Is there a safe house for people who are in an abusive relationship with dessert items? Please leave the hotline number in your comment.

Confession: I love food, more than I love some people. (More than I love a lot of people, actually.)

Of course, if you're reading this blog, the above statement doesn't apply to you. *Jules bats her eyelashes and smiles innocently.*

We all know that sometimes we love things that aren't good for us. Take Samson and Delilah, for example. Or Romeo and Juliet. Or Brad and Angelina.

But, though we know that these couples aren't exactly the best match for each other, where would we be without them? Huh? I mean, what would the tabloids write about if Brad and Angelina never got together and never adopted 26 children of various nationalities?! WHAT?!

My point is that a little dysfunction in a relationship isn't necessarily a bad thing. *shifty eyes* So, when I decide to completely give up on my calorie counting at 9:30 at night, I'm just trying to bring balance to the world. *shifty eyes*

Okay, who am I kidding? I'm a weakling! I can't count calories. I've only been doing this for a week, and I'm going crazy. Seriously. One hand is shoveling chocolate chips into my mouth while the other hand is scooping peanut butter out of the jar, all while I'm trying to figure out a way to teach my feet how to peel a banana. (Those monkeys have it so easy.)

Don't judge.

I will say this, though. I love that moment when I decide to totally give up. It's just so wonderful when I think, "That's it! I don't care anymore. I'm eating 17 cream cheese-filled cookies, and then I'm going to order pizza and swim in chocolate ice cream! MWHAHAHA."

And then I have a big food hangover the next morning and feel sad inside.

I'm in an abusive relationship and I want out. It's intervention time, people. It's time to pry my fingers off the chocolate bar. Please.

I want to call your parents, but I don't think my cell phone plan covers calls to HELL.

"The soul is healed by being with children."

--Fyodor Dostoevsky

Now, I don't mean to disagree with the famous Russian author who brought as such classics as The Idiot and Crime and Punishment, but Fyodor was obviously not in my classes today. If he had been, his quote might be changed to:

"The soul is ripped to shreds by children."

Or something along those lines. Dah, Fyodor?

Okay, okay. Not all children have this effect. Most, in fact, are totally love-able. Take my preschoolers, for example. We get along splendidly. In fact, sometimes I think I should befriend more three and four year olds, simply because I have such a good rapport with them.

Fourth graders, on the other hand, make me break out in hives. And today, after one particularly charming punk told me he wanted to "slice my head off," I was quite sad that teachers are no longer allowed to paddle children. Quite sad, indeed.

I'm kidding, of course. (No I'm not. Not in the slightest, actually.)

If you'll excuse me, I'm going to try to patch my tattered soul back together. What does one use for that sort of activity? I'm thinking chocolate will be involved somehow....

Get Validated

You owe it to yourself to watch this movie, particularly if you're having a bad day. Seriously.

I'd write more, but you have a video to watch. (I'll just say that I owe endless tribute to Jarom for showing me this video. You rock.)

Worst assignment ever.

If I had a dollar for every time someone asked me the "Why aren't you married?" question, I would have...at least enough to go get me a burger and fries.

And, frankly, I could use a burger and fries right now.

So, if you've asked me this question, cough up that dollar!

Seriously.

...I'm waiting.

*Sigh*  Fine.  Since people are obviously being VERY stingy with the dollars that I have RIGHTFULLY EARNED, I'll tell you about the most recent people to ask me why I haven't found matrimonial bliss:

My sweet kindergartners.

"Why aren't you married?"

"I just haven't found the right guy yet."

"Well, you need to find him.  You need to get married tomorrow!"

"I can't find a man by tomorrow, silly!"

"Well, in two weeks.  In two weeks, I'm going to ask you, and you'd better be married!"

Alright, friends.  I have two weeks to find me a husband.  Anyone, anyone?

I think I'm going to fail my homework assignment.

Why did no one tell him this was a bad idea?

Dear Andrew Lloyd Webber,

Really?  You made a sequel to The Phantom of the Opera?  A sequel in which the Phantom produces a successful show called "Phantasma" in Coney Island?  A sequel in which Raoul is a drunken gambler and Christine's son Gustave is actually the illegitimate child of the Phantom?  (Sorry if I just ruined the big surprise for you.)

(I know that it sounds like a premise for a Monty Python movie or something, but I am not making this up.)

Andy, Andy, Andy.  Why was I not consulted before this happened?  I feel like I could have somehow stopped this from happening.

Andrew Lloyd Webber:  So, Jules, I've been thinking about creating a sequel to The Phantom of the Opera.

Me:  No.

