Friday, October 28, 2005

Green Thumb

Here's yet another fine example of how I'm incompetent at life! I did laundry this weekend, and by Wednesday I decided that maybe I should hang my clean clothes up in my closet rather than wander naked and cold out into the living room to hunt through my laundry bag for something to wear every morning, and also because they weren't going to be clean for very long once Kristen realized a bag of clothes would make a great sleeping nest. So, hangers it would be.

"AAAAAGGHHRRRGGHH! FUCK!" I shouted from the bedroom.

"What? What happened?" Fish asked, as he came running in from the kitchen where he had been patiently and lovingly taking out my trash for me so I wouldn't have to traverse the spider infested back stairwell of my house to get outside.

"I sliced the fuck out of my thumb." And I had.

"How did that happen?"

Yes, how did that happen? Because it seems to me that hanging a skirt on a hanger with little clippy things should be pretty routine. But somehow while squeezing the clip open I managed to lose my grip on it, spin it around, and at some point slice a major gash in the side of my left thumb.

It's how I roll.

And I bled like a stuck pig I tell you. I dripped my way to the bathroom and cleaned it, then, when my used-to-be-a-lifeguard I-know-first-aid instincts kicked in I looked at it and determined that it was deep enough and long enough that it probably wouldn't hurt to have a stitch or two put in it. So of course I just put a bandaid on it real tight instead because scars are bad-ass.

All was well until the next day, when I took my bandaid off, planning to wash my hands and change the dressing. Which was a great idea really, except that I am sort of easily distracted, and hey I should give Kristen a treat and drink some pineapple juice and find a belt to wear and...I felt a searing pain as my non-bandaged wound was stabbed and ripped further by a belt buckle. I cursed my dumb ass, cleaned and dressed it again, put a belt and and went off to the bar.

Where I decided that I should not just drop, but squeeze my lime into the mouth of my Corona. With my left hand. So that the lime juice could drip down my thumb, under my bandaid and into my cut.

Wednesday, October 26, 2005

Mitten Paws

I think I may have mentioned before my borderline obsessive love for my little cat. I think it's because of her magical powers. The magical powers of Mitten Paws. Mitten Paws can get me to do almost anything. A piece of chicken from my plate or a few extra treats? A quick flash of the mitten paws and she can have any food in the house. Drop what I'm doing and go over and pet her instead? If she comes by me and does that thing where she tentatively picks up one little mitten paw off the ground and holds it there looking at me, I'll stop CPR on a dying man to pet her. Magical powers in her mitten paws I tell you. Look, how can you resist?
Kristen says "Leave comments on Bizzybiz! Obey the mitten paws."

I am sitting here at work sobbing like an asshole right now. Why? Because I've discovered one thing that can't be fixed by the magical powers of Mitten Paws. I finally took Kristen for the Echocardiogram first suggested by the vet back in May (thanks Fishy!). I got the results back today: my precious angel is a very sick kitty. Her heart is working too hard and if we don't treat it, it will just get bigger and bigger until it kills her. There is no cure, only medication to slow the progress of the disease. Treating it means pilling her every single day for the rest of her life. Not treating it means one day, and one day soon, she will suddenly drop dead. When they told me that I thought "oh, sick for a couple days, then she dies." Um, no. Further research yielded this discovery: "Outward signs of HCM may include a barely noticeable increase in breathing rate, rear leg paralysis, or the sudden death of a cat that seemed healthy only moments earlier." Moments people, not days. My poor little angel.

I need to stop crying, I can't send out reports with globs of snot all over them. Just needed to take a moment and share my pain.

Thursday, October 20, 2005

Ego Maniac

So to go with my new sexy haircut, I wore a short gray skirt, black blouse, black tall boots and my long black PVC jacket to work yesterday. You can't get your hair chopped off and then show up the next day dressed like a ragamuffin, you know. I was told I looked like Trinity from The Matrix, and Fish announced that I was officially out of his league. It has gone to my head. It has not, however, caused me to be any less of a dork, or any better at managing the simpler aspects of my life.

