A Trip Down Memory Lane: Six Years of Bullshit Bizzybiz

For the first time in six years I have realized that it is my blogaversary on the actual day of my blogaversary. Six years ago today, I posted two very short blog posts: one because I was upset that CAKE hadn't scheduled a show in Cleveland until after I'd already driven all the way to Columbus to see them and the other because earlier that day, the CEO of the company I was working for at the time had asked the question "What is the process of statement processing?" which he thought constituted a double entendre (per the fabulous Mary (who I miss terribly) immediately after leaving that meeting, "I believe the word you're looking for is 'redundancy'. 'REDUNDANCY'!"). And thus Bizzybiz was born.

I started a blog primarily because I had started reading the blog of Salam Pax a.k.a. the Baghdad Blogger, a young Iraqi architect who was writing an amazing blog about what he was experiencing as a resident of Baghdad while we were bombing it called "Where is Raed?". I was tremendously impressed with his writing but moreover I was completely fascinated with the medium. The idea that regular people could share anything they wanted to say with everyone in the world who had an internet connection seemed completely amazing to me back then. H-town also had a blog at the time (she's been on extended hiatus for a few years) which turned out to be instrumental in changing our relationship from college buddies who called to catch up once in a while to the one we have now where she is my very best friend because it enabled me to keep up with her life on a daily basis. Also it was frikkin' hilarious. I wanted in.

I don't think I've ever taken the time to explain what "bizzybiz" actually means. I named this journal "The Bizzybiz Blog" because of an incident that occurred in close proximity to the time I started think about starting a blog. When I worked at the number factory, there was another company on the same floor of our building and like most office high rises, everyone on the floor shared a bathroom. Most of the women who worked there were nice when you'd run into them at the sinks, but there was this one angry looking red-headed girl who would scowl at you every time you walked in as if you were scum coughed up from hell just to ruin her private hand washing moment. The women of my company were discussing it on our way to the sundry shop to buy cigarettes (this was also right around the time that I tried to take up smoking because I wanted to be a cool kid. I hated it and couldn't stand to have a cigarette unless I also had a big glass of chocolate milk to kill that horrible charred ass taste. It was my smokin' milk. This adventure lasted 4 months before I finally woke up and said "What the fuck am I DOING?") and I said something along the lines of "That girl is a biz-atch" because I sometimes like to talk like Snoop Dogg. Bia, who was from Romania and who spoke impeccable English except for when she was trying to repeat words I had just made up, agreed with me by saying "Yeah! She is a...bizzybiz! Or whatever you just said." The new word wound up being a staple of our conversations. So "Bizzybiz Blog" literally translates as "Bitch Blog". Now you know.

When I first started the blog, I didn't set up a stat counter because I am an incorrigible narcissist and I would never have gotten anything done because I would have constantly been checking to see how many page views I had. Fortunately or unfortunately, earlier this year when blogger did a redesign, one of the changes they made was a tab that automatically tracks your stats whether you asked for it or not. I am fucking obsessed with my stats now, exactly as I predicted (to be fair, so is the comic. "How many page views do you get per day?" he wanted to know last week as we both kept frantically hitting the refresh button.). What I found out was I have a LOT more lurkers than I realized, and in places I wouldn't have expected. For instance, I have far more pageviews in the Netherlands than I do in the U.K. despite the fact that I go to England to visit friends every year but have never been to Holland and don't know anyone Dutch. India and South Korea seem to have taken a great deal of interest as well. Also, hello to my lovely readers in China, I am pleased that you are here since I just assumed I was banned in China. People seem to find the site while searching for some really bizarre things ("slutty Hogwarts", "men and women licking frosting", "huge naked grandma boobs"). The most viewed blog post is Amber And The Intern: Bad Wedding Guests  and I have absolutely no idea why unless the intern is running around driving people to that page (thanks if you are. I still think your decision to take up the bagpipes is really weird). I've also want to say thanks to a couple of readers who have been around since the beginning: my wonderful Canadian friend Pronto and the amazing but spider loving monogodo whose home I will never be visiting as he and his wife have surrounded themselves with tarantulas. You guys rock.

Thanks to each and every one of my Bizzybiz readers for your inexplicable interest in the ramblings of a highly accident prone, sex obsessed, boy crazy, immature, neurotic, socially inept, Christmas loving, moderately drunken midwestern girl with a Girl Scout Cookie addiction. You complete me. (But seriously, naked grandma boobs? How the hell does that search get you to here?)

