July 29, 2015

Visualization of Personality Data

This is who I am, based on entries from this blog and complicated computer analysis.

November 15, 2013

This is why we have blogs.

Blogs are for things no one else cares about but that you can't convince yourself aren't universally fascinating and sure to show up in a museum some day next to the display case of Jane Austen' spoons. Things like dreams I had, my results from the "which woodland animal is your inner spirit guide" test (badger, didn't even need to take the test, I just know), and the facebook statuses I would post if I were a robot*.

*There's a slight chance I am a robot, so I guess those would just be my regular facebook statuses. I already use facebook to mock myself there. This is why I'm posting these on my blog. I mean, I can never get enough of making fun of myself, but I do recognize that other people may get sick of it.

I have to go to prove anything that’s even remotely true!

JamieBot is on a mission.

I have this whole lovely rant typed out about pigs and stipped stopped signing them inappropriately and a fleshcolored knife.

JamieBot can't spell. Let's all point and laugh. (Then run away. It has a knife.)

Now I'm picturing an elaborately choreographed performance by my dad, but I'm cautiously optimistic.

My dad's greatest dream is to choreograph an elaborate family dance routine involving wheeled office chairs and fire extinguishers. (I'm not kidding.) Unlike me, JamieBot is on board. 

Tiffany you know why is the sun red?

Put on pants?

This movie keeps making me to tell it's been interrupted by a pony tail holder. Guess where it a mushroom, you sign up, tell me your address in a cool and MASH.

Whatever you do, do NOT give JamieBot your address.

I have a Thai restaurant, and a fully stocked kitchen.

JamieBot is a big fat liar. 

I don't see myself being friends with the devil Hm. I need to drink or bake and decorate some shortbread cookies.

Careful JamieBot, the devil is always the person you least expect. Hm. (Oh and spoiler alert: you're going to chose drink.)

I have guns for father's day cookie.

Damn. JamieBot is a better gift giver than me. My dad is super hard to shop for, and that sound pretty much perfect.

So I couldn't think that's easy or not. I can no kids, no nieces/nephews, no way, he's too many fat children.

Unfortunately for my mom, JamieBot is no closer to giving her grand kids than I am.

May 24, 2013

Getting Older, or Get Off My Boat!

I went on a cruise a couple of weeks ago. Headed out from New Orleans, five nights on the boat, a stop in Progresso and a stop in Cozumel. Jill turned 30 at the end of last month. We went to Disney World last year when I turned 30. (To celebrate my maturity, you see. Nothing really celebrates getting older like whizzing around Space Mountain while pretending Star Trek is real and you are an important crew member (wearing a NOT red shirt) on some exciting mission in unchartered space. Yep. I'm a grown-up. I do want to mention that we did NOT go to Harry Potter land while in Florida. We thought about it. But I'm not sure I could handle that, to be honest. Not that I'd go nuts and start trying to use my novelty wand for real or anything (though there is a precedent for such behavior), but that it would all feel fake and cheap. I prefer that Hogwarts live in my imagination. It's safer in there. And it was about an extra $100, just to get in. Real Jamie response: I'm not that rich. Magical Jamie response: True magic cannot be bought with muggle money.)

Ten thousand parenthetical phrases later... back to the boat, which is how we decided to celebrate Jill's 30th birthday.

This was our boat: Carnival Elation

I thought our boat was big until I saw it parked next to a real boat, like this.
That boat is even bigger than my blog.

I don't think cruising is for me. I had a nice time, but I couldn't help think about how I would design my perfect cruise. It'd be a cruise for introverts. All tickets much be purchased online. A Myers-Briggs personality quiz would be required before purchase, and anyone with a result starting with an "e" will be blocked from the site. No one is allowed to book for a party larger than 2. No talking on deck. All deck chairs will be at least one extra deck-chair width apart. Instead of dances and talent shows (seriously, there were talent shows), there would be movies and reading time. All of the dining room tables would be booths with tall backs, and the waiters would not allowed be to talk to you about anything other than food. One waiter on our boat plopped down at a table, and belted out some romantic pop song. And sang the entire thing like he was auditioning for American Idol. That waiter would not get hired for my Introvert Cruise. The people that clapped and loved it would not be allowed as passengers on my cruise. One night, another waiter stopped at our table and, without a word, took away some of Jill's silverware. Silverware she needed, in order to eat like a non-cave-person. It was a little weird, but we appreciated the no talking. I would hire that waiter.

Moral of the story: I don't like people. Also, vacations that heavily incorporate make-believe are way better than vacations that don't.

Best. Story. Ever.

Admin note: Sorry, I don't know why this got reposted. It didn't happen again. It really wouldn't be funny a second time.

My sister decorated her room this weekend, and hung a Harry Potter "Platform 9 3/4" sign just outside her door.

A sign just like this.

