information specifically for them, which is time-consuming. I spent three hours working on an online resume/portfolio for a company that recruits freelance writers and graphic designers, and I still haven't finished.

I miss the carefree days when all I had to do was work for a living.

Last week I went to hear sportswriter Rick Reilly talk about his new book, Who's Your Caddy?, at Borders. It was the first book-signing I'd been to, and I wasn't sure what to expect. Actually, once he arrived, I knew exactly what I expected. Since Reilly is from out of state, and it had been some 110 degrees in Phoenix that day, I braced myself for the usual out-of-towner's opening line about the heat. Instead, he stepped up to the microphone and said, "I love this town" (sounding like he meant it), then asked, "How many golf courses you got here?"

I bought his book, intending to give it to my dad as a Father's Day present. Later I discovered the book contains quite a bit of locker-room humor, so I'll probably choose a different gift. But I did enjoy one of Reilly's observations about women's golf vs. men's golf:

It's Wednesday and Jill (McGill) is warming up on the range when she has the following discussion with Tour pro Joanne Morley:
Jill: Is that skirt Banana Republic?
Joanne: No, this is The Gap, I think.
Jill: It's darling.
Can you see that on the men's tour?
Tiger: Is that shirt Tommy Hilfiger?
Phil Mickelson: No, this is Boss.
Tiger: It's darling.

A woman at my job du juor (at a city Recreation Division) dropped by my office this morning to talk about project. Suddenly, she stopped mid-sentence and said "Oh, my gosh," staring at the wall behind me. I whirled around just in time to see a mouse scurrying up a cable that suspends from a hole in the ceiling. After it had disappeared from view (and my heart regained normal function), I realized I'd had no idea that mice were capable of rope-climbing. Maybe the creature had taken up rapelling. It's been hanging out in the Recreation Division, after all.