Fish: did you bake the pie?
pgsdenmilf: this morning
pgsdenmilf: i was funny
pgsdenmilf: i got up
pgsdenmilf: put the pie in the oven
pgsdenmilf: went back to bed
pgsdenmilf: got back up
pgsdenmilf: got in the shower
pgsdenmilf: pie is done!
pgsdenmilf: get out of the shower
pgsdenmilf: run naked and wet across the kitchen
pgsdenmilf: turn the oven off
pgsdenmilf: get back in the shower
fish: :-)
fish: you're silly
fish: but fucking hot
pgsdenmilf: so you've mentioned
pgsdenmilf: i will wear my trinity outfit to the bar tonight....and bring a pie. i will insist on being addressed as Incongruous.
pgsdenmilf: I will preside over my minions by standing near the mirrors so everyone can see the front and back of my head at the same time
fish: very good
pgsdenmilf: They will sing songs and tell tales of me long after my days are done: Incongruous, the Hot and Domestic

Wednesday, October 19, 2005

Melle Gives Good Head Hair

I cut my hair last night. Well, I didn't cut it; Melle did. And John too, sometimes. But we'll get to that.

I've been dying to chop all my hair off for the better part of a year now. I hadn't actually done it because 1) I have no money 2) I moved and didn't have a hairstylist here and 3) I'm lazy as hell. But a couple of weeks ago I looked in the mirror and saw a frizzy mass of blondish/reddish frizzy junk and decided I could stand it no longer. I still didn't have a place to get it cut though. Lucky for me, the Beer Gods have noticed my devotion (I frequently pour out libations to them, you see) (as in down my throat) and decided to take pity on my poor head and show me a sign. I know it was the Beer Gods because the sign showed up on my way to the bar, in the shape of a purple horseshoe surrounded by the words Urban Lift. A hair salon 20 steps from Tai's? Clearly someone was trying to tell me something.

So at work I decided to look it up on the internet to see if they had a website. They did, in fact, and on that website was my second sign that this was the place to go: they have a blog. (This sign came from the Internet Gods, not the Beer Gods. Obviously Fish was praying for me.) I thought to myself, "Hey! I also have a blog! Clearly these people are really cool. (and therefore my hair will be cool)." I called up and made an appointment.

The third sign was when I walked in yesterday and saw Melle. She had on a jean skirt with purple lace nylons and some mauve-ish colored boots, the cutest glasses in the entire universe and way wicked cool hair. I was obviously in the right place.

I had had some trouble trying to explain to my parents about how short I wanted my hair. "How short? Like shoulder length?"

"No, that's long. I'm cutting it short."

"Like a bob?"

"No! I mean short, like as in actually short! Lesbian short."

My stepmother looked concerned and my father cracked up. Neither one had to ask me what "lesbian short" looked like though.

I did not have to resort to tired stereotypes when I said "short" to Melle. She and the other stylist, John, stood beside me, picking at my head, looking at magazines, asking me questions, pretend cutting, and debating about what would be the ultimate coolest way they could coif my head. Eventually they came to a consensus and Melle whisked me off to wash my hair (always the best part, and since I was getting color too I got to do it twice!).

Melle and John, by the way, are both entirely hilarious. Melle was nervous about cutting so much hair off. For one thing, they had decided on a cut she hadn't had much chance to practice yet. For another thing she had had a bad experience. Apparently when she was in beauty school some girl with waist length hair came in and said "Make me look like Halle Berry." So Melle put her hair in a ponytail and then chopped the whole thing off. Halle burst into hysterical sobs. Melle panicked and also burst into hysterical sobs. It scarred her for life. Consequently, when she had sorted out my hair into sections and grabbed the first piece, she stood holding it with the razor against it while asking me no less than 5 times if I was ready. So cute.

My hair, by the way, is not exactly "lesbian short". The back and sides are spiked out, maybe an inch and a half long, and the front tapers down from the end of my spikes to my chin. I promise pictures are forthcoming, but for now, please enjoy this very rough approximation of what I'm talking about on the head of Blink-182's Tom DeLonge.

