Let the Great Countdown Begin!

There are 29 days until my 29th birthday.

I'm an Idiot Torn

MrSteve called yesterday to complain about his early morning. I took the opportunity to make the conversation about me.

"I was at work at 4:30 this morning," he told me. "I can't work at that hour, I'm an idiot in the morning."

"As opposed to me, who is an idiot all day."

"You're not an idiot."

"I am too. I'm stupid about the bartender."

"You're not stupid."

"What part of my weirdness with the bartender leads you to believe I'm not an idiot?"

"That's not an idiot. An idiot is..." There was a long pause while MrSteve tried to define idiot in a way that didn't describe me. He failed. "An idiot is someone who thinks a situation is a certain way when really it's not."

"Exactly. And that doesn't apply to me and the bartender how?"

MrSteve sighed. "You're not an idiot. You're just...torn."

I like this and I plan to apply it to every stupid thing I do now. Spill something all over myself? "I'm not clumsy, I'm just torn." Irrational fear of bugs? "I'm not being irrational, I'm just torn." Lack of blog updating? "I'm not lazy, I'm just torn."

You Have 1 Post in Your Cart

Anyone who knows me knows that I hate shopping. It embodies everything that I hate: large crowds, talking to strangers, having to drive places, making choices in front of other people. I guess it doesn't really involve spiders, but it is clearly an activity coughed up from the 7th circle of hell. So it should come as no surprise that I am fully on board with the "buy things on the internet" wagon.

The best thing about shopping on the internet, besides being able to do it in my pajamas or while watching Gilmore Girls, is the variety. The internet has everything you can buy in a real store, plus a crap load of things that you can't, such as really offensive t-shirts, or subversive cross-stitch patterns, or Festivus poles. This is important because all of my friends are quite weird, and finding something they would like for Christmas in a brick and mortar store is next to impossible. I mean, I know plenty of people who could really use a marshmallow shooter, but I'm not going to find it at my local Toys-R-Us.

The sheer volume of my internet shopping this year has led me to realize another benefit: home delivery. Almost every day that I come home now, I find a package on my doorstep. It's like getting presents every day! It doesn't even matter that none* of it is actually for me, I still get the joy of opening the boxes to discover what's inside. Also the satisfying feeling of receiving mail that is not a bill. And occasionally, joy of all joys, some free bubble wrap to play with. Today I'm expecting some Hawaiian Blend peppercorns for the bartender's stocking. It comes in a glass jar. The bubble wrap outlook for today is good.

*most

I am Moving Somewhere South and/or West of Here

It was 32 degrees this morning, and it felt like a freakin' heat wave. I'm hoping it warms up further and melts the ice on my stairs so I can stop almost killing myself every time I leave or come home.

The owner is in Las Vegas and had the audacity to call me last night and complain about the weather. "It's cold here!" he said.
"No, it is not. It's cold here."
"No, I mean it's cold for Vegas. It got down to 40 degrees last night."
"It's a desert, ass, of course it's cold at night. There's hardly any moisture in the air, so they can't hold their heat overnight."
"Whatever. But I'm telling you it's cold here."
"And I'm telling you that during the day today, it was like 20 degrees."
"Oh, it was 65 during the day here."
"I hate you."

This Next Post is a Cover

Me First and the Gimme Gimmes played Sunday night at the Metro, and they are really funny:

"We are Me First and the Gimme Gimmes, the best cover band EVER."
"This next song is a cover."
"We chose country music for our latest album because country is the music of tolerance."
"This next song is a cover."
"We started this band because we hate music."
"Before the show I was sitting in the trailer drinking tequila by myself and listening to the new My Chemical Romance album. No, I'm serious!"
"This next song's a cover."

I also met and shook hands with Chicken from Dead to Me, who I have a major crush on, but did not say anything to him AT ALL because that is what I do.

Moo?

Last night I ended up going to a surprise concert with the bartender. The concert wasn't a surprise, me going was. Our friend Hellbilly had been at Guns N Roses the night before and wasn't up to concerts two nights in a row, so he gave me his ticket. The Matches opened for +44.

We got there in time for the tail end of The Matches' set. Neither of us are really Matches fans, what with their girl pants and boring songs and their emo, emo eyeliner. We found a new reason not to like them at the show. Halfway through one of their songs, a guy walked up to the microphone and pulled out a triangle. The bartender looked at me. I looked around for cows. I wondered if perhaps it was dinnertime. The bartender scowled. Because, come on, it's a rock band. How are you supposed to even hear the triangle? It's impossible. And if it were possible we would know, because the guy was really playing the hell out of the thing. As if it were a pinata, or an effigy of someone they dislike. It was way to much effort for something that was completely drowned out by the guitars. They should have gone for some cowbell.

+44 is the current band of former Blink-182 members Mark Hoppus (bass) and Travis Barker (drums). Apparently they have a thing for naming their bands with a one syllable word and then a number. They're, eh, alright. Listenable. The best part of the show was Travis Barker. Travis would have been the best part of the show anyway, because he's a frikkin amazing drummer. But a few weeks ago he broke his hand, and so played their entire set last night with only one arm all Def Leppard-like. Except that he actually has two arms and was holding the broken one up behind his head the whole time like he was at a rodeo. Or maybe fencing because he had a drumstick in his other hand. But way more spastic than that, so yeah, like a rodeo. I was right the first time. Either way it was awesome.

A good time was had by all.

Or Possibly Ravens Heaven

H-Town: I have made a grave error in the letter I am mailing to you
me: um, ok
H-Town: i made the comment "I would've sent you a Kevin mack card, but I fumbled it on the way into the packing box" My brother says I blasphemed Mack, it was BYNER who did that
H-Town: i knew it was one of those two, but forgot which
me: ah yes, you meant ernest byner there
H-Town: so, i'm going to cleveand browns hell
me: that's ok, cleveland browns hell might be the same as bengals heaven
H-Town: which might be nice,
me: actually no, it's probably steelers heaven. you're screwed

Are You Ready to Ruin Some Football?

Is it just me, or does Monday Night Football blow this year? I have seen I think maybe one game that was worthy of the three hours I devoted to it. And I may have just dreamed that one. Last night's turnover festival was almost comedic, if it weren't for Jerramy Stevens' unwillingness to finish running his routes, which just made me angry. And can Joe Theismann and Tony Kornheiser possibly bicker any more? I swear, Kornheiser contradicts everything Theismann has to say just because he doesn't like him.

Suck My Balls and Assorted Other Christmas Stories

A brief recap of my various goings on:

1. Melle dyed my hair green and red on Friday. I have no idea how I finally talked her into that, as she kept telling me it was cheesy. Also she is a big scrooge. It looks awesomely festive, but every time I wash my hair, my hands end up looking like I've slain a muppet.

2. I am somewhat known for the wearing of inappropriate t-shirts, because I think it is hilarious. Some of my selections include "You say tomato, I say fuck you", "Masturbation: My anti-drug" and "I taught your boyfriend that thing you like". I hadn't really realized how much my shirts had become my trade mark until I walked into the salon on day one of The 40 Days of Christmas wearing a "Joy To The World" sweatshirt I had cross-stitched myself. John stared at me reading my shirt for a long time before finally saying, "Oh. That's it? Because you know how you have that shirt that says 'swallows'? I thought there was a trick to it, like instead of saying 'Joy to the World' it was going to say 'Joy to you sucking my balls' or something."

3. After I left the salon, I went down to the bar where I started wishing everyone a Merry Christmas which earned me many confused looks, two hugs and a mint from IHop. I decided to call JoE, the inventor of the 40 Days. "Happy 40 Days!" he answered.

"Happy 40 Days!" I said. "I'm sitting here in the bar in my Joy To The World sweatshirt and ornament earrings."

"Haha! Is that why you called?"

"Of course that's why I called. That and to tell you that everyone thinks I am batshit insane."

"They just don't understand. Listen, I'd love to talk to you, but I have to let you go. We're in the middle of watching 'It's a Wonderful Life'."

Ah, sweet sweet vindication.

4. It is almost as much fun watching the humbug bartender lug my Christmas decorations up and down the stairs than it is actually decorating. He had no objection to my putting little wreaths around his candle sticks in the dining room, but he thinks the festive red couch cover is a tad excessive. I also found a stuffed teddy bear and a snowman in with my linens. "Kristen, here's a teddy bear for you and [bartender], you get a snowman."

"I don't want a snowman," he complained as I handed it to him .

"Too bad! Hug the snowman." He did. I can't believe that actually worked.

5. I am not, NOT a Barenaked Ladies fan. Not that their lyrics aren't clever, but that folksy plain ass sound to their music drives me up a wall. Having said that, if you're into Christmas music and looking for something different, I strongly recommend their Christmas album, Barenaked for the Holidays. It's refreshingly different, including a song about disgruntled elves that try to start a union, a round of "Jingle bells, Batman smells" and a remake of Deck the Halls where the lyrics have been replaced by them repeating "Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young" over and over again.

6. Buckeye football rules. Browns football, not so much.

Tis The Season For Giving

Amberance: i need to think of what i want to engrave on [the bartender’s] ipod
H-Town: oh man, the engraving has to be something classic
H-Town: like "I farted"
H-Town: or "This iPod fits in my ass"
H-Town: all are timeless phrases of joy and love
Amberance: that's awesome. i was totally going to write something all mushy, "BFF" or something but you're totally right
Amberance: "I like poo"
Amberance:"To [the bartender]: I shat this iPod for you. Love, Amber"
Amberance: "Warning: ipod not intended for use in masturbation"
Amberance: actually that's not even true, the one I'm getting him plays videos
H-Town: hahaha
H-Town: "Please Wipe me Off When Finished"
Amberance: I'll wrap it with a box of kleenex
Amberance: and some lube
H-Town: and a six pack

The 40 Days of Christmas

Merry Christmas everyone!

What's that you say?

Why no, I don't think it's a little early. Yes, I know it isn't even Thanksgiving yet. It's The 40 Days of Christmas today. See, back in the day, JoE and Phil, my fellow Christmas enthusiasts, created The 40 Days of Christmas to celebrate their love for Christmas and everything it stands for. Notice that it is The 40 Days OF Christmas and not the 40 days TO Christmas. It's not a countdown. Every day, from November 16th until December 25th, is Christmas. If you're as big of a Christmas spazz as me, it's actually 41 days, because I always tack Boxing Day onto the end of that period.