Andrew Lloyd Webber:  But, it will be amazing!  It's going to be called Love Never Dies and set in Coney Island, of all places!

Me:  No.

Andrew Lloyd Webber:  BUT!

Me:  *Slapping Mr. Webber in the face.*  Pull yourself together, man!  NO!

Alas, I wasn't there to tell him this.  Ah well.

One more thing I need to add to my list of "Stupid things I'm WAY too opinionated about."

Normally, here at A Hermit's Ranting Tantrums, I try to stick to casual topics. Today, however, ladies and gentlemen, I'm sorry to say that I have to delve into a more serious issue. I hope you will bear with me so that together we can keep others from suffering through one of the most terrible experiences the human body can endure.

I'm talking, of course, about squishy pickles.

Can anything be worse than expecting to bite into a crisp pickle, and instead discovering that your mouth is filled with a nasty, mushy, dill-tasting, caterpillar-ish thing?

I submit to you that nothing can be worse. (Okay. Genocide/Starvation/AIDS/Natural Disasters/The Common Cold MIGHT be worse. It's open to interpretation.)

Millions   Hundreds  A couple of people each year suffer through squishy pickles in silence.  Or by letting out audible screams of "Gah!  Bad pickle!" and spitting them into a trash can so they can eat a different pickle.

IS THERE NO MERCY?!  This tragedy must stop.

I suggest that our first course of action is to boycott squishy pickles.  BEHOLD!  The first product to be put on the GAH! BAD PICKLE list:

Milwaukee's Midget Kosher Dill Pickles:

Though this may claim to be "Wisconsin's Hometown Favorite", don't be deceived!  Either this is a bold-faced lie, or you should never trust the opinion of Wisconsinites.  (Wisconsonians?  Wisconsinese?  Whatever.)  This jar is just one big squishy pickle disaster after another.  (Plus, it's not very politically correct, is it?  Midget pickles.  Tsk Tsk.  Little People pickles is the appropriate term.) Don't give in to it.  

Together we can end the hurting.  We can stop the squishy pickle assault.

It's up to you.

Have a #2 Pencil Ready.

Sometimes I forget that the average American is a complete and total idiot. Sure, I always realize that there are plenty of idiots out there--on the road, in the movie theater, in the Senate---but I still like to believe that most people are somewhat-intelligent.

And then I participate in standardized testing, and I am reminded that most of the people in our population are morons.

Why was I participating in standardized testing, you may be asking? Well, I sure didn't do it by choice. I scheduled an "appointment" to take a competency test for a census job, thinking that I would be able to just go in, take the timed test, and leave. *Chuckle* Oh, foolish Julianna.

Instead, I got to sit in a room with sixty other people, waiting for everyone to get paperwork filled out. Then finally, after an hour of waiting for people to figure out how to fill out simple forms, we all got to sit there as the test giver read the instructions of the test to us OUT LOUD.

UGH. Haven't we been going through this process since grade school? I THINK WE CAN HANDLE READING THE INSTRUCTIONS OURSELVES NOW.

Also? You don't need to explain to me how to fill in the bubbles on the answer sheet. We all get the concept.

Well, at least that's what I thought. Then you see the people who don't understand where to start or where they're supposed to write, and you understand why the powers-that-be feel that it's necessary for us to be treated like dummies.

Needless to say, I don't think I want to get that job. I'd rather not be treated like an idiot.

Goals, Shmoals

I'm not much of a goal-setter, sadly enough. I blame my cynicism, actually. I don't get motivated by those "Go for it!" posters, or the "You can do it!" pep talks. And when people tell me that I need to make goals and write them down, I nod my head in agreement, while at the same time thinking, "Yeah, that's not happening."

Needless to say, I need an attitude adjustment.

The most recent example of how bad I am with goals:

For the past several weeks, I have had a goal of eating sweets only once a week. ONCE. (I know. That's sheer insanity, right?) Wanna know how many times I've accomplished this goal?

Zero. Not once.

Apparently, I don't do well with the whole, "Don't give up what you want most for what you want right now," thing. Especially when it comes to food. Here's a glimpse of the internal dialogue I have with myself:

"Don't eat that cookie."

"But, I want it."

"Well, remember your goal."

"What goal? I don't remember any goal." *Shifty eyes...if it's possible for internal voices to have shifty eyes.*

"Think about what you want most!"

"That cookie."

"Stop!"

"COOKIE!!"

*Munch munch munch*

Internal Voice of Reason: 0 points

Appetite: 657,002 points

Appetite is very hard to say no to. I imagine she looks something like this:

Yeah, I'm pretty sure you don't want to say no to her.