After she sliced about 11 inches of hair off and I didn't scream or try to stab her, Melle relaxed, and we both enjoyed a very long but seriously entertaining story about when John's mom decided she ought to go to the gay bar with him and git on down on the dance floor (John apparently stopped her from getting on the stage). In between story time and Melle's happy slicing, John would come over and peek at my head, take Melle's razor, and do some cutting of his own. We also took in some Snoop Dogg (John: How can you go wrong with Snoop?) and some punk rock (Melle: No one will like this song but me. Me: This song is awesome!).

We colored it after we cut it (and by "we" I mean Melle and John, I just sat there trying not to laugh too hard and screw up Melle) because we cut off about 3/4 of my hair, so why bother coloring all of that? Melle mixed up for me a super dark brunette color with caramel and yellow-blond highlights, one of which looked like mashed up tangerine in the bowl (I wish I didn't work in a professional office so that I could actually have tangerine colored hair from time to time). John came and peeked at it while Melle was washing my hair and did a happy leprechaun dance from the sheer joy it induced.

Finally, I grabbed my camera and asked Melle to take some pictures, thinking I would stand there and smile while she snapped a few off. I don't know why I thought that, given the whirlwind of entertainment I had just born witness to. Melle decided to take action shots: a "come hither" look, and a Charlie's Angels, coming around the corner shot, complete with finger "gun". At some point I also insisted that she come drink with me at Tai's, because, um, she's way rad.

I am seriously in love with this place. I might even just ditch Tai's and start hanging out at the salon on Thursday nights, which is completely dorky, but you see, so am I. Oh, and my hair? I am one sexy bitch right now. Thanks, Melle!

Monday, October 17, 2005

You Can't Go Home Again

There's a weird thing that happens after you move out of your parents house: it's not your house anymore.

This may seem completely obvious to most of you, but for me it's a shock every time I walk into my parents house. It doesn't help that they moved last year and it's not even the same HOUSE I grew up in. Some things that I noticed when I was staying at my dad's this weekend to illustrate my point:

1. In all the long years I've been making pies with my dad, I've never had to go on a scavenger hunt in the kitchen to do it. "Where's the flour?" I had to ask him. Because I didn't know. I didn't even know where to begin. This was quickly followed by "Where's the mixing bowls?", "Where's the measuring spoons?", "Where's the rolling pin?", "Where are the pie pans?" and "Where's the plastic wrap?" I only knew where the forks were because of a previous trip. And also, what the hell are these glasses? I've never seen these things before in my life.

2. There's nothing to eat in the house. I mean, there's things to eat, but they aren't the things that WE ate. When we were a family and everyone lived there. For starters there is no milk. None. These are the people (or person, I guess my stepmom wasn't there yet) who had me drink a glass of milk every single time I sat down for a meal. The only time I was offered a beverage that was not milk was when we had pizza, at which time we were granted the great privilege of having actual Coca-Cola with our meal. We had one pint of Coke in the house at any given time, compared to at least two gallons of milk. Now there is no milk. Come to thing of it, there's no Coke either. What exactly do these people drink? All I see is a bottle of wine. Are they having this with their breakfast? I just don't know.

Also I can't find anything to snack on. My memory insists that there was once a perpetual box of Snyders of Hanover sourdough pretzels in the house. Also there were some type of home made baked goods available in the cookie jar or on top of the fridge at all times. I looked in the pantry. Ingredients for actual meal type items and a container of almonds smiled back at me. It's not that I'm expecting everyone to cater to my needs just because I showed up; I'm more than happy to go to the store and get my own junk food. It's just that, I mean, what do these people eat all day? I'm confused.

3. You cannot, CANNOT masturbate at your parents house after you've moved out. Like at all. Nevermind that you spent the entirety of your formative years trying to start a friction fire under your blankets feet away from your parents bedroom. When you and your stuff reside somewhere else, even thinking about masturbating at your parents house seems dirty and totally weird. I was almost ready to go get a hotel room.

Monday, October 10, 2005

Sociology 101

Here's a fun little sociology experiment to try:

First, move to a new city. Move, but remember to keep your professional and collegiate sports affiliations firmly rooted way back in the city where you were born and raised. For example, just hypothetically, imagine that you've moved from Cleveland to Chicago, but have chosen to remain a Browns fan.