I'm so excited. I've had a hard time this year waiting for it to be Christmas. On Halloween night, I stopped by Target on my way home for who knows what reason and ended up spend over two hours in there walking through their already set up aisles of Christmas decorations. I also bought a new Christmas CD that day. Because, you know, clearly 30 Christmas CDs are not even close to enough.

Yesterday was the slowest day ever in the history of time. I thought the day before The 40 Days of Christmas was never going to end. I was biting my lip waiting for the elevator after work, when a woman who work for the building came out of her office laden with three giant shopping bags. One of them was emitting a shimmery magical sound and my face lit up like a Christmas tree (har, har). "I hear jingle bells!" I announced. That's how excited I was - I deliberately started a conversation with a total stranger. She grinned at me sheepishly. I think she was expecting to get made fun of for running around with Christmas items in the middle of November. So I set her at ease and explained to her about The 40 Days of Christmas, and my nine Christmas trees and nativity collection and Santa collection and 30 Christmas CDs. She told me that the building was putting it's decorations up the day after Thanksgiving and that there would be musicians in our lobby every Thursday serenading us with Christmas tunes. "Oh my God, Christmas songs every Thursday? Carolers? Will there be carolers? CAN I SING WITH THEM?" I was practically screaming this. By now we were in the middle of a busy street walking to the trains.

"I don't know if there are carolers. You know like when we had the string quartets serenading us for a while? Like that. But if there are carolers, just go ahead and start singing with them if you want."

"I will so be singing with them! I want to go caroling! Maybe we can carol in the building, like go to people's offices. That would be so cool. Will you carol with me?" By now the girl who thought she was way ahead of everyone on Christmas joy could not get away from me fast enough. No one out Christmases me. No one.

I'm not sure how well The 40 Days are going to go on the homefront this year. The bartender's birthday is Christmas Eve, so his birthday has always been overshadowed by Christmas. Because of this he's not so much a fan of my Christmas cheer. Hopefully I can distract him with cookies and he won't kill me.

Guilty or Innocent, This Is In Poor Taste

O.J. to Discuss Killings in Book

Conspiracy?

The bartender finds it very suspicious that there was a business card for a tire shop down the street stuck in my windshield the day my tires were slashed.

Bunch of Savages In This Town

So I've recently found out that we are in the midst of National Blog Posting Month, or NaBloPoMo (I will not be calling it that because, dude. Come on.). I have, up til now, not participated in this, but I had a very good reason. I was busy. Busy dealing with the fallout of cockbreath assfaces who decided to do some vandalizin' last week.

I headed to my car on Wednesday morning, all ready to drive my lazy ass to the train station so I could go to work, only to find when I got to it that it seemed to be lacking something. Such as air in the tires. When last I'd left it, there had been a full supply of air in all the tires, so this seemed strange. It also went a long way to explaining the cop sitting in his car on the corner of my street, and the knocking on my door I had heard at 5:30 that morning, which I originally thought I dreamed, but was actually the cop. As it turns out, all four of my tires had been slashed, the driver's side had been horribly disfigured by someone's key, and six other cars suffered similar fates due to, I imagine, some damn kids "having fun".

AAA, bless them, came and took my car away on a flat bed truck so that I could be privileged to spend over $500 on some new ones, and later the insurance company took some pictures of the paint damage and estimated that that would cost something in excess of $1,100.

Operation Shrink the Fat Girl took a break for the day as I managed to consume 3 tacos, a small cheese sticks and small Hawaiian Punch from White Castle, a chocolate chocolate chip cookie and a small root beer courtesy of my friend Manny, a full slab of ribs, 4 slices of pizza, a coke, a small salad, two pieces of bread, an order of spaghetti and meatballs and three hard ciders all in the course of one afternoon.

Everyone except for the cop wanted to know who it was I had pissed off. I found this question curious. I don't have the kind of friends that I expect to slash my tires when I anger them. Who are these people hanging around with that this is their first thought?

At any rate that has been the focus of the last week, but I promise that from here on out there will be a blog post for each remaining day of National Blog Posting Month, even if it's crap.

Thanks, I Think

Parent Company Accountant: What's for lunch today?
Me: A glass of water.
PCA: That's it? Are you trying to starve yourself?
Me: Yes.
PCA: You know what you need? (holds up a McDonald's bag) A McRib!
Me: I haven't had a sandwich from McDonald's in 20 years.
PCA: Twenty years? Woah. Are you against trans-fats or something?
Me: I'm against foods that taste like my ass.
PCA: Haha. Hmm. Well your ass tastes pretty good at McRib time.

Freaks and Ghouls and Professionals

The intern and I are caffinating in the office kitchen. The intern is all dressed up in a suit and tie from his interview this morning. The parent company receptionist walks by.

PCR: Is that your Halloween costume?
The intern: Yes. I'm a respectable person.

I Can Make a Federal Case Out of Just About Anything

ring ring.
The bartender answers his phone. “Hello?”
“I need your scientific opinion on something.”
“Ok.”
“Were you the one who told me centipedes can’t get out of the bathtub?”
“Yes.”
“Ok. When you said that did you mean they can never ever ever get out of the bathtub, or they usually can’t, but if they try really hard they could get out?”
“No, they can’t get out.”
“Ok. Are you sure though?”
“Look, it’s not going to get out. I’m not coming all the way home just to kill a bug.”
“No one is asking you to. I just want to know if I can put my makeup on in here, or if I have to take it with me because I need to run away from the house.”
“No, it’s fine. Even if it did get out, it’s going to run to a crack somewhere. But it won’t get out.”
“Ok. Thanks. Go back to work.”
“(audible sigh) Bye.”

I hung up the phone and stared at it. I believed him, that it wouldn’t get out, more so because I’d already seen it try and fail a dozen times before I called him than because of his reassurance. Also I’d already pulled the bathmat and the shower liner outside of the tub so it couldn’t climb onto those and get out. So I wasn’t terribly worried that it would get on me. I was more freaked out over the fact that I had JUST GOTTEN OUT OF THE SHOWER and it was probably in there with me the whole entire time. Also because it was both hideously ugly and ginormously huge. They’re like a dozen spiders fused together into one long strand. I sent a text message to Heather, because I needed someone to feel my pain and not make fun of me: There is a CENTIPEDE in my bathtub!! I considered putting a cup over the top of it so the bartender could kill it when he got home, but realized that meant getting within a cup’s reach of it which was not going to happen.

The theme song from Super Mario Brothers.
I looked at my phone and saw it was the owner calling. “Hello?”
“Hey man! What’s going on in your life?”
“There’s a centipede in my tub.”
The owner cracked up laughing. “I just talked to [the bartender] and he told me if I called you that would be the first thing you’d say to me.”
“It’s huge. I called him because he told me they can’t get out of the tub and I wanted to verify that.”
“And he’s right, they can’t. Are you just standing there staring at it?”
“Yes.”
“You should just drown him. Wash him down the drain.”
“I tried that already.” This was true. “I threw some water on him, but he won’t die.”
“That’s because you have to actually throw water on him and not just spit into the tub.”
“I did! I used a big cup!” The centipede was frantically trying to climb the walls of the tub from every angle. He was so big that every time he fell I could hear him hit the bottom of the tub.
“A cup is not going to work. You need a bucket, or a cup and then another cup, but I already know you won’t do it.”
“Well, because if I use too much water it might splash out on me!”
“It’s not going to splash out on you. You’re a freak. What else is going on?”
I left the bathroom and continued chatting with the owner while I got dressed. When I got off the phone I went back in the bathroom to put my makeup on.

No centipede in the bathtub. I looked everywhere. I checked the walls, the faucet, the ceiling. I looked in the sink. Still no centipede. Stupid tricky, huge-ass, ugly, motherfucking disgusting bug!

I was later assured by the bartender and MrSteve that it had probably accidentally fallen or intentionally crawled into the drain and drowned in there. I’m pretty sure they really believe that and were not just patronizing me so I’d shut up. But I’m not taking a shower in there again until after the bartender does because holy crap.

5 Minute Major - For Sucking

I went to the Blackhawks game with the bartender last night. That was a huge mistake. I've never seen such a terrible display of hockey in all of my life. I can't even describe how painful that was, so I won't try. I'll just say that the highlight of the game was a guy about three rows in front of us who screamed out, "Will somebody! PLEASE! Beat someone up!" near the end of the second period.

Rant (Be Careful Reading This, You Wouldn't Want to Put Your Eye Out)

I am so glad I grew up in the 80's and 90's as opposed to right now. We have lost our collective minds in this country about all things children.

I read an article yesterday about a Massachusetts elementary school that has banned playing tag at recess. Um, what?

They've banned it on the grounds that kids might get hurt and the parents would hold the school liable. I was all ready to be mad at the school, but I completely see their point. Parents are both so paranoid and so litigious these days they will sue over anything. Have you seen the story about the girl who lent her iPod to another kid who then lost it? It's become this huge legal battle over who is responsible for losing the iPod and who is due compensation for it, etc. etc. This would not have happened in my house. If I had brought something that expensive with me to school (because we were deprived and didn't have iPods back in those days, you see), and I lent it to another kid and walked away and then it disappeared, my parents would not have sued to other kid. They would have yelled at me and told me if I was going to go around handing out expensive things to people, then it was my own fault and too bad. And then I would have not done something like that again. Lesson learned. But I digress.

So tag and all chase games have been banned. And I'll just go ahead and assume that there is already no monkey bars, jungle gyms, swings etc. because kids might get hurt *gasp!* *outrage!*. So these kids are supposed to do what? Stand there on their rubber mats looking at each other? I know, let's all play jacks. Wait no, you could put someone's eye out with those things.

From the article:

"Several school administrators ... took aim at dodgeball a few years ago, saying it was exclusionary and dangerous." Of course it is exclusionary, that is the POINT OF THE GAME. I sucked at dodgeball growing up, being that I can neither throw nor catch. I was always one of the first kids out. It didn't matter, I played anyway. I'm pretty sure it hasn't negatively effected any of my adult relationships or decreased my self esteem. I don't know, maybe I'm wrong.

"Another Willett parent ... said her son feels safer because of the rule." No doubt he does. As his mother is most likely nit-picking at every little aspect of his life because she is paranoid over every single micron of dust he encounters. Having been exposed to this for the last 6-10 years, it's no wonder he's afraid to play tag. You made your son into a big pussy, mom, congratulations. Please don't be startled when he gets his ass kicked and shoved into lockers in high school.