You're High

My best friend Mary and her loving boyfriend Rob have a particular verbal exchange that they frequently use with one another. It works like this:

Rob says something bizarre, or something with which Mary does not agree.

Mary responds with "You're high."

Rob replies with "You're pretty."

It is all very charming and sweet.

I was reminded of this on the train this morning, albeit not in the same charming context, when a woman sat down on the bench in front of me and announced "You're pretty," then proceeded to pet my head for the next two stops until she again said "You're pretty," then disembarked at Fullerton.

Not Working At Work

An e-mail conversation that has taken away from any actual productive work at two different companies today:

Mary: Do you hate me?
Me: No, I hate me, asshat.
Mary: I knew you didn't like my hat!
Me: How do you know that doesn't mean I don't like your ass?
Mary: Well, I don't because I really don't understand the expression. It's a mystery to me.
Me: Asshat. Akin to fuck-knocker, dork-weed, meathead. Don’t you read my blog anymore?
Mary: Yes, but it doesn't all make sense. This would be an example of that.
Me: Just put two words together that normally don’t go together and spew it as an insult. Cuz it’s funny. You shitpencil.
Mary: Oh, I see, like boogerlamp.
Me: That made me laugh out loud for the first time in three days.
Mary: Yay!!!!!!!!!!!! Let me try again: Urineshoe.
Me: anusdress
Mary: Vomitframe!
Me: bilebottle
Mary: Well, that about tears it.
Me: I’m blogging this.
Mary: Walked right into that one.

Why Mary is My Best Friend

While we were enjoying a companionable stroll down Superior Avenue this evening, Mary says to me, "Oh hey! I just remembered this girl you would totally want to do!" That Mary, always thinking of me.

Mary Loves Me, But Why?

I have decided that I am fat and therefore on a liquid diet. I have further decided that I am only permitted to chew things between the hours of 5 and 7 pm each day. Until Valentine's Day. At the earliest. My friends find this to be 1) unrealistic and 2) beyond stupid. I know because they've told me so.

Another thing I'm told frequently by Mary is that it is very challenging to be my friend. She is frequently exasperated with me, as is basically the entire rest of the world. Her oft repeated description of our friendship goes like this: "Amber is A LOT of work. But it's worth it." Shucks, Mar.

Here is a series of e-mails from about 10 minutes ago to illustrate Mary's point:

Mary:Wanna watch This Is Spinal Tap & put together a Hillenbrandt Dragon puzzle tonight?
Me: cool.
Mary:And if we get there in your chewing window, you can maybe have a burger?
Me:Oh, that's pushing it. What kind of burger? A Rob-created burger, or one you buy somewhere?
Mary:Rob created, if he will oblige.
Me:Oh, so you don't even know anything about burgers really do you? I'll have a salad if we get there in time.
Mary:errrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr, huh?
Me:You said we would get a Rob-created burger, then you said Rob doesn't even know we're going to ask him to make burgers. And since I don't want to drop "hey wencher (or whatever you would call a male wench), make me a burger dammit!" on him with zero notice, a salad would be fine. If we get there in time, which is questionable.
Mary:Well, he told me that he bought stuff at the store today, including burgers, and in the same conversation in close proximity to this information, he asked if you might be coming over tonight, so I just thought. . .

I mean, he is our boyfriend.
Me:I am disappointed I didn't get a nod for wencher.
Mary:This is an example of when you are work.

I have GOT to get her to move to Chicago with me. Who will talk to me if I don't?

A Tale of Two Idiots

Mary and I are easily amused. Very easily. We're also fascinated by small shiny objects, but that's a story for another time.

Today in the mail I received a pop up calendar . It had a big paperclip on it to keep it flat. Mary acted like she had never seen one. I took the paperclip off and let it inflate (or whatever they do). She seemed to think it was neat, so I told her she could have it. We sat looking at it for a while (VERY easily amused) and then I did this neat trick I know. If you have one, try it:

I put my finger on the top hexagon shaped part of it and pushed it down so it was flat against my desk. Then I let go. Know what happens? It jumps up off your desk like a 14 sided frog! Mary was delighted. We did it over and over and over.

We also wondered aloud what the name is for a 14 sided solid. I suggested "fourteenahedron" but Mary vetoed that and suggested that we just go with "polyhedron" until we found out the answer so as not to look stupid. As we made the calendar jump over and over. Yep, wouldn't want to look stupid, that's for sure.