Next, wait around for an athletic competition during which your "traditional" home team spars with your "new" home team. In our purely hypothetical example, the Browns would be playing the Bears.

On the date of this contest, venture out to some public place where you can watch the game. Be certain that this venue has many fans of the "new" home team and that they serve alcoholic beverages. For our example, let's chose a place at random: say, Buffalo Wild Wings in Woodridge. (hypothetically, you are visiting your friends in Lisle for the weekend and therefore have to find a place to watch the game in the suburbs, which explains why you are in Woodridge.)

Make sure also that you are 1) alone and 2) dressed in something silly. Perhaps some black pajama pants covered in jack-o-lanterns that you bought for $2 on clearance at Old Navy several years ago, and a black sweatshirt with a Latin phrase on it that roughly translates to "Always wear underwear".

Now, visibly and audibly cheer for your "traditional" home team. Carefully observe the reactions of the other (some slightly drunken) football fans surrounding you as you cheer, out loud, against their team. Be sure to note any change in their behavior if POSSIBLY your team starts to really pull away with the game during the last three minutes of play, or, hypothetically, scores two touchdowns in 38 seconds.

If anyone decides to try this experiment, I'd be very interested in hearing your results.

Nothing For Me, Thanks.

People who know me in real life know that I am not one for the fast food option. It's not a health thing, ala Supersize Me or anything like that; I just think almost all of it tastes like dog shit. If I were stranded on a desert island with nothing but one McDonald's and one Burger King from which to order, I would find a way to digest sand.

The only traditional fast food restaurant thing that I am ever inclined to eat is the sausage burrito on the McDonald's breakfast menu. For those not in the know, it's an assortment of imitation eggs, tiny little balls of sausage, micro bits of red and green pepper and some american cheese all rolled up in a (usually stale) tortilla wrap. It is bland and mostly tastes like ass with cheese on it, but in the interest of convenience I have trained myself to stomach it, and ever so occasionally, I wake up to find myself actually wanting one. Like, on purpose.

Well, until Saturday.

Saturday morning I awoke to the sound of Fish's alarm clock blaring at 7 a.m. You know in the movie Dumb and Dumber when they're driving around in the van and the one idiot says to the other, "You want to hear the most annoying sound in the world?" and then lets out a nasally screech that goes on for about 20 seconds? Yeah, well he was wrong, that is not the most annoying sound in the world - Fish's alarm clock is. That shit would kill someone with a heart condition flat out dead every morning. But anyway, we got up at 7 a.m. because I am out of crazy drugs and I had an early appointment to go find a new doctor here in my new city to give me some more crazy drugs before I drive everyone around me to be just as mad as I am.

So we get up and get ready to face the day and find that we are miraculously 15 minutes ahead of schedule. And finding that the only orange juice in the fridge has a sell by date from 7 weeks ago, I turned to Fish and said "We have time to go to McDonald's before you drop me off!" because suddenly in my head I am tasting a sausage burrito with all it's gooey cheese and imitation egg goodness swimming around in my mouth with tiny sausage balls and it would go perfect with the reconstituted but not expired orange juice they sell there. We decide in line that I will get the sausage burrito meal, because orange juice (or coffee, if you prefer) comes with it, and then I'd get not one but two burritos AND Fish gets a free hash brown out of the deal. As they handed us our bag of goodies, I may have actually bounced up and down in my seat and clapped.

I pulled burrito number one out of the bag and began to unwrap it, and it was then that I noticed something I had never seen before. The sausage burrito wrapping is usually held together by a little round sticker describing ways I could be Lovin' It, and that sticker was there, but there was also, right on top of it, another sticker. This sticker was square and read as follows "MUST USE BY 11:27 AM 10/8/05".

Ok, what just happened here? My burrito, my last, tenuous connection to the world of fast food dining, has an expiration sticker on it. And not just any expiration sticker. It reads "MUST USE BY". Not Please Sell By, or Best if Eaten Before. MUST USE BY. In big capital block letters.