Kids are supposed to get bruised. They are supposed to get splinters, eat dirt, fall off their bikes, climb trees, and swing on swings. They are supposed to play tag.

Amberance Ruins Chicken and Porn

Thanks in large part to my dearest drinking buddy MrSteve, I have finally found my calling in life: Porn Foley.

What's a Porn Foley you ask? Well, I assume everyone knows what porn is. And I think most people know what a Foley artist is. It's exactly what you think it is. My calling in life is to create sound effects for porn.

MrSteve is trying to disassociate himself from this venture, but don't be fooled. He coined the term Porn Foley and he jokingly applied it to my future. He did not envision that I would take his idea and run with it, but that is his own fault. He's known me long enough to know better than to make an offhand remark to me about sound effects and porn. Clearly he was asking for it.

I can just picture it: Me standing in a sound room, headphones on, larger than life porn playing on the screen in front of me, and there I stand watching the nekkid frolic as I slap two pieces of chicken together to the beat of their fornication. Maybe a turducken. I bet they make awesome squishy sounds.

When I said the same to MrSteve he sighed and shook his head. He claims he will never be able to look at porn or chicken the same way again. I also pictured a conversation at my family reunion. "What have I been up to? I make the sound effects for pornographic movies. Yeah, that's right. I write the songs, baby."

You may be tempted to point out that there is no such thing as a Porn Foley, but I ask you, don't you think there should be? I mean, do you believe any of the sounds that you hear in those things? NO! They're totally faking it! So if it's all fake anyway, why not fake it in a way that makes it sound more real? Enter the long overdue Porn Foley. I will revolutionize the industry!

And when I'm up on the stage in front of all those pornographers excepting my Porny for Best Sound, I'm going to say I couldn't have done it without MrSteve.

Panic Sets In

It is snowing outside. SNOWING. And, as if to mock me, the sun is shining.

I am not ready for this. For one thing, I have no gloves. But it's mostly psychological. The leaves haven't even finished turning yet. I haven't gone on a fall walk anywhere. We're still playing baseball for Pete's sake. It's just too soon. I need more time to prepare.

Snowing. Ugh.

Hadn't Thought About That.

MrSteve is drinking scotch. I attempt to determine exactly how drunk he is. I fail in this attempt:

Me: How drunk are you? Would you eat a gummy bear off the floor?
MrSteve: What? No.
Me: Hmm. How about the bar? Would you eat a gummy bear off the bar?
MrSteve: No!
Me: What about if I dropped a gummy bear in your scotch? Would you eat it then?
MrSteve: (crinkles his brow at me) NO!
Me: Why not?
MrSteve: Because I don't like gummy bears.

Wardrobe Malfunctions

That's it; the party's over. The carefree days of eating chocolate cake for breakfast and sedentary bliss whilst watching Seinfeld and Star Trek every night are gone. This week marks the beginning of my new plan: Operation Shrink the Fat Girl.

It's not that I'm obese, per se, but I am definitely pushing the limits of HWP. I discovered this on Saturday while shopping on Clark street with out of town friends. I tried on two pairs of pants in my Size of Grudging Acceptance*. The first would not button with any amount of sucking in. The second could not even be raised over vastness of my thighs.

There've been other signs too. I walk around the house frequently in just a t-shirt and panties and my roommate does not look at me at all. This is the Master of Misogyny, Captain of Crass, 12 time Ogling World Champion. And nada. He used to - it's how we met pretty much - but that was 20 pounds ago. In fact, the only boys that seem to be looking at me at all are the ones who have expressed a clear interest in women with "junk in the trunk". I don't want any junk in my trunk - I detest clutter. Enough is enough.

This is something I need to take care of with great dispatch. Winter is coming. I love corduroy pants to bits, but I have no desire to light my thighs on fire just from walking. I also enjoy the look of fishnet stockings, but not so much when I look like a dolphin who was accidentally trapped in the net of some tuna fisherman.

So, as of now, I love carrots and walking. We'll see how it goes.

*The Size of Grudging Acceptance is the size where you'd like to be just one size smaller, but you understand that probably you don't look so terrible as you think, so you go with it rather than expend the effort to actually live a healthy lifestyle.

Footballs, Horns and Pitchforks

PGS DenMILF: dude
PGS DenMILF: how are you liking the latest big ben development?
PGS DenMILF: *grins wickedly*
PGS DenMILF: *goes to hell*
Velociheather: the appendectomy?
Velociheather: awesome
Velociheather: *goes to hell*

Hear Ye, Hear Ye

Thanks to my fabulously connected brother, this weekend I will achieve my lifelong dream of singing the national anthem before a game.

The commentary on this soon-to-be accomplishment has been varied and occasionally bizarre:

• I didn't know you could sing. Yes. Long before I mastered the art of perching on a bar stool or turning chocolate cake into "dinner", I was warbling with the best of them. At one point I was singing in 5 choirs at the same time.
• Have you sung in front of that many people before? That many? No, but it's far from the first time I've sung for a large audience. Most of those pieces were all in Latin or being evaluated by judges or both, so there was way more pressure then than now.
• What anthem are you singing, ours? I'm astounded that I've heard this question more than once. The game is the Chicago Fire vs. the New York Red Bulls. What nations anthem would I be singing? "Well, it's a soccer game, so I thought maybe the Mexican anthem." Could someone please explain this logic to me? Since when does soccer = Mexicans to the exclusion of everyone else? Why not ask me if I'm singing the Italian national anthem or the Brazilian national anthem? And again more than one person asked me this.
• Wow! Are you nervous? Um, no, because it's Thursday. I'm singing on Sunday. The only thing I'm doing today is watching the Browns game at the bar. Nothing to be nervous about until Sunday afternoon.
• So, Let me get this straight: You can stand up and sing the national anthem in front of 15,000 people, but you can't order a pizza on the phone. That is correct. I have confidence that I can sing well, I do not have confidence that I can order a pizza without sounding like a jackass. The pizza guy might make fun of me; 15,000 people who can't imagine soloing in front of a stadium full of people will not.

In general, everyone seems pretty excited for me, especially my boss who was e-mailing clients in Minneapolis and Cincinnati to tell them about it and Gene Honda, who ran around for weeks telling everyone they had to show up even though he may end up missing the game himself for a vacation in (wait for it) Mexico. Mexicanos, al grito de guerrael acero aprestad y el bridon. Y retiemble en sus centros la tierra,al sonoro rugir del canon. ¡Y retiemble en sus centros la tierra,al sonoro rugir de el canon!

Sadly, This is Actual News

T.O. Practices.

Holy shit, stop the presses!

I Have Had It With These Motherfuckin Spiders In My Motherfuckin Car!

Samuel L. Jackson called me on Friday.

He told me I should stop dying my hair all kind of crazy colors and go see his latest film instead. He also called me from Heather's house which I thought was weird. I had no idea they were close. At any rate it was a demand more than a suggestion. He said if I didn't go see it he would "come after" me. I've seen Pulp Fiction; I know what he's capable of.

So Friday night I went to see it with Magic Hands. I've been trying to dream up a blog name for Magic Hands for weeks and sadly that's the best I could come up with. It's meant to be reflective of his being a massage therapist and it sucks less than Sir Rubs A Lot. Though not much. Anyway.

Snakes on a Plane is awesome. It's not a movie; it's an event. It kicks mad ass in its craptacularness. Below are my favorite moments. You need to highlight them to read it, since it contains spoilers and I wouldn't want to ruin anyone's joy.

• I invented a fun new game to play at the movies. It's called Spot the Product Placement. I came up with it when a guy who JUST got off a motorbike was inexplicably walking around with a Red Bull in his hand as a GMC truck pulled up. Try it, it's great.
• Snakes biting people's genitalia is always funny. It's even funnier when they actually yell out "Bitch! Get off my dick!"
• Another thing that is always funny is dead bodies falling right on top of unsuspecting Purell addicted germophobes. Though karma would come back to bite my ass later that night for laughing at someone else's phobias.
• Snakes on a Plane: now with more Snake-o-vision! I didn't know snakes saw everything in green like they have built in night vision goggles. Go snakes.
• Even better than I could have hoped for! A GIANT snake that wraps around this pompous English dude and crushes him to death. You even hear the bones crunching. But as if that weren't cool enough, the snake then does that thing where they can unhinge their jaw and it SWALLOWS THE GUY'S ENTIRE HEAD! Genius!
• The guy that plays Dick in High Fidelity turns out to be the resident snake expert, and his character is exactly the same as Dick, except he's a snake geek instead of a music geek. He's unintentionally hilarious.
• The ambiguously gay male flight attendant grabs a snake and exacts revenge by putting it in the microwave and blowing it up. Guts everywhere. Sweet as hell.
• The big line comes almost at the end of the movie, and at a point where it almost makes no sense. They just decided that the guy with the PSP should try to land the plane since the snakes ate everyone who had ever actually flown, and while everyone was calm and no snakes were around SLJ drops the line. WTF? Whatever, it got a huge hand in the theater.

I drove Magic Hands home after the movie. I'm pretty sure he now thinks I'm a total freaking asshole. We were stopped at a light and I was explaining one of my favorite They Might Be Giants songs, Spider. "I love this song! TMBG are insane. Shpidah! He is our hero! Shpidah! Get rid of! Shpidah! AAAHHHH! FUCK THERE'S ONE RIGHT HERE INSIDE THE CAR! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!" As I'm singing my happy little spider song some movement caught my eye and I realized that there was a spider in my car, on the drivers side door, a whole 6 inches away from me. Seconds after I noticed it, it fell on the floor right by my feet. I'd explained my spider issues to him before, he thought it was funny and sort of cute. That is what everyone thinks until the first time they see me freak out. It always amuses me (much much later) how surprised they are. It's not like they haven't been warned.

Magic Hands sent me to the back seat to hide, and then went against all his vegetarian yay-for-nature principles and killed it for me. Also another one that he found hiding under my floor mat, waiting to eat my feet or climb up my pant leg. He then spent the next ten minutes trying to coax me back into the front seat. I don't remember what the questions were that I asked him. I know that they were all steeped in crazy. When he finally got me back in the driver's seat and I'd stopped hyperventilating, he said somewhat anti-climactically "I guess you really are afraid of spiders."