Flotsam and Jetsam

I have nothing solid to report besides my musings on the latest from 1153; a post on that is forthcoming. I do have some smaller bits:

I have eaten all I can eat. I looked at myself coming out of the shower yesterday and decided that in my current condition I would never ever have sex with me if I were someone else. So I'm consuming nothing but milk and white grape juice until further notice. Hopefully I'll look good enough by then to be able to post some pictures from my upcoming birthday party, which I think about all day long. Three more weeks...

Ellen DeGeneres is now dating Portia de Rossi. I am SO pleased by this. Ellen is about the funniest person alive, I LOVE her, and Portia de Rossi should have been on my famous people I want to sleep with list because, DAMN! She is smokin hot.

My house is officially on the market. I have the most awesome realtor, Bruce Trammell, who knows my dad and bizarrely thinks I'm the shit. He laughs at everything I say and compliments my housekeeping. Also thinks my cat is the shit, to the tune of bringing over a whole box of food and treats for her. I looked out the window and saw the sign in my yard and I was sad, but I just tell myself it's one more step in getting to Chicago.

It's supposed to thaw here a bit around the middle of the week, which is good, although it was kind of neat how it seemed like I was walking through tunnels of snow like I was a rebel at the base on Hoth or something. Oh my God, what a geek I am.

Mary, Rob and I are planning a trip to Best Buy tonight, one last foray before the end of Irresponsible Spending Month, as if I didn't acquire enough media in my Christmas loot. Then home to Mary and Rob's house where I will talk everyone into watching the MST3K episodes I bought Mary for Christmas. I may be a geek, but at least I'm not alone!

My Best Friend Mary

My best friend Mary is 33 years old, which, for the record, is about 6 1/2 years older than me. She has long red hair, is FREAKISHLY tall, and believes that she has a big fat ass. She doesn't actually have a big fat ass, but it is hilarious watching her think that she does. Mary grew up outside of Toledo, Ohio, where as a child she was raised by a family of cows. Wait, sorry, that should be her family raised cows. My bad (although it would explain her penchant for thorough chewing). She has a little brother named Matt, who hates the Grand Ole Opry, a dad named Jim (otherwise called "that guy who lives here" by Mary's little cousin) and a mom named Cinnamon*, whose birthday was last Thursday when Mary forgot to call her.

Mary attended Miami University of Ohio, back in the olden days when they were the Redskins instead of the Redhawks. I find this particular fact amusing since I myself attended Ohio University, which is their rival school (they wish they could drink like us, we wish we could look that good in a pair of khakis).

Later on in life she took a step backwards by moving to Cincinnati and going to work for a brokerage firm. Note to readers: Mary advises that people who wish to maintain their sanity should not work for brokerage firms. Several years later, after realizing her mistake, she moved here to Cleveland.

In Cleveland, Mary met her boyfriend Rob while volunteering in community theater. Rob is extra nice, because not only does he put up with Mary, he also frequently puts up with me, which shows a strength of character few people possess. We like Rob and reward him by making out. Wait, no, that's just how he wishes we would reward him. We don't actually make out. Sorry about that.

Mary rarely drinks to excess, but when she does it's a show not to be missed. Once we were having movie night and Mary was having some wine. Next thing I know she's apparently channeling Dr. Seuss, because everything out of her mouth was rhyming ("You gotta go? Say it ain't so!"). This weekend at Tai's, whilst throwing back the gin and tonic (i.e. truth serum) she went on a confessional jag trying to convince me what a bad person she was ("One time, in college, I kissed this guy. On the LIPS! And now I can't remember his birthday. I'm such a whore!"). Also she makes up stories that are hilarious. She convinced a guy who was hitting on us that I used to live in a crack house, and that while I lived there, two people were murdered in the house. The only bad drunk thing she ever did, and I don't think it was even drunkenness so much as an error in judgment, was to play ABBA on the internet jukebox at Tai's. It was met with a chorus of "Who played THIS? This fucking SUCKS! Holy shit, my ears are bleeding!" from everyone in the bar, including the guy who had just played songs from Andrea Bocelli and Social Distortion back to back.

Mary and I like to watch movies together. What we also like to do is memorize the entire script of every movie we've ever seen together, and then recite the lines to each other in front of people, or alternatively, sprinkle all our conversations with movie lines. Both of these things piss off our co-workers to no end, which of course is our goal. For further study of this phenomenon, please see her comment to my prior post, which contains a line that was completely ripped off from Anchorman.