Why? What's going to happen if I don't eat it by 11:27 a.m.? Will I be arrested by the burrito police? Does it disappear into the vast reaches of outer space? Does it self destruct by blowing up in my face all Chief Quimby/Inspector Gadget-like? Or, and at the time it seemed like the most likely scenario, does it kill me instantly on swallowing? I sat staring at the sticker, perplexed. "It seems to me," said Fish, when I pointed out the offending sticker (which by now I had determined had an identical twin stuck to my other burrito, but no other siblings attached to either Fish's hash brown or my orange juice) "that it seems like that stuff would have so many preservatives in it that it should never expire. It should have a shelf life indefinitely, like a twinkie or something."

"Apparently though, it does not," I replied. I was concerned. The more I thought about it, the more I managed to convince myself that some dumb asshole had let a perfectly good sausage burrito sit out on their kitchen counter for about 9 hours collecting germs, and then ate it, got some kind of Salmonella Surprise, and tried to sue McDonald's for almost killing them, and that somehow this event had slipped under the news media's radar so that I didn't hear about it, and now to avoid future law suits they were putting disclaimer stickers on there to disassociate themselves from any type of responsibility for e. coli that may or may not crawl onto your burrito with fake eggs after you've left it sitting out for three days and then eaten it and died.

Which isn't really McDonald's fault at all (and in fact, probably has nothing to do with the sticker), but still, after that I started to notice the increasing ass flavor of my burrito and the cheese wasn't so cheesy anymore and I ended up throwing half of it away, because, um, ew. As it's now been two full days and it's still grossing me out, I think that my last tie to the fast food nation may have been permanently severed.

Friday, October 07, 2005

More From the Triple Threat

Transcript from a message that the Triple Threat left on my voicemail earlier this summer:

Morgan: [Family name], it’s Morgan. I’m just calling to say that you suck.

Minnick(in the background): Ask her if she’s ever…

Morgan: Have you ever seen such a thing as

Minnick(in the background): pierced balls?

Morgan: If you had balls would you

Minnick (sounding closer): pierce them?

(Norris laughs in the background)
Morgan: Are your balls
Minnick: Pierced?
Morgan: Please call us.
Minnick: What, of all the genitalia that you’re aware of, and you have seen a lot of genitalia, have you ever seen pierced
Morgan: Balls? Call us. Ok, bye.

Tag Teamed

Today I had one of those exhausting phone calls with the Triple Threat. The Triple Threat is a group of people I used to work with at the Big O, right before I left to go work at the number factory. In case you didn't pick up on it, there are three of them.

Norris is a character we've seen on Bizzybiz before, as he is the individual responsible for setting me up with 1153. He likes to fish and drink beer. He doesn't really like people a whole lot, and got married at Lake Tahoe specifically to prevent most of his family and acquaintances from attending. His wife is lovely, though when asked he will tell you she is fat and doesn't speak English, and that he only married her so she could stay in the country. Norris adds he likes to have a good time at any time (unlike me).

Morgan and Minnick are new to the blog. Morgan is one of my closest girlfriends. She is a big fan of discount stores (specifically Marc's for you Cleveland readers), beer, weird festivals, volunteering, Halloween, and anything that can in any way be construed as a "deal". She is not a big fan of rude sales clerks or of her husband. She is also good at letting her mouth lead her brain, such as the time during a product design brainstorming meeting with several big company execs when she announced one way to connect two pipes together would be to have a ring attached to one that could be rolled down over the other, "you know, like a condom."

Minnick is an engineer turned some kind of marketing/sales guru. Minnick has a tendency to come off as somewhat of a caustic prick from time to time (the views and opinions expressed in this sentence are gleaned from conversations with other people and do not necessarily reflect those of the Bizzybiz Blog or it's author). This has led to at least one instance of using the phrase "There's a fine line between confidence and cockiness" in a performance review when describing himself.

The Triple Threat works their magic by ganging up on people. They make phone calls in tandem, and they all talk at once, bombarding you with reasons why they are right and you are wrong in an attempt to confuse you. Much of the time their argument is completely ridiculous and they know it, which is somewhat the point: to see how outlandish of a thing they can get you to go along with. Today's call involved a group vacation.