Yes. Yes I am.

If you'd like Samuel L. Jackson to threaten your friends, you can get in touch with him here.

Random Thoughts From My Lunchtime Walk

• The sign outside the Baskin Robbins clearly reads "31 Flavors" in giant pink writing. And yet when I go inside I count exactly 20 flavors. What gives exactly? I was promised 11 more choices. The Intern thinks we should sue.
• Speaking of ice cream, why the hell am I the only person who's ever heard of Superman flavor? Everyone always looks at me like I'm crazy when I talk about it, but it obviously exists. Or did.
• One thing I would not have done would be to start a car rental business and name it Alamo. The Texans lost that battle. Almost all of them died. Doesn't that imply that renting an Alamo car would cause you to die and/or get lost?
• We're on a bridge Charlie!
• It is a travesty that anyone should have to work on such a beautiful day. Especially me.

When It Rains, It Pours...

...then it strikes you with lightning, knocks a tree over onto your house and floods your basement.

Browns Center Ephraim to be Suspended

Maybe we don't really need a center. Maybe we can train the ball to snap itself.

For My Buckeye Fans

I'm laying on the couch in my living room, while my roommate the bartender reads me college football previews, followed by college football schedules.

"Read me the Buckeyes schedule," says I, "I want to know if they're playing at Northwestern this year."

"Yeah, the game is here. November 11th."

"Sweet! I'm totally going to go to that game. O-H!"

The Illinois native silently surfs the internet. The silence grows until he realizes I'm staring at him, looks at me and says, "Oh. Is this the part where I'm supposed to say 'I-O'?"

We're going to have to work on this.

Pity Party

My throat hurts. I can barely swallow. My head weighs 60 pounds and some asshole is blowing up a balloon right behind my eye sockets. Trains and walking induce nausea. It is obvious I am dying of typhoid. I hope to tell you all one last spider story before I die with what is left of my strength. But not right now.

On The New Subtitle

Our new subtitle comes to us courtesy of the great and powerful Wizard of MrSteve. We'd been sitting at the bar discussing television shows I'd never seen or heard of (MrSteve: It was on in 1973. Me: So I wasn't born. MrSteve: And then there was McMillan and Wife, in 1971. Me: So, I was even less born.) I was drinking Captain and Coke; the far more sophisticated MrSteve was drinking scotch.

A word about scotch: it's fucking gross. I don't understand this alcohol at all. I've had this debate with MrSteve a number of times. They always go something like this:

Me: I don't know how you drink that stuff. Seriously.
MrSteve: Here, try it.
Me: (Tentative sip. Explosion of hatred from my tastebuds.) Gross. It tastes like paint thinner, Steve.
MrSteve: What? You're crazy. You don't taste the caramel? You don't taste the wood?
Me: I taste the turpentine.
MrSteve: You're crazy.


My conversation with MrSteve somehow went from shows from before I was born to giving scotch to an 8 year old (don't ask). And this, inexplicably, led to MrSteve grabbing a lighter and trying to light his scotch on fire. As I sat watching this, several problems with this operation came to mind, to wit:

• He could spill the scotch all over the bar.
• He could drop the (borrowed) lighter into the scotch and ruin it.
• He could actually light the scotch on fire and burn down the bar.*

With these things in mind I eyed MrSteve and told him gravely, "I have not had enough rum to approve of that particular maneuver." The wise MrSteve dropped his arson-laced experiment and instead suggested I use that comment on the blog.




*While relaying this story to the bartender the next morning, he pointed out that there probably wasn't enough alcohol in the scotch for it to actually catch fire, but that attempting to light it on fire "could ruin the taste of the scotch." I don't really see how you could ruin that flavor, but it's an interesting point.

It's A Miracle I'm Ever Taken Seriously

A guy from the parent company and The Intern are standing near the back hallway talking. My backpack and I approach them on my way to the door.

Parent Company Guy: Here she comes!
Me: And there I go.
PCG: You're leaving?
Me. I'm tired. I need a nap. I make the universal sign of a pillow with my hands and pretend to rest my head on it.
The Intern: The carpet does look pretty comfortable.
Me: No, I'm going to take a nap right here.
The Intern: Standing up?
Me: Yes. I demonstrate the pillow again. I'm like a cow. Oh wait. Cows sleep standing up right?
The Intern: Yes. That's the whole point of cow tipping. You push them over when they're sleeping.
Me: Oh. Right. I remember now. Because I've seen cows that were sitting down you know. But they were probably just resting.
*crickets*
Me:I'm going to stop talking now.

Off to a Great Typical Start

I would be crying if it weren't for the fact I was totally expecting something like this to happen. Normally the catastrophe has something to do with the first round draft pick. Now it's our free agents.

*SOB*

Shows and Hoes

Cousin Rick is coming to town this weekend to go see CAKE play at a church festival (not even kidding) and hang out with his favorite cousin (me). He will be bringing along a grown up friend and another cousin of ours, who is 11.

While I greatly look forward to said visit and concert, I've come up with two potential problems.

The first is where the hell am I going to put three people in my apartment? Rick says they can all sleep on the floor, but what floor? I haven't seen my floor in two weeks. Should I store them in the beer boxes? The attic? Out on the porch? No matter where I stick them I need to clean my house.

The second problem came to me just this morning while I merrily showered (what, you don't shower merrily?): my house is not in any way childproof. I don't mean in a hide the cleaning supplies and put plastic covers on the outlets sort of way. What I mean is that my refridgerator is covered in erotic magnetic poetry, my shower curtain sports Playboy covers through the years, more Playboys litter my dining room table (they came free with the roommate) and my bedroom wall features 11 photographs of naked lady parts (and a Sports Illustrated cover of Danica Patrick. Shut up). So, you know, maybe not entirely appropriate for an 11 year old kid. Or many adults for that matter.

Seems I have more cleaning to do than I thought.

Roommate: Week One

The bartender has lived at my place for a full week now.

• He talks to himself in the bathroom. This is not the typical "singing in the shower" thing that many of us are guilty of (I am the best wet and soapy Eponine from Les Miserables ever). This is more like an internal argument, except without the "internal". I figured this out when I heard him in there, mumbling about something, and then heard him saying quite clearly, "Well, now that part is true." I thought maybe he'd brought his phone in there to chat with someone while he dropped the kids off at the lake, but no. Phone was safely being charged in his room. Whatever, it seems whatever the problem was got resolved.
• The bad news is that I'll never ever ever be a supermodel and neither will Kristen. The good news is I've finally found a name for my apartment. We will either be calling it the House of Fat or the Fat Palace. This is in no small part to the fact that the bartender seems to be genetically programmed to feed everything in sight. I've had chocolate muffins for breakfast for the last 4 days in a row. Kristen stopped finishing her breakfast, which I quickly deduced was because the bartender was feeding her turkey and cheese every time he walked in the door. He also leaves bags of Chex Mix laying around with notes on them: "YES!" "Your fav?" "The cheese kind!" He then acts surprised about the fact that Krissy associates his presence with food.
• Aging punk rockers tend to have a boatload of CDs, and I base that on the one aging punk rocker I know. Six. Six friggin boxes of CDs that I crazily offered to alphabetize, which took me two days. It was a learning experience. Aside from the expected assortment of Ramones/Social D/NOFX/Anti-Flag/Clash/Rancid/etc. records, I came across a few unexpected items that were occasionally downright scary. I thought at first they were things that just got left by ex-girlfriends, but it turns out that was not the case. Enya? "I like her music." Shania Twain? "She's fuckin' hot!" I suggested he could have just bought a poster like a normal person. "Yeah, but that album was produced by the guy who produces AC/DC." Oh, well in that case... Movies are my next assignment, but my question is, do I need to alphabetize all the porn, or should I just keep them all in the same spot (maybe under P, for "porn")?
• A fax machine? Why, and what the hell? "You never know when you might need to fax something in an emergency." He seemed undeterred by the fact that we don't have a phone line.
• I've been trying to come up with some kind of altered name for my roommate/bartender, but it's not working out too well. "Barmate" sounds like my drinking buddy and "roomtender" sounds like my maid, neither of which are particularly true. I may need something more descriptive of him, like "Spike the Cheese-eater" or "Drunky McSnore" or "Fart Master J".

Bathroom Faux Pas

Just moments ago, my refreshing private pee was interrupted by another person coming into the bathroom. It turns out it was my co-worker. I learned this not because we ran into each other at the sinks later, but because upon entering she inexplicably announced, "Hey, Amber is in here! I see her toes under there!"

No.

Nononononononononono.

Apparently some people are not familiar with The Rules. You are supposed to pretend you don't notice that there is anyone else besides you in the bathroom at any time. You don't strike up a conversation with someone behind the stall doors, and you certainly don't out the other pee-ers by announcing who they are to anyone else who happens to be peeing. That's why there's doors on the stalls fer chrissakes. Geesh.

I feel so exposed.

Not The Crunchiest Peanut in the Turd

Seriously you guys, I swear I am a very intelligent person. For reals. I do math for a living. I read often and faster than a speeding bullet. I enjoy studying history, chemistry and geology just for fun. I know lots and lots of big words, mainly from nerdily reading the dictionary. I excel at logistical problem solving. I finished my degree early. So really I'm pretty smart.

My problem is that I lack even the faintest shred of common sense.

A couple of weeks ago, my Snapple cap told me that chewing gum while cutting onions will prevent you from crying. I decided to test this out last night while making dinner.

When the bartender walked in the kitchen and saw me holding toilet paper against my profusely bleeding bottom lip he asked the obvious question, "What did you do, taste the knife?"

But of course I hadn't. "No. I read about how chewing gum will keep you from tearing up when you're chopping onions, right? So I went to get a piece of gum to see if it would work. But, um, instead of just putting the gum in my mouth like you're supposed to, I thought I'd save time and just bite it out of the package. And so I sort of gave myself a papercut, only with foil. Do you know how to make this stop bleeding?" He stared at me for a moment and then silently left the room.

Natural selection may just get me yet.

Amberance: Fledgling Conspiracy Theorist

Fish: did you see that ken lay bought the farm yesterday?
PGS DenMILF: yeah. what does it say about me that my first thought was that he staged it and secretly left the country to live a life of luxury in a non-extradition tropical country?
Fish: well, it was my first thought too
Fish: so I guess it says that we watch too much x-files
PGS DenMILF: i take comfort knowing i was not the only one

Roommate v. 2.0

I am currently sitting in my living room staring at beer cases that run from the bay window in my living room to the opposing wall in my dining room and are stacked five feet high. No lie.