Other fun facts about Mary:

• Due to her allergies, she always carries about 27 boxes of Kleenex around in her car.
• She is very concerned about our clients' confidentiality. Therefore, before she leaves for the day, she turns all the papers on her desk upside down, so that the janitorial staff can't read them. Unless, of course, they turn the page over.
• She once bought a CD she had never heard, just because she liked the shiny cover.
• She refuses to go in hot tubs, calling them "a smoothie of secretions".
• 99% of the time, I can get her to do whatever I say.

In conclusion, despite her sometimes questionable taste in music, her near circus freak height, and the fact that her first ever comment on this blog was deliberately hurtful, Mary is my bestest friend ever and I would never ever trade her in for anything, because she makes me smile, and smiling's my favorite!

*Not her real name, but Mary wouldn't tell me how to spell it so I just made one up.

Comments From the Peanut Gallery

I went over to Mary's desk to complain about having writers block. I feel guilty when I don't post something for you guys every day, because I know how I feel when my favorite bloggers don't post every day. So I went to see Mary, in an attempt to dig up some inspiration. She glanced up as I came around the corner, looking guilty as hell. Immediately Bianca showed up behind me. "Have you seen your blog today?" she asked, grinning wickedly.

I looked at Mary. "Did you post a comment?" She grinned maniacally.

I have been BEGGING her to comment on my blog since I started it. I've dropped hints, both subtle ("What do you think of my post?") and not so subtle ("Why don't you ever leave any fucking comments on my blog? Some best friend YOU are!!!"). I've tried complimenting her ("I'm so much funnier when you're around, you make everything funnier.") and insulting her ("Only assholes read people's blogs every day and never say a damn thing about them.") I've tried reverse psychology ("Please don't leave any comments for me. Ever.") and heavy guilt-trips ("It's so OBVIOUS that you don't love me, because if you DID, you'd leave a comment for me on my BLOG! *sob*"). Nothing ever worked. Until today.

The look on her face spoke volumes and I ran, nay, skipped back to my desk to go read what my loving and wonderful best friend had to say. I was ecstatic - she loves me after all, even after our whirlwind trip to Chicago where I made her stay out all night, spend lots of money, and got her stuck in a frikkin blizzard for 3 hours on the way home. I am the luckiest girl in the whole wide world that I have someone as wonderful as Mary in my life. In fact, I don't know how I survived 26 years without her amazing personality and pleasant companionship. She is miraculous! I pulled up the comments.

"Today Amber bought Chipotle, and she didn't even ask if the rest of us wanted any."

Fuck-knocker.

I waited all that time, and all she wanted to do was bitch and try to make me look bad in front of my readers (all 4 of them)? Nice. It was 12:35 when I got to Chipotle's, everyone had already gotten their lunch. Plus I barely had any cash because it's Irresponsible Spending Month. AND it wasn't even what I wanted, I had a taste for Boston Market but the line was too long. AND the only reason I was even over there was because I had to go to the crazy doctor and get more crazy drugs before my life spins all the way out of control. But do I get any sympathy from my supposed "best friend"? NOOOOOOOOO. And SHE is in the least position to be complaining since she drank like a fish all weekend for FREE just by virtue of having shown up with me. This is the thanks I get.

Well two can play at this game, so guess what? My next post is going to be all about Mary. Yeah that's right M-Jaq, I'm going to get your strumpet-ass.

Stay tuned.

Why I Hate Snow

It started snowing this weekend, like for real snow that sticks, not the scattered flurries we'd had so far this year. I woke up on Saturday and looked out and there it was, staring back at me with frosty gloom.

I hate snow. It's been out to get me since I was born. Seriously. I was born in January of 1978, and if you're older than me, you may remember that winter also being referred to as the Blizzard of '78. So here's me, little baby Amber, cooing and being all cute (except for my big floppy dumbo ears), and along comes Mother Nature and drops about 3 feet of the white shit all over my parents' house and snows them in. And of course being new parents and not realizing that they should be prepared for Armageddon at all times, they run out of formula. And suddenly I'm not so cute anymore because I am starving. Lucky for starving baby Amber, my parents are pretty intelligent people, so they called the police. The police drove to the store, bought me some baby formula, beat a path to my parents door and I was saved. Incidentally, they also refused to accept any money from my parents for the formula, which was nice. But that was only the beginning.