"Pack your bags, we'll pick you up at the airport in Norfolk."

"Oh God. What are you guys talking about now?"

"Our vacation. Next weekend. Kill Devil Hills in the Outer Banks."

"Right. Because I can afford that."

"No listen. Your lodging and meals are paid for. You just have to pick up the airfare."

"With what? I'm broke, I can't afford it."

"Wait, don't you have a job? Are you still working part time?"

"I was never working part time. I've been full time since I started."

"Oh so you're fine then. Great we'll pick you up in Norfolk Thursday night."

"You guys, seriously, I can't afford it."

"Ok, fine. We'll split it then. We'll pick up your airfare, and then we'll meet you in Norfolk and pick you up. We're getting this sweet minivan, we'll be drinking."

"You know I'm going to Cleveland next weekend right? With Fish? To make pies with my dad?"

"Your dad is making pies with Fish?"

"No, I am making pies with my dad. Fish is coming home with me."

"Well, they can go too. They have to buy their own plane tickets though, we're only buying yours."

"You guys. Seriously. I can't go."

"Are you engaged?"

"What? No."

"Pregnant? Are you pregnant? Because you need to get that abortion in before the new court takes over you know."

"I'm not pregnant."

"Well then you can fly. So we'll see you there. It's going to be sweet, we'll party..."

"Listen. I can't go. I'm going to Cleveland. Actually I'm kind of mad, I wanted to have lunch with you guys. I was going to come to the O."

"We won't be there. We'll be in North Carolina."

"Yes, I KNOW that. And I'll be in Cleveland, making pies with my dad."

"OK, here's what we'll do. We're actually saving you money." (that was Morgan talking, she'd found one of her "deals".) "Wednesday night, we'll fly you to Cleveland. It's $29. You'll be leaving from Midway. Wednesday night you'll make pies with your dad, and Thursday morning we'll get in the van and drive down. Stay the weekend. Then you can choose what day you want to go back. We'll get you a ticket direct from Norfolk to Chicago for any day you want."

"Great. Can you make it so I only miss one day of work? Because that's all I can miss."

"Um, no. You have to miss at least 2 and a half days."

"Well then I can't do it."

"Amber! You are turning down a free vacation!"

"With regret, yes."

"When you're 88, you're going to look back on this and say 'That was a huge mistake. I should have gone on vacation way back then'. And you're going to be miserable."

"Norris, I am never going to be 88 years old, and even if I was, by that time I'd have so many regrets this wouldn't even be a blip on the screen."

"If you don't live to be 88 you won't have as many regrets so when you are this might be the only thing. Think about that." (See what I mean? That doesn't even make sense.)

"I can't take that much time off in October. It doesn't work that way. If you were going in November, or even December..."

"Amber, this is Mike talking now. Listen, there is this thing called 'weather'. And the weather makes it cold in November and December. So we are going now."

"Well, I can't go."

"Amber, if you don't go we're going to boycott you. Forever. I can't believe you are doing this. You are ruining the whole plan."

"Yes, Norris, and someday when you're 88 you'll look back and say 'What a bitch Amber is, she ruined all my vacations for the whole rest of my life'."

"I'm already saying that."

"Listen, I will go in the winter. I will go in the spring. But I already have plans and I can't take that kind of time off work anyway."

"OK, so we'll book your flight then and e-mail you the itinerary."

The above example is maybe a quarter of the total conversation, which as I write this, has spilled over into an e-mail conversation during which Norris has sent me the link to the condo website three separate times, Minnick pointed out that they'd be eating at some specific restaurant I've never heard of, and Morgan wanted to know how I have time to blog at work, but can't take off for vacation. (She has a point. I'm going back to work right now.)

I like these people, but they exhaust me.

Thursday, October 06, 2005

I'll Have a Golf Trip, but Hold the Golf

Ah, the Tai's crowd. Ah, Galena. Ah, the Tai's crowd drunk in Galena.