Before you all suggest that maybe I should lay off the suds, I would like to point out two things: 1) they are not mine, and 2) none of them contain beer. What they do contain are all of the bartender's personal belongings. Let me just go on record here as saying the boy has got A LOT of shit.

The bartender has been threatening to move in with me on and off since last September, but our recent Vegas trip with his old roommate Fuckwit finally pushed him into action. He stealth moved this morning leaving Fuckwit to wonder who ordered all that pay-per-view porn last month.

I came home from work today to find that my apartment was missing. Not really missing actually, more like transformed. You know in the movie Labyrinth when Sarah eats the peach and forgets everything? She goes into her "room" and all her stuff is there, but something doesn't feel right. She opens her bedroom door and instead of the hallway she finds a vast wasteland of junk stretching as far as the eye can see. That's pretty much the feeling I had walking into my apartment when I came home from work today.

What does it say about me that my bartender now lives in my apartment? One thing is for sure - I expect to have lots to write about. Let the drama begin!

Blogger Spell Check Interlude

Just so you know, Blogger spell check thinks my imaginary tail should be attached to my Taliban rather than my tailbone. I have to say I disagree.

Dude, Where's My Tail?

Krissy woke me up the other morning for food and petting as she always does. I lay there petting her for a while, and then she decided it was time for breakfast and gracefully leapt off my bed and onto the floor. This got me thinking about an old episode of Star Trek: Next Generation in which Data writes a poem for his cat, Spot. Specifically this line:

"A tail is quite essential for your acrobatic talents; you would not be so agile if you lacked its counterbalance."

File this one under Amber's More Bizarre Thoughts if you must. But I suddenly became very concerned about the whereabouts of my tail. What happened to it? Where did it go? And when? I started listing the other mammals I could think of that had tails: monkeys of course, and cats, dogs, cows, giraffes, pigs, even whales. But I am a mammal and I have no tail. What gives?

The obvious answer, of course, is that humans don't need tails. Which is fair enough, but it doesn't explain the cows. What is a cows tail for? It doesn't help with balance or propel it through water or anything. All they do is use it to swat at flies. I mean, that's barely even useful. But I could use it for that too, if I had one. It would be nice to have something to smack at mosquitoes with when I have a beer in one hand and a beanbag in the other, no?

The bartender did not want to have this conversation with me (shocking, I know). "We never had tails," he announced. "We came from apes. Apes don't have tails."

"But they DID," I argued. "Once upon a time humans apes, monkeys - we were all they same. Now some of us have tails and some of us don't. It's totally unfair."

I want my tail back. I have a tailbone, what is the point of that if I'm not going to also have a corresponding tail? Seriously, I think we got gyped.

Walk This Way

VelociHeather: speaking of conclusion thus ends my work day
VelociHeather: i must change before I walk home
PGS DenMILF: ah yes, tis that time
VelociHeather: aye, 'tis
PGS DenMILF: we shall speak again
VelociHeather: yarr, we shall
VelociHeather: YARR!
PGS DenMILF: and i will see you in like 4 days
VelociHeather: dude, that's like totally amazing
VelociHeather: and junk
VelociHeather: whee!
VelociHeather: i'll skip home
PGS DenMILF: do it
VelociHeather: like a little girl with a pink dress on
VelociHeather: and flowers
PGS DenMILF: aw
PGS DenMILF: and saddle shoes
VelociHeather: yes
PGS DenMILF: and then you'll get blisters
VelociHeather: until i get hit by a car
VelociHeather: Whee! thwack!!
PGS DenMILF: walking is neat

Because I Can

...but I will tell you this: I love painting soooo much that I'm flying to Baltimore for the weekend to help Heather paint her new house. That's right, I booked a last minute flight to Baltimore because I've run out of things to paint in Chicago. But also, lest you think I'm crazy or something, I'm going to see Heather do an Improv show with her troupe. And also I thought it would be fun to book a last minute flight to anywhere because all of a sudden I can. I was right too, it was fun. And will be fun. Yay!

Amberance Is Very Popular

I am being a very, very bad blogger. I'm sorry. It's just that I am redonkulously busy with work things and also people who want to hang out with me because I am so awesomely cool and not broke. I have a list of about 8 posts to do, and I know I have to do them soon before I forget what the notes mean. So soon. But probably not right now because I'm leaving on a jet plane (you're supposed to sing that in your head the way I just did out loud) shortly and I have to do work until then. Boo.

Comcastic

Cable access at the Amberance residence (which still has no name. All I can come up with is The Sex Grotto II, but that only makes sense if people are actually having sex there.) is officially up and running.

I am a bit confused by the fact that Comcast insisted to me several times that in order to get my cable installed there needed to be an adult home who speaks English, and then they sent over three gentleman who spoke a collective 5 words of English between them. We communicated just fine, with them pointing at things and then looking at me pointedly and me answering with vigorous nodding. But I mean, if they wanted me to speak Spanish they should have told me that. It wouldn't have been a problem, all my neighbors speak Spanish, I could have just recruited one of them. All in all, I feel I had better communication with the Spanish speaking Comcast personnel that the English speaking ones.

Language barrier notwithstanding, I got my cable put in and spent my entire first day of cable access watching the World Cup on network television. Hey, it was not my fault that the U.S. played Italy on the day I got cable. Good job on the tie too, guys. Too bad the Italians had to score our only goal for us.

Now all I need to do is figure out how to set up my internet access and hook it up to the wireless router so I can not spend time on the internet just like I'm not watching the cable I just paid for.

Things Are Looking Up

Tomorrow morning between the ungodly Saturday hours of 8 and 10 a.m. I will be the proud recipient of cable television and internet access at home. The awesome Fishy bought me a wireless router and everything.

He also bought me an iTrip for my Nano, which is awesome and I am obsessed with. I drive around in circles sometimes just for the novelty of hearing Fred on the radio in my car.

I am also anxiously awaiting the arrival of my first issue and DVD gift from my new Playboy subscription. Dude, whatever, I like the articles.

And now I have another girl to hang out with (in case you haven't noticed, I don't know very many who live here). You've already heard of her, she's Melle of hey-let's-carve-lines-in-your-hair-and-dye-it-blue fame. We're buds now, so much so that I showed up at the salon yesterday just to say hi to her and ended up answering the phone and folding towels. It's actually a whole new group of friends, as the two of us went out on Tuesday night with a boy of hers and another boy she wants to set me up with. They are all funny and they all drink hard cider, so clearly we should all become BFFs and hang out daily.

The bartender and I are on a "diet", and by that I mean we switched from fried crab rangoon to steamed pot stickers. I'll be skinny any minute now.

This is the Chicago life I dreamed of that whole time I was broke. I like it here.

Current Status

It is 11:52 PM on Friday, the 9th of June, and I am sitting on the couch in my living room blogging. From this we can infer two things:

1) that I am an anti social dork with nothing better to do on a Friday night;
2) that I now have a laptop and internet access at home.

Congratulate me, my friends - when you get back from your, I assume, much more interesting Friday night activites.

Hot Off The Press

As I suspected, we (that is, the bartender and I) were recently informed that Fuckwit did indeed commit futher infractions by grabbing the asses of girls he did not know, for which he was kicked out of the Foundation Room. Good going, Ace.

Viva Las Vegas

So I’m back from Vegas. I started writing this righteously long post and then realized it was going to be interesting to no one except me and possibly the bartender, so I’m scrapping that and going with the bulleted highlight format instead.

• People, I’m sorry, but what the FUCK is up with the heat out there? 107? You have got to be kidding me. And the wind? Not the nice cooling breeze you get here in the great lakes region. Oh no. Just super hot air blowing you in the face and drying out your contact lenses. The second day some woman said to me “It’s cooler than yesterday!” It was 104. How can you tell the difference between 107 and 104?
• Here’s the lone issue I have with having pink and blue hair: it’s like an open invitation for strangers to talk to you. Everywhere I went it was “Cool hair!” “I love your hair!” “Your hair is so awesome!” Seriously, at least 60 people I didn’t know came up to talk to me, minimum. The bartender suggested there should be an over/under line on how many strangers were going to comment on my hair each day. At the Foundation Room one night, a girl came running up to me screaming. “OH MY GOD! Look at your hair! That is the best thing I have ever seen! Wow! You guys, come and look at her hair. OH MY GOD, AND YOUR DRESS! This is the greatest dress ever! Is this how you dress EVERY DAY? (By now she has a hold of both my arms which she is squeezing in a death grip. Her face is two inches from mine.) You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen in my life. I have to get a picture with you!” At which point the owner, helpful as ever offered to take a picture of both of us. Some random guy got in it too and I was smashed in between two total strangers posing for a picture, after which she kissed me and had to literally be dragged away by the arm by one of her (very embarrassed) friends.
• Also about my hair: the owner took up calling me Sno-Cone. Cone for short.
• I ate at Fatburger twice in the same day. That’s right, two fatburgers and two milkshakes all in the same day. Holla.
• The M&M store is so super cool I can’t even tell you. They have these huge columns of M&Ms in every color you can think of all along the back wall. I made a bag of scarlet and grey ones for Michigan Bouncer (who said “I’m gonna eat ‘em just like Michigan’s gonna eat the Buckeyes this year!”) and the bartender made a rainbow bag for Manny. I bought myself a new puzzle, but I can’t put it together because Kristen keeps sitting on the pieces.
• A tally of Fuckwit’s fuck ups for the weekend: (1) could not meet us at the M&M store because he couldn’t find it, despite the GIANT M&M right out front; (2) became incensed when he learned he’d have to pay for his own lunch, since he’d just assumed the owner would buy lunch for 15 fucking people just for fun; managed to offend every single person in a 20 foot radius at he Foundation Room by calling the girls bitches (3), making racial comments to our Mexican friend (4), and to the manager (5); was charged for room damage for puking on the floor (6) and the comforter (7). I’m sure there will be more; these are just the stories I’ve heard so far.
• The Double Down Saloon is the most awesome thing I’ve seen in Vegas yet. It’s the epitome of a punk rock bar. The jukebox is stacked, STACKED with punk music from the classics to the brand new to the obscure. The walls are covered in all manner of graffiti. There are signs hung up all over the place. One reads “House rule: You puke, YOU clean it!” Another advertises bacon martinis for $5. And another one announces this effed up “special”: “Ass Juice! $3 or 3 for $11!” I asked how many people fall for that and apparently it’s quite a few. I also asked what ass juice is made out of, but they wouldn’t tell me. I asked what a bacon martini was and I was presented with a bottle of vodka that had strips of bacon floating around in it. Not even kidding. After that I was glad they didn’t tell me how they make ass juice.
• “I STILL LOVE YOUR HAIR!” I heard someone shout while waiting to board the plane at the airport. I turned around to see the crazy girl who had molested me the night before walking past me, grinning and waving.