Now, we all know I like Harry Potter and I also like to be silly. (No, I didn't mean to type "annoying." I meant silly, as in awesome and hilarious.) So upon seeing this sign, I thought it would be funny to run right into Jill's door, as if I was trying to catch the Hogwarts Express. For those that don't understand (A) Harry Potter or (B) my particular brand of high-brow humor, let me explain why this was going to be funny. Regarding point A: To catch the Hogwarts Express, young witches and wizards must run straight into the wall 3/4 of the distance between platform 9 and platform 10. Regarding point B: Jill really hates when I burst into her room, and is easily startled by loud noises. Also, people running into things is funny.

Let's recap: Jill hung up a new sign. She is in the room with her door closed, and hates sudden intrusions and loud noises. I see the sign and plan to run into her door.

Remember, it looks like this.

You know when you are telling a funny story, and you get so caught up in the build-up that you yourself almost forget the ending? And then, you have that moment where you remember the ending, and get this sinking realization that compared to all that build up, the ending is pretty lame? That's it's not so much a story as it is a twitter update? And not even a good, Kanye twitter update, but a regular boring twitter update that only your mom might reply to? And even then, she's not even replying to the twitter update as much as she just doesn't quite understand twitter and is just asking you to pick up a gallon of milk on the way home?

So I run into the door, and it being a crappy door, it does not hold my weight. Also, I don't think it was even closed all the way. I fall into Jill's room, running into piles of her stuff, and land face down on the carpet. She is furious and wants an explanation. I told her I was trying to see if I was a witch, and obviously my test had failed. I was in Jill's room getting yelled at, not on a train heading towards adventures that would surely be chronicled in the best-selling "Jamie Saunders and the Fairly Uneventful but Nonetheless Personally Fulfilling Year at Wizard School." Jill ended up thinking I was funny (as usual), and I walked back into my boring muggle room, my pride and face only slightly bruised.

But then I thought about it later. I DID make it through the wall, into another room. So results: inconclusive. The End. (Or is it?)

March 28, 2013

I thought this was blog worthy

I get mixed up by bear and bare. Mormons use the term often in the context of "bear/bare your testimony." People around my neck of the woods also like to talk about the right to "bear/bare arms." Which ever word I use, it feels wrong. Unless I'm talking about nekkid bears. Which I never am. (Well, except for right now.)

Put some clothes on. That ribbon hides nothing.

Bear arms or bare arms? (Don't even think about bare shoulders, though. Bear shoulders are ok to think about, but there's probably at least one topic more deserving of your attention.) Bear testimony? (Jim Halpert will testify that black bears are best.) Or bare testimony? Obviously we are talking about verbs, not nouns. To define "to bear" you need to know if you plan to use it with or without an object.

(Tangental rant about kids today: I used to run a weekly creative writing group at work. Anyone could come, there'd be some silly prompt or word game. One time, we played mad libs. Five people showed up. Only two people (including me) knew what nouns, adjectives, and verbs were. Not to mention crazy things like prepositions. These people were college students. They had graduated high school only about a year ago and did not know about nouns. These people are out there. Walking around, existing in society. Completely unaware that they are verbing all over the place.)

Back to bears. (Finally.) You know. I'm still distracted by that grammar memory. Imagine a 20-year-old asking you, "What's a noun?" It's a hard thing to recover from. Things like nouns and verbs are common knowledge, right? It's not just because I was an English major, or because I spent the last seven years quality testing early children's readings software, right? I need some reassurance. Then I can worry about bears.

Here, watch a video about apostrophes. I really hope you already know this, but... just in case. (Also, this is one of my favorite songs. It helps cheer me up. That pig is so heroic.)

March 26, 2013

How to sound smart in an online comment

Consider this a crash corse on how to be right on the Internet. These examples all came from an article on ksl.com, posted today.

When you want to pluralize a word, use those fancy floating commas. Then you don't have to worry about all those "change y to i" rules. There are literally tons of them.


Avoid periods. Even in writing, a pause is just an invitation for someone else to butt-in with their wrong opinion. (Bonus points for adding awkward and irrelevant personal information about yourself to the run-on sentence plus if the person reading it is reading it out loud they'll probably eventually pass out from lack of breath even though there's no knowing if they agree with you or not there's at least a slightly better chance that they can disagree with you if they are passed on the floor next to the corpse of that guy I murdered the other day which reminds me I need to buy bleach.)

Another example I really hope you like it if you don't I'll probably eat my weight in cheese or something man I feel like pizza.

Use a lot of letters. Not letters like "parts of a word," just letters. Try to make them seem Latin, if possible, or imply that they are some kind of acronym. Drop a period in here and there. And don't be afraid to use the same random group of letters twice!


Don't be afraid of air quotes. You don't even have to use them correctly. Just using them proves you "know" what you're talking about and the other guy doesn't.