A good time was had by all, witnesseth my notes:

My two closest buddies on the trip, the bartender and Chris G., were golfing together and therefore sharing a cart, and my drunk cart driving buddy from the last trip didn't make it to this one, so instead I ended up a passenger in the "shot cart" with BigRon. The shot cart, of course, is the cart loaded with Jagermeister and Ketel One and a case of Red Bull that you drive around the course offering shots to people and getting them very drunk (this is not to be confused with the "beer bong cart", which drives around the golf course with a whole lot of beer and a beer bong offering beer to people and getting them very drunk). One thing I've noticed about being in the shot cart is that everyone you come across has an expectation that you, also, will be doing a shot. This got to be tricky as I had been left in charge of making sure Chris G. made it back to the hotel safely since he was planning to drink heavily (helped along by his good pal in the shot cart of course). I ended up talking BigRon into splitting most of the shots with me. And by "splitting" I mean I breathed the fumes first, and then he drank the shot.

The other adventure BigRon and I encountered was the Sisterhood of the Traveling Contact Lens. Another of our drive-around-in-cart-not-golfing friends had something in her eye and took out her contact lens while we were out on the course. The wind was angry that day my friends. So angry that it blew her contact lens right off the tip of her finger. So the three of us all got into the "someone lost a contact" pose: hunched over, peering at the ground, trying not to move your feet lest you step on it. And somehow, BigRon actually found it laying in the grass. Don't ask me how he saw that, because I don't know. But it prompted C and me to shout "Ron is GOOD!" to everyone who passed by for the next 10 minutes. Until...

C had her contact lens in her mouth to keep it wet until we could get back to the clubhouse and she could have another go at putting it back in her eye. BigRon wasn't really ready to go to the clubhouse yet though, so he came up with the idea that he and I stand up and form a wind blocking wall while C sat in front of us and put her contact in. Did I mention the fury of the wind that day? The wind was pissed, and to punish us for our audacity, it blew C's contact out of her hands again. And this time, even BigRon's eagle eye couldn't recover it. Prompting C and I to modify our battle cry: "Ron is GOOD! But only the first time."

Other hilarity ensued later. Such as the two-year-old son of another tripster. He was sitting at the bar in the clubhouse and the bartender went over to talk to him. "Hey wee-man! Whatcha drinking, orange juice?" The kid pointed to his drink and shouted "SCREWDRIVER!" His dad insists that screwdriver is his favorite tool. Yeah.

Also, while I did get Chris G. back to the hotel safely the first time, we still ended up losing him later. He had gone to the boat to gamble with many of the others while a few of us stayed at the hotel eating and drinking and a few others hit the strip club. I couldn't go, I was babysitting the babydrunk. People were returning from the boat in small groups all night long...everyone except Chris G. No one knew his whereabouts. "did you see Chris when you left?" we asked, oh, everyone. "No," they told us, or "He was still at a table last time I saw him." Around 3:30 a.m. Chris strolled out onto the patio.

"How did you get here Chris?"

"Oh, I got a ride."

"From who? Everyone else came back hours ago!"

"Yeah, I know. The pit boss drove me home." No joke, the PIT BOSS drove him home.

I also collected a whole catalog of bartenderisms, including but not limited to:

"I mean, that guy's sex life even bothers me!"

"Vodka at 4 a.m. is a bad idea. Why didn't you stop me?"

"I am so tired. I must have yawned 70 times today. Well, maybe not 70, but at least 38."

There were more, I just didn't have any paper to write them all down.


I forgot this part until I was at the bar last night. I headed back to the room around 4 a.m. The bartender showed up around 5 and went to bed. Right about 7:30 I woke up to some kind of crinkling, crunching sound. "What the hell are you doing?" I mumbled to the bartender, who was standing with his back to me next to the sink (i.e. not in his bed).

"I'm having a sausage sandwich and some chips! You want anything?"

"What? No. Dude? It's like 7:30 in the morning."

He turned around and grinned at me, popped the rest of his sandwich in his mouth, got back in bed and fell right back to sleep as if it had never happened.
Can't wait for the next trip.

Tuesday, October 04, 2005

The Klutz Reprise

No new bruises to report, only some dry, crusted hot chocolate that I somehow managed to splash on my sweater and in my hair this morning.