Because It's Rad

Since it's been over a week, it seemed like it was time to get my hair cut again.

One of the best things about having a pink and blue fauxhawk is watching people try to stare at you without appearing to be staring. Feel free to stare openly, I can totally tell anyway.

Converse With Me at Your Own Risk

Today, my co-worker came to my desk with an apron. Apparently some event company she's involved with gave it to her. She came by to discuss a comment made by another co-worker of ours, who felt that giving an apron as a gift to a woman is sexist. Something to do with our place being in the kitchen or something. Which it is. But anyway, she wasn't offended, because she likes to cook and, hey, free apron.

I had nothing to add on the sexist/not sexist debate. What I did say was, "You know what would be good? A bottle of sangria!" Understandably she looked at me like I had three heads. This is because that comment seems random to anyone not living inside my head. But it made perfect sense to me because this is what was happening inside my head:

An apron as a gift? You could put an apron in a basket with maybe a rolling pin or some cookie cutters or something. That would make a nice gift. One time I got a nice gift in a basket. It had pasta and some sauce and a bottle of sangria in it. Oh, sangria!

But of course, the actual conversation went more like:

"Check out my apron."
"I like sangria!"

This is why I know that if you don't like me, it's not because you think I'm boring.

Ways My Life Will Change With No Mortgage to Pay

• I will be able to afford to buy groceries with a startling degree of regularity, and without borrowing money from Fish. These groceries will also feature things like meat, as opposed to Ramen noodles. (I might still get the Ramen noodles though, cuz I kind of like them.) Likewise, peanut butter will become an accessory rather than an entire meal.
• I will no longer wonder things like "Will they really throw me out if I don't pay the rent this month?" and "Do I really need a phone?" and "Will Kristen die of hypothermia if I set the heat at 60?"
• I will no longer have the option of threatening to move back to Cleveland every time someone in Chicago says something I deem not very nice. (Fish and the bartender's lives will also change by not having to listen to these threats.)
• I can actually order alcohol at dinner instead of "just a water". I fucking hate water.
• CABLE MOTHER FUCKIN TV BITCHES!
• I will visit the dentist every 6 months, just like I used to. (Shadup, I like going to the dentist.)
• I will see all the things in Chicago that I should have gone to check out last year, such as the Field Museum and Shedd Aquarium. I will eat in restaurants and not have to look like a fool anymore when I'm the only person in the room who hasn't eaten somewhere. I will also visit bars that are not called Tai's Til 4. (Maybe.)
• No more giving hand jobs for crack!
• I will pay someone else to do my laundry, instead of spending hours at Bubbleland folding my own t-shirts. As soon as the bartender shows me the proper procedure for this, because heaven knows I'm not going to actually speak to a human I'm unfamiliar with unless someone is there to hold my hand the first time. Money can only solve so many problems.
• I will visit Kelly in Los Angeles, Heather and Amy in D.C., and Ashley in Arizona. Eventually. I swear.
• I will join a gym. Who am I kidding, really? I will be able to afford to join a gym, I won't actually do it.
• I will blog more. Because I will have more adventures. Because I will actually leave the house once in a while. Because I can afford to.
• Hookers. Lots and lots of hookers. Maybe midget hookers. Maybe I'll even get you a hooker.

A Major Announcement

I sold my house today.

Walked Right Into This One

I posted a personal ad on Craigslist this week. I knew, of course, that the freaks would come out the woodwork, but I wasn't exactly prepared for the degree:

"I'm married/have a girlfriend, but it's alright because she's cool with it/doesn't know/wants to join us". I'm sorry, no. Not even so much because you have a wife, but because you can't read. That part where I specifically asked you not to be in a relationship? I believe I even went so far as to say "Separated means you are in a relationship". Kindly get the hell out of my face.

"Hey baby, your sexy! r u available right now? lets get down lol" There are so many reasons why you get no date I don't even know where to begin. First of all, my sexy what? The sexy, that I seem to be in possession of, seems to have done something worthy of an exclamation point, but what? Please clarify. "r" I available right now? No. No I'm not. You know that I don't actually know you right? The odds that I'm going to show up at your house and do you right now? Not nearly as good of your odds of being a psycho with feet in the freezer. Even if you're not, if you're too lazy to actually write out the words "you" and "are", I'm going to guess you're too lazy to be worth my time or effort. I mean, I know they're monumentally long words and everything, but still.

"Hey, I'm 19! Always wanted to try going out with an older woman!" Hey, I'm 28! Fuck you!

"you better not be a bot/some gay guy." You are in no position to be making demands at this time. Move along.

No text at all, just a photograph of a penis. This, really, was insane. I must have gotten over a hundred of these. I don't understand the compulsion to do this, for one thing. Never in my life have I had the urge to photograph my vag and e-mail it to strangers. It's the anonymity of it that causes it I think. I mean, I'm guessing here based on the fact that I have yet to have a guy walk up to me in a bar and whip his dick out by way of introduction. Maybe I'm just going to the wrong bars. Hard to say. Speaking of hard, you'd think that's the image these gentlemen would like to project, but not all of them apparently. Sending pictures of your limp wee in the shower might not be the best idea kids. Likewise, photographs of it in some girl's mouth. The photograph of it in some guy's ass and the second guy's up some girl, captioned "This would be hot!" definitely did stand out though. Good job on that! Unfortunately, it was not in a good way and I had an uncontrollable urge to hit delete. And then gouge my eyes out with a spoon. A little warning next time, buddy, so I know not to open it? Thanks. 'Pershiate it.

Now With 50% More Amberance!

I found this great website (ok, ok, so I saw it in a MySpace bulletin, I'm a dork, get over it) that generates advertising slogans. Obviously they're not as good as the subtitles I've historically chosen for Bizzybiz, but some are still pretty good:

The good Amber Kids go for!
My doctor says 'Amber'.
Loves the Bizzybiz you hate.
I was a Bizzybiz weakling.
Super douchebagotry is almost here.
Too orangey for douchebagotry.
The appliance of shitpencil.
I'm not gonna pay a lot for this shitpencil.
Promise her anything, but give her rum.
I'm only here for the rum.

Unplugged

JoE: you've gotta try this one night when you're cooking
PGS DenMILF: I'm not cooking naked for you people
JoE: HAHA
JoE: a nice thick juicy chicken breast, BBQ sauce, some thick bacon with melted mozzarella over it
PGS DenMILF: sounds lovely. needs garlic
JoE: that could work
JoE: maybe some seasoning on the chicken while it's cooking
PGS DenMILF: yes. i'll have to think that through
JoE: also...you still need to let a brutha in on the amazing biscuit recipe!
PGS DenMILF: oh yes. i'll try to remember to bring it with tomorrow
PGS DenMILF: i such need internet at home
PGS DenMILF: and, well, a computer too prolly
JoE: unless you've got a port somewhere up your ass...a computer would probably be best

Scenes From A Neighborhood Bar

MrSteve: (after smelling a new blueberry flavored vodka) It's like a demented muffin.
Me: I like demented muffins!
Gene: You ARE a demented muffin.

**************

Pete: Hey, you should go eat sushi with us!
Me: No. Sushi is....no. I'll go to that place where you go eat sushi off the girl, and be the girl, but I won't eat sushi.
(long pause)
Pete: We can get you noodles.

**************

(A bottle of whiskey labeled Paddy's sits on the counter)
The bartender: This is the whiskey all the Irish guys drink.
Me: Huh. "Paddy's." Who knew?

Amberance Reviews the Internet

You may have noticed that my blog has no permanent links in the sidebar. There are several reasons for this. For one thing, I don't understand the etiquette of the linking thing. Do you link to all your friends or just the ones you actually think are funny? What about people who link to your blog that you don't read? Do you have to link them back? If you don't will they get mad and unlink you? The whole thing makes me nervous. Mostly though, I'm just too lazy to go into the template and change the code.

There are, however, a whole bunch of really neato things out on the internet that I'd really like to share. So rather than do the work of adding them all in a sidebar, I'm just going to write a normal, run of the mill post and review them for you here. Aren't you excited? Right. Anyway, in no particular order:

Are you like me and 73%* of the other Americans who are completely addicted to Sudoku? Then for God's sake man, DO NOT CLICK THIS LINK! Billions of free Sudoku puzzles to be solved, all online, all the time. Not only that, but it will keep track of how many games you've played and your average solving time. AND it gives you stats as to how well you stack up in time against the other Sudoku addicts (provided you don't mess up, dummy). For crying out loud, do not do this to yourself.

Having a bad day? Life got you down? Then may I suggest The Daily Kitten. Every day at 10:07 a.m. Eastern, you will find a brand new photograph of someone's sickeningly adorable kitten doing something sickening adorable. It is impossible to not be happy after checking out these kittens. Beware of this site if you feel you are in danger of becoming the crazy cat lady, because this is the site that will push you over the edge. You've been warned.

Speaking of cats, did you know they have their own MySpace thingy? They do. It's called Catster and there are dozens of cute kitties there with pictures and ratings and even their own blogs if they want (and can type). I bring this to your attention because of my addiction to The Travails by Tuesday the Cat. You may know Tuesday from her cameos on Heather's blog, but I bet you didn't know she was a writer herself. Aside from her astute observations about birds and humans, her sage advice can be solicited every Friday in her inspiring advice column. I recommend her latest advice on what a cat would do with a million dollars where she brilliantly equates wisdom with the ability to fit into small spaces.