No punctuation makes you look smarter than a semi-colon. This guy knows what I'm talking about. I'd ask him more about it, but he's at work, digging up jewels.


Don't bother with the shift key unless you REALLY mean it.


When you are wrong, make stuff up. (Also, be sure to the other guy that HE is wrong.) Once you post it on the Internet, it's basically true anyway.

I'm allergic to umbrellas.

Who the hell is Pam?

My spam email is being MEAN to me. First, it calls me a weirdo. It tries to spin it as a compliment--"you're better than those lame normals"--but come on. Of all the words to use? Weirdo?! You could have said "sparkling jewels," "reclusive geniuses," or maybe "diamonds in the rough." (But not anything involving "special." Everyone knows "special" is code for stupid, just like "sweet spirit" is code for butt-ass ugly.)

I'd normally have been ok, who doesn't get called a weirdo a few times a day? (Right?!?) But the next spam email cruelly teases me by advertising a "Magicstick" for "power on the go." Now, I know I've been a muggle my whole life, but I'm fairly certain that's the result of some kind of curse placed on my at birth due to the awesome potential of my magic ability. (Don't you dare call me special.) I'm sure if I could just GET a wand, the curse would be broken and I'd be the highest sorcerer in the land. Or something. Don't worry, I'll give you all cushy jobs on my council as I rule the world.

I open the email, even though I'm a little wary that "Magicstick" is referring to something probably not suitable for children. If you are reading this out loud to your children (which I'm sure at least some of you are), you may now have to explain to them what it means. Or else they might just go look it up in the dictionary.

Behold the totally G-rated Magicstick:

Ok, so that does look kind of cool. But there is NO WAY I'm defeating any dark wizards with a portable charger, no matter how cute the colors. Unless maybe, the dark wizard can't exercise his power without listening to the pulsing beats of Ace of Base, and happen to catch him at the moment where his battery dies, and in exchange for my Magicstick, he agrees to surrender and turn himself into Azkaban. But let's get real. That's extremely unlikely.

Speaking of real, here is my real wand. I so far only have a picture of it, but if any of you find it, let me know. You can try and use it if you want, but it chose me. So don't be surprised if the spell backfires, turns you inside out, and then explodes you.

March 14, 2013

I wish I wore more hats

My favorite part of Go Dog, Go. (Which I think I read to Jake and Caitlin about a thousand times.)

March 5, 2013

Under construction

I'm fixing tags on old blogs and blogger is showing them as being published today. So ignore the updates for a bit. I promise, I don't think it's Easter today.

Easter Sunday

For me, Easter morning had only one motivation: do NOT be the last one to find your Easter basket. My parents didn't do the more traditional Easter Egg Hunt with candy and plastic eggs scattered everywhere, waiting for the most resourceful or determined kid to find them all. My parents had five kids and knew the sacred value of fairness. Our Easter candy was divided equally into baskets, labeled, and then hidden. Also, they were hidden inside the house. No one in my family goes outside before 10 am. What are we, farmers?

Easter morning was like a mini-Christmas; Mom and Dad would make us wait in our rooms until we were called out. We all came out at once, and quietly but furiously began scouring the house for the Easter basket with our name on it. If we saw someone else's basket, we'd pretend we didn't see anything and discreetly move on. Every year, one of us would be the last to find it, and it would take FOREVER. And usually, everybody else had already seen where your basket was hidden. There was no greater shame.

I remember two specific instances where one final Easter basket taunted one of my siblings. (Also taunting: me and the other siblings.) The first was Jill's. We were all pretty young. In fact, I think it was just me and Jill and Carly. Jill was doomed from the start: my dad had hidden her basket while my mom had hidden mine and Carly's. My mom's basket hiding philosophy was something like "wouldn't it be funny to walk down stairs and see your basket hanging from the ceiling fan?" (I think my mom invented lulz.) My dad's basket hiding philosophy was more along the lines of "let's pretend I just murdered someone with this Easter basket and the cops were on their way over with a search warrant." Jill is still traumatized to this day over how long it took her to find that basket. (It was in the shower.)

Specific instance number two was a little cruel, now that I think about it. My brother, Jake, was afraid of the vacuum for many years of his life. He called it the "um" and would stay clear of the carpet until the vacuuming was finished. (Adorable!) I think you can see where this is going. Of course, the rest of us had found his basket, but for some reason, Jake had avoided opening the coat closet with the vacuum inside, his Easter basket perched on top. (Guess who hid it: mom or dad?) As we watched him wander around, looking in the oven, the shower (ever since Jill's fun year, that was one of the first places we looked), peering into the washing machine, we started to feel bad. So, to help him out, we all started humming "uuuummmm....." After he decided we weren't crazy, he realized what we were doing, and very quickly found his Easter basket.