Flash forward. A little girls sits in the living room. Her blonde hair is pulled up in pigtails, showing off her cute smile and dumbo ears. Streamers and balloons are hung gaily throughout the room. A cake shaped like a pair of ballet slippers is on display in the dining room. The little girl looks out the window at...nothing, because she can't see through the friggin white out. The party was supposed to start half an hour ago, and no one is there yet. The phone rings. Mom answers it and speaks for a while. No sooner does she hang up then the phone rings again. And again. Eventually, my mom comes into the room. "Sweetie, that storm outside is really bad, and, uh, well honey, no one is coming." So snow has fucked me again.

When I got out of college, I was at one of the lowest points in my life. I had just broken off an engagement (later to become a theme of mine), and I didn't have a job. I was pretty depressed. One day my parents went out somewhere, and I thought I'd try to do something nice for them by shoveling the driveway while they were gone. So I put on about 6 pairs of pants, my coat, my gloves and a big hat to cover my dumbo ears and went outside to be a good daughter. Oh, did I mention how fat I got in college? I was a tub of lard from my daily regimen of sitting on my ass and eating pizza. Ask Heather, she was there. Can you guess what happened next? That's right. I shoveled about 6 square feet of driveway and collapsed from exhaustion. And in my fragile mental state, I cracked. I sat down right in the middle of the driveway, sobbing, because I was SO PATHETIC I couldn't even SHOVEL THE FUCKING DRIVEWAY. Who was ever going to hire me? Or marry me? I was doomed, destined to live with my parents for the rest of my life, at least until they died, when hopefully I could find a nice cardboard box to live in so I wouldn't have to sleep out in the fucking snow.

So today, Mary and I went to Suzy's for some yummy tomato tortellini soup. As soon as we hit the doors we were nearly knocked over from the blast of horizontally traveling snow that was whipped at us. "HOLY FUCK!" I shrieked. "IT'S GOING RIGHT IN MY MOUTH!" Mary was laughing too hard to tell me that I could stop that by shutting my stupid mouth. We continued on, getting pelted by freezing white schrapnel. "AAAAAAGGGGGHHHHH! MOTHER FUCKER!" I was screaming at the top of my lungs.

"Amber, shut up, people are looking at us!"

"I DON'T CARE! SON OF A BITCH! THIS SUUUUCCKS!" A guy walking in the other direction started chuckling, sympathetically I'm sure. "I HATE THIS! AAAAAAGGGGHHHH!" A woman turned around and gave me a dirty look. I covered up my dumbo ears with my hands in an attempt to prevent them from flying right off. "AAAAGGGGHHHH! FUUUUCK!"

"Amber," Mary pointed out, "it's the first time it's really snowed. It's going to get worse before it gets better. You'd better get used to it."

She's right. Man, I hate snow.

Short Conversations

Some brief snippets of conversation that have occurred in and around work lately and made me laugh (I'm too tired to write my own material today, sorry):

Tim: (randomly, at lunch) I have 50 cents!
Me: I have two boobies.

Me: (while driving around with Mary and Rob looking at Christmas lights) Look! There's a Santa on the roof! And one in the yard. Which makes no sense.
Rob: I always knew he was duplicitous.

Mary: Hey, wanna go see Big Bad Voodoo Daddy with Amber and me?
Dennis: I can't see voodoo; I'm Catholic.

Me: I need some chocolate.
Bia: (pointedly looking at my ass) Oh, no you don't!

Me: Kristen loves her mom.
Mary: Kristen's mom's a whore.
Me: She loves me anyway.
Rob: Yeah, everyone loves Kristen's mom.

Bia: You should talk to me more. I like it when you talk.
Mary: But you always tell me to shut up.
Bia: It's out of love.

Tim: Well, it's almost 5:00 on Friday and all yous are gonna see is the back of my heels walking out the door.
Me: The back of your heels? Will the rest of you be covered in a shroud?

Ticket scalper outside yesterday's Browns game: Who needs two upset tickets?
Mary: Did he just say "upset tickets"?
Me: I think he did. Those must not be for today's game. Those would be called "about to get our asses handed to us" tickets.

Me: How's that OCD treating you?
Mary: I have to go check...everything. And then die.

(Mary bought a magnet at HOB that reads "Be Nice or Leave" and hung it in her workspace)
Dennis: What's with the sign?
Mary: It's instructional.

House of Blues

Today Mary and I went to lunch at the House of Blues. HOB just opened in Cleveland a few weeks back, so for those of you who are from actual cool places this