While we're at it with Heather, you can thank her (profusely) for introducing me to this completely insane story called John Dies at the End by David Wong. Filled with meat monsters, exploding people, talking dogs, Fred Durst, and people gleefully ripping off their own limbs, you will never be so frightened and confused while laughing this hard in your life. If you like it, I recommend buying the paperback as well. We should be supporting David Wong so that he can afford to buy the drugs that will make an equally brilliant sequel possible.

I believe I may have mentioned before my favorite web comic Cyanide and Happiness. But did you know they are now doing Cyanide and Happiness animated shorts? You can laugh your balls off here and here. I think there are other things to do on this website, but I haven't actually checked them out. Sorry about that.

If you enjoy any of the following:

punk rock
supporting new music
swearing
creative insults
British accents and/or people
making fun of emo kids
purple burglar alarms**

alone or in combination, I strongly suggest you check out the world's most hilarious podcast, Punky Radio. It is hosted by Paul B Edwards and Tony Hearn, who also do a show called "Punk and Disorderly" on Mansfield 103.2 FM. That's in England. I've never heard it, because I don't live in England, but I'm sure it's great, though probably has much less swearing and general douchebagotry. You can subscribe to the podcast via Podcast Alley or iTunes or probably however you want really. If you visit Podcast Alley please vote for them, as there are some goofy crybaby emo kids who desperately need to get bitch-slapped. Also leave a comment, because if it doesn't suck they'll read it on the show. The Punky! website has links to everything, including websites for most of the bands they play and their MySpace page. Rock on, smacktards.

A perfect blend of wackiness and sarcasm is a rare thing to find, which is why I was so freakin pleased when I discovered The Sneeze. Steve is a comedy-nerd genius, from his experiments with chocolate breast milk in Steve, Don't Eat It! to his recent assertion that cookies are "the tits of food". I would especially recommend any post involving his son.

So there you have it: everything worth checking out on the Internet (besides porn).

*Statistics courtesy of www.madethefuckup.com.***
**It would make more sense if you downloaded the show. Think of it as added incentive.
***Not a real website.

If You Want Something Done Right...

You know you're turning into a total bitch when you fire someone from painting their own new house. Which is what I did yesterday while trying to help the owner add a little color to his recently purchased condo. Dude can't paint, seriously. I demoted him to moving the ladder around for me. It was all he could be trusted with.

Amberance - Now Available in Stripes

I get bored easily. So even though I loved loved loved my last haircut, I found myself back in Melle's chair last week begging her to cut it all off. Melle loves to cut my hair because I pretty much let her do whatever she wants. My theory is that I don't cut hair for a living. She does. So who am I to be telling her what would look good on my head? I don't know; it's not my job. It's Melle's job and so I just go in there assuming that she knows what she's doing. People don't really get this, I think because people tend to get hyper-sensitive about their hair. When people ask how I'm going to get my haircut I have to tell them I don't know, because I honestly don't. Every time I've thought I knew how it would turn out I was wrong. The most direction I've ever given Melle is "do something asymmetrical". So when I went in last Thursday night on the way to the bar (did I mention how great it is to get your hair cut next door to your bar?), I found Melle rubbing her hands together maniacally. Well, OK, she was really washing some other girl's hair, but trust me, I could see the wheels turning.

She had nearly completed the haircut when she got this "Eureka!" look on her face and asked me "Can I put lines in it?" I explained to her my theory of haircuts, and so she set to work on carving stripes into my head, giggling to herself "Teehee! You're an investment analyst!" the entire time. Here is the result:

It's a little different as you can see. I am in love with my head now, except that I can't get used to the fact that it looks really cool. Because I am not really cool. My hair is much much cooler than I am, in my opinion.

Though not everyone's opinion, as evidence by my brother's reaction upon my arrival at Tai's:


He's not drunk, just exasperated.

Thanks Melle!

More From Amber's Deranged Slumbers

The bartender called at midnight last night. I'm sure he had a reason, but I don't know what it was because I wasn't listening to him. Noticing my unresponsiveness, he asked if he'd woken me up (he had).

"I'm sorry. I'm trying to process this dream I just had. I dreamed I was at a midget wedding." Actually, a little person wedding, as I was corrected in the dream. I also remember one normal sized person talking about her midget son who was not in attendance. "He has a huge head," she was telling us. "He always has. When he was young all the other kids on the soccer team made fun of him for it and it was hard for him to hold it up because it was so heavy. But he's used to it now."

I've determined I need to stop eating whole blocks of cheese just before I go to bed.

Night of the Living Douchebags

Happy Easter y'all. How was it this year? Mine sucked rancid eggs.

The plan was for me, the bartender and the bartender's roommate to drive out to Galena in my car for Easter dinner. A fine plan to be sure, except that the bartender's roommate is a complete smacktard. I hereby christen him with the blog name Fuckwit.

About a week ago, Fuckwit got it into his head that it would be a much better idea for him to drive instead. Fuckwit's driving record is less than perfect. He's had himself a motorcycle accident, had his license suspended for three years, and last Wednesday received a speeding ticket that probably should have also included a bonus DUI. Needless to say, I was loathe to get in a car with him behind the wheel and the bartender shared my opinion. Fuckwit wouldn't budge, and so it was decided we would take separate vehicles for the three hour trip. This appears even more stupid when you know that part of Fuckwit's reasoning for not wanting to ride with us is because he wasn't sure how much money he should bring for gas and tolls. So clearly since he doesn't know, he should drive by himself and pay three times as much.

We got off to a weak start almost immediately. Because, you know, it NEVER EVER rains in Illinois so no one knows how to drive when it does. Really people, why is this such a difficult skill? You are FROM here, you should be used to this by now. Combine that with your typical holiday traffic in Chicago and it took us an hour and a half to get out of the city. It continued to rain on us for the entire trip. Fuckwit got, we thought, pretty far ahead of us since we ended up stopping twice. So we were a little surprised when we got a call from Fuckwit who had missed an exit, blown right through Rockford, and was now lost. Only a little surprised though, because it's Fuckwit and he's not known for being the sharpest knife in the drawer. It would not be the last time I said "He just HAD to drive himself, didn't he?" on this trip.

The bartender and I arrived at the restaurant in Galena, and to prove he has a sick sense of humor, God allowed the heavens to open and turn regular rain into a torrential downpour just as we got out of the car. Ha ha God. You're hilarious.

We wetly entered the restaurant where the bartender's family was already waiting, and then proceeded to wait another 45 minutes for Fuckwit's lost ass to show up. After all that, dinner turned out to be pretty good. I had king crab legs, which were delicious, and I traded the bartender one leg for one of his ribs, which was also delicious. Meanwhile, Fuckwit ordered what seemed to be an entire cow and had himself a few cold beers. We'd predicted that would be his beverage of choice; yet another reason why we didn't want him driving us.

After dinner, we drove to the bartender's mother's house, where we had cake and ice cream in honor of his sister's birthday. It was here that I experienced the highlight of my day - tiny little kittens! Really tiny. A month old and they squeak like mice when you pick them up. So cute.

After about 8.2 seconds of being at the house, Fuckwit started pestering us to head back to Chicago. Now, he'd driven himself, so why he couldn't just leave without us any time he felt like it is beyond me. But he insisted and so we headed out with him following behind us. He had mentioned he was kind of tired (maybe because he came home at 7:30 in the morning?) and might stop for a Red Bull, so when we lost sight of him behind us we figured he'd pulled into the gas station. We drove along companionably, mooing at the cows we saw and singing along with the NoFX cover of Gin and Juice. Traffic was light and the rain had even stopped. All was right with the world.

Forty minutes out of Galena, the bartender's phone rings and I hear the following half of a conversation: "Yeah._____Wait, you WHAT?______By the look out tower?________Fuck.________HOW DID YOU DRIVE YOUR CAR INTO A DITCH?__________Well, it's going to be a while, we're a half hour past that._________FINE." As it turns out, Fuckwit hadn't gone after a Red Bull. Instead he'd relied on the beer he had at dinner and his fabulous driving skills to lose control of his car, run off the road, down a hill and smash his car into a fence. Correction, make that smash his FATHER'S car into a fence. Additionally, he had $30 in his wallet which was obviously not enough for a tow truck, and so could we turn around and come ALL THE WAY BACK and give him some more money?

As the bartender turned around, an uncomfortable silence filled the car. A minute later I couldn't hold it in any longer: "He just HAD to FUCKING DRIVE, didn't he?!?!?" As I heard earlier in the week on my favorite podcast, Punky Radio, saying we were angry is like saying that Hitler was mildly annoyed by the Jews. We now found ourselves parked on the side of the road behind a police car watching the sky get dark and the rain start falling again, staring down an embankment at Fuckwit's car, wondering how the hell it didn't roll over, seething, and waiting for the tow truck. The bartender briefly got out to speak with his roommate; I did not as I was afraid I might invert his nutsack. The tow truck took 45 minutes to arrive and then cleaned the bartender and I out of an additional $100 with Fuckwit's $30. I can't really blame the guy, if some complete fuck up interrupted my Easter dinner, I'd make him wait and rape his wallet too.

An hour and a half after we left the first time, we got back on the road. It was now pitch black, raining like a monsoon and we had about $1.37 in loose change left over from an episode that 1) was not our fault and 2) SHOULD NEVER HAVE FUCKING HAPPENED IN THE FIRST PLACE. Additionally, we had waited just long enough for the milk trucks to leave the farms and head to where ever they take the milk, so we were stuck behind a convoy of them with no passing lane. It's so much fun to drive in the dark when it's raining, but oh, it's even MORE fun to drive in the dark when it's raining and the spray from the trucks in front of you cuts what little visibility you do have in half. We could not cut a break the whole trip. When the road briefly opened up into two lanes so we could pass the trucks, we got cut off by a truck trying to pass the other ones and ended up passing nobody. Some shithead thought it would be a good idea to pull over to the side, half on the shoulder and half still in the road and shut off all his lights. We were repeatedly blinded by people going the other way who didn't have the courtesy to turn off their brights when they passed.

When we finally got to my house, I turned to the bartender and we hugged each other for a long time. "Happy Easter," he said to my neck.

"Happy Easter to you," I said pleasantly. "This was terrible. Let's never do this again, as long as we live."