Anyway, this whole post is leading up to something I just read on the inside of the wrapper for one of those Dove chocolates. It's a Valentine's Day chocolate that has been sitting in the candy dish for a few weeks, and I've been trying to ignore it, thanks to my goal.

Goal: Fail. Yet again.

The message, which happens to be from Martha Stewart, says, "Surprise a loved one with pink bed linens on Valentine's Day."

Wha?

Martha, who should I be surprising, exactly? If I had a husband, I don't think pink bed linens would necessarily be a happy thing.

"SURPRISE!"

"Um, what's this?"

"It's your Valentine's Day SURPRISE! Pink BED LINENS!! Isn't that such a surprising SURPRISE?!"

"...Yeah. I was really hoping for a change in the color of my bed linens. The other color just seemed almost too manly."

The day I start taking advice from Martha Stewart, particularly about the proper choice of bed linens, is going to be a very dark day, indeed. I'll probably have to start scrapbooking, too.

*Shudder*

I guess that's what I get for not keeping my goals.

Not to self: Make a goal to keep goals.

(Yeah, that's not happening.)

Women, Know Your Limits

For any of you who haven't ever lived in Utah County, let me tell you that it's a singular sort of place. Singular, perhaps, because of the people who live here. They are very singular people, indeed, full of all kinds of singularity.

I'm done using the word singular. *Cheers erupt from the 2 people who are reading this blog.* Give me a break! I've been around wee little kidlets all day. They're dear little creatures, but sometimes they just suck the creative juice directly from my brain. And, unfortunately, this makes it difficult for me to think of words.... *Twitch*

What was I saying? Ah, yes. Utah County. It really is a nice place and I can recommend all sorts of things about it. But, sometimes there are people here who have very narrow minds.

Like the one guy who once told my mom, "If God wanted women to wear earrings, He would have created them with holes in their ears."

Hmmm. By that logic, if God wanted us to wear clothes, we would have come out of the womb fully-dressed. (That would be disgusting.)

I'm just saying.

So, when I saw this video, I just had to post it. It's a little overboard, but sometimes I feel that there are people around here who still have this mentality:

Okay, so life here isn't quite that bad, but sometimes I feel that there are people here who think, "Oh, you women are just so sweet. You rest your pretty heads and let the men do the work."

Next time I'm on a date, I'm going to try the kitten line and see if it works.

Oh, and speaking of dating....

I need to find myself a "spunky chap with his hat at jaunty angles" so I no longer need to "wander through the minefield of caddishness".

Well, there you have it. According to these videos, Utah County shares striking similarities with 1940's England. (Well, a satirical 1940's England, anyway.) If only we all had those charming British accents....

Oh, the Bachelor

Confession: I watched all two hours of The Bachelor season finale, even though I didn't really watch any of the season.

And then I dreamed about being on the Bachelor.

And I didn't get chosen by the Bachelor.

Now, that's just sad. Though, I will say that my dream episode of the Bachelor was a lot more exciting than the actual season finale. I mean, there was a cat fight in mine. A cat fight, people! I didn't see anything even close to a cat fight on the actual season finale. (Though, if they played "On the Wings of Love" one more time, I'm sure some of the studio audience would have rushed the stage and started swinging punches.)

I'm telling you, the producers of the Bachelor need to come find me, because I would make the show interesting. Here are some things I would like to do if I somehow made it on to the show (unlikely) and somehow made it past the first episode (impossible):

1) Punch out the bachelor when he didn't give me a rose.

2) Tell the bachelor that he just wasn't my type, and voluntarily leave.

3) Be a total prude. None of this spending a night in a hotel business. "Thanks for the date. Oh! Look at the time! I'd better be getting home to my own bed, where I will keep my moral standards and continue to be a virtuous woman."

Hmmm. Okay. That might be the main reason I would never be allowed on such a show.

Seriously, though, the Bachelor guy kept talking about how the girl he chose was "naturally sexy" and there was great physical chemistry between the two of them. Those seemed to be the main qualities he based his decision on. That's nice, but aren't you wanting a wife, my friend? What happens when you're both elbow deep in diapers? Or when you guys are sick or old or fat or whatever? Are you going to be sexy then?

Here's what I would love to see happen for at least one season of the Bachelor/Bachelorette. No more of these dates in exotic places like St. Lucia. I think you should go on a camping trip that starts out with a 3-day bus ride. You'll have to sit next to the bus bathroom, the air conditioning will go out half-way through the trip, and there will be a screaming baby on the bus. That will bring out the true colors quickly, I should say.

I'm telling you, ABC, this is what the show should be.