Heather and Amber Have Finally Cracked

PGS DenMILF: i made a gay Easter egg last week
PGS DenMILF: it's a rainbow
VelociHeather: did it go clubbing?
VelociHeather: :-)
PGS DenMILF: yeah, in the fridge. all the straight eggs went with it because everyone knows that gay eggs are the most fun
VelociHeather: hahaha
VelociHeather: it woke up the next morning in the butter tray, hungover
VelociHeather: "Shit - what did I DO last night?"
PGS DenMILF: throwing up yolk
VelociHeather: covered in ketchup
VelociHeather: shell slightly cracked
PGS DenMILF: "i'm never going to The Scramble again!"
VelociHeather: then he looks over and sees his friends fried
VelociHeather: "NOOOOOOOO!!!!!"
PGS DenMILF: shouldn't have given them that mayonnaise. he knows they can't handle the hard stuff
VelociHeather: AAHH!! SOMEONE DEVILED CHARLIE!!! NOOOO!!!
VelociHeather: THE PAPRIKA - IT'S EVERYWHERE!!!
PGS DenMILF: quick! get the tabasco sauce!
PGS DenMILF: but it's too late. the tragedy is he was so young
VelociHeather: and delicious

Expensive Taste

Last night I dreamed that I tried on a little black strapless dress at Abercrombie when I was out shopping with Kelly. The price tag said it was $3600.

I put it back on the rack.

Dresden Dolls

A week ago, if you'd told me I was going to see a rock show that was stranger than Hank III, I would have laughed in your face. Even though you didn't, and I didn't, I take it back.

The bartender bought me tickets to see the Dresden Dolls on Friday night for no apparent reason other than he knew I wanted to go. I say tickets because he bought me two, but I ended up going alone because there's been a rash of douchebagotry going around.

The first thing I noticed was that I didn't get the memo about the dress code. Apparently at Dolls shows you're meant to show up dressed as a creepy doll. Even if you're a dude. Also, there was a couple dressed up as a doctor and a nurse handing out vials of something I was pretty sure I didn't want to drink.

I also had not been expecting the strippers. The first thing I saw when I walked in was a girl wearing nothing but panties and pasties prancing around onstage. Turns out the opening act was a burlesque show. It also turns out they got in a little bit of trouble for it, because they found out after the fact that it's illegal to have women in pasties where alcohol is being served in Chicago. Though less trouble than they got in for the same thing in Salt Lake City, they pointed out. Oops.

The next act was a band called Reverend Glasseye, which sounded sort of like folk music mixed with carnival music. Except much louder and they were very angry about something. Possibly religion. But it was very interesting.

The next act was something called Buried Alive, which consisted of a girl and a boy doing some kind of interpretive dance/performance art thingy. I can't be sure, but I think it was about two dead people having sex, or possibly two people trying to kill each other through having sex. I could be wrong. I do know there was definitely sex, flowers and a grave. This performance prompted my favorite moment of the night. There was a girl standing near me who was pierced all the way down both sides of her neck and her chest. She had a series of rings in the holes and a red satin ribbon woven through them like she was some kind of human corset. It was this girl who, after the performance, turned around and said "That was weird."

Finally at about 1:15 in the morning the Dresden Dolls took the stage. Holy crap. Allow me to bow down before all that is awesome about the Dresden Dolls.


Thank you. They played a great mix of songs from their upcoming album and songs off their old one. Coin Operated Boy was particularly awesome. I was originally drawn to this band by Amanda Palmer's lyrics, but let me tell you: Brian Viglione steals the live show. Their recordings don't do his drumming justice at all. Additionally, recordings don't capture his hilarious mime-like stage antics. What an incredibly talented performer.

Besides their own stuff, they also covered "Amsterdam" by Jacques Brel (who I love) and, bizarrely, Black Sabbath's War Pigs which turned surprisingly awesome with nothing but a piano and drums.

I hate to admit this, but I left before the encore. Because it was already past 3 a.m. and so 6 hours past my bedtime. Also I figured if I left a little early I had a better chance of not get trampled by an army of creepy dolls. You should totally check out the Dresden Dolls if this tour is coming through your town. Now with more boobies!

That's A Parent

I'm having a kid.

Don't panic, I'm not actually pregnant or anything. It's just that I decided last week that I'm having a kid sometime in the next four years or so, even if I have to go out and buy the sperm. Because kids rock.

I was walking home from work last week. As I was walking past a house on my street about a block up from mine, out popped the cutest kid ever. He was one of those super white kids. You know the kind, with the white blonde hair and pale skin and you just know they glow in the dark? He jumped out on the porch as I walked by his house. "Hi!" he said.

I assumed he was talking to the kids a couple houses down and not to me, because I was a stranger, but no. When I didn't answer him he tried again.

"HI!" he shouted.

"Hi!" I said.

"Do you like my NEW SHOES?"

Either he was never taught the lesson about not talking to strangers or else he just wasn't down with that, because the kid had no fear.

"I do like your shoes," I said. "They're very nice."

"WATCH ME!" he shouted with glee. "They make me go FAST!" and with that he took off running down the street to when the other kids were playing.

I was completely charmed right out of my shoes. Two seconds later I became very afraid for him, because what if I'd been a kidnapper or something?

And that was when I decided I wanted a kid just like him. Except that doesn't talk to strangers.

Not Your (Grand)Father's Country Music

PGS DenMILF: holy crap i am so tired today
VelociHeather: yeah?
PGS DenMILF: you know hank williams?
VelociHeather: the singer?
VelociHeather: not personally, but i've heard his music
PGS DenMILF: i saw his grandson play last night
PGS DenMILF: hank III
VelociHeather: ooh, neat
PGS DenMILF: probably the most bizarre concert i'll ever get to see
VelociHeather: Hank III: Revenge of Country
PGS DenMILF: and how
PGS DenMILF: set 1: total country music. hillbilly twangy stuff with slide guitar and steel guitar and violin etc.
PGS DenMILF: except all the words were about drugs
PGS DenMILF: set 2:
PGS DenMILF: and mind you, they actually CHANGED CLOTHES for this right onstage
PGS DenMILF: psycobilly/hellbilly supercharged punk/country
VelociHeather: wow, now that's weird
PGS DenMILF: violin slide guitar still included
PGS DenMILF: no wait, it gets better
PGS DenMILF: 10 minute break
VelociHeather: haha
PGS DenMILF: they come back out
PGS DenMILF: regular instruments now except still with the stand up bass they've had the whole time (played by a dude with a raging mohawk)
PGS DenMILF: and they play screaming death metal
VelociHeather: ha!
PGS DenMILF: not even kidding you
VelociHeather: did you expect this at all?
PGS DenMILF: no
VelociHeather: I mean, did you know it'd be a weird show?
VelociHeather: Why did you go?
PGS DenMILF: i had no idea what i was getting myself into
PGS DenMILF: the bartender asked me to
PGS DenMILF: he had an extra ticket
PGS DenMILF: strangest crowd of people i've ever seen at a concert
VelociHeather: sounds hilarious
PGS DenMILF: hicks in boots and cowboy hats with large belt buckles mixed with mohawk/spikey haired tattooed punks with spiked belts mixed with hardcore metalheads in platform boots with their ears gauged so big you could pass a loaf of french bread through them and their goth chick "i'll kill you by looking at you" leather clad girlfriends
PGS DenMILF: i wish i would have had a camera
VelociHeather: i wish you'd had one too

More Female Insanity

Anyone who has Hotmail knows that on the left hand side of your screen there's a bunch of links to recent fluff pieces on MSN. I tend to click on these pretty frequently because it's not work. Today I came across an article from the "Dating and Relationships" section of MSN about what to do if your man checks out other women. In it I discovered that part of the reason why women are crazy is because it is encouraged by the vast media conspiracy through the art of misinformation.

Here are a couple of lying paragraphs with my comments and corrections in parentheses (for the full article, click here):

Can you live with it?
Some feel that if you trust your mate, appreciating another’s beauty shouldn’t be a problem. (Because some people are rational.) “Trust is really important,” Lavinthal says. “If you know your man isn’t a cheater, then let him have a little fun by looking at other people. (Excuse me? "Let" him have his fun? I'm sorry, is he your boyfriend or your dog?) It comes down to the old ‘look but don't touch’ adage. As long as he keeps his hands to himself, I don’t see a problem. (Because as long as he keeps his hands to himself, there isn't one.) If this issue really bugs you, then it’s best to be honest and let your boyfriend know that his fascination with others is not appreciated or acceptable. If he continues to behave badly and it’s making you crazy, then it’s probably best to break up, (before he breaks up with your psycho ass first)” advises Lavinthal, adding with a laugh, “or if you really love him, invest in one of those cone-shaped plastic head things that dogs wear.” (Yes, because that isn't insulting at all. Apparently he is your dog. Tip: If you really love him, this joke won't seem funny to you.)


When you can’t stand his roving eye
If you’re not the kind who can make light of this situation, then heed this advice. Says Dr. Gilda, “Gawking is a put-down to the person in your presence. If a woman continues to stand for a guy doing it and hopes it will change, she’s in fantasyland. (Likewise, if a woman is annoying and whines about it all the time and hopes it will change, she's in fantasyland.)” So here’s her advice: Don’t confront him with “you” language, as in, “You are doing this,” “You are not a good boyfriend,” “You are embarrassing me...” Instead, communicate your feelings: “I feel insignificant when you flirt with other women in front of me.” This will allow for a conversation you can both learn and grow from, rather than a major screeching match. (This is not a "conversation". This is called a "guilt-trip" and it's not very nice.) Also, try to get your guy to think and talk about why he constantly needs to check out other women. (I'll just tell you. It's because other women keep walking by.) Perhaps this is a habit leftover from hanging out with his buddies or brothers during his high-school or college days. Maybe he’s insecure and is hoping to get some positive acknowledgment from the women he’s drooling over. (He's not looking for acknowledgement. He looking at her ass. That's it.) Whatever the case, if you both become more aware of his actions and their impact, you’ve got a great chance of getting past this and onto happier terrain... where he’s making total eye contact with you. (Want to know how to get him to make total eye contact with you? Next time he's checking out a girl, just say "Wow, those are some damn fine tits! I'd love to tap that ass." He'll turn around to look at you so fast he'll get whiplash. Problem solved!)

Pay attention now, because here's how it works: This is what guys do. It's a natural body function, like peeing. Would you ask your man not to pee anymore? No, because that's stupid. Also, he can't. A better thing to do is get a grip on yourself, grow some self esteem, realize that you're the only one he's fucking and get over it.

Besides which, that chick does have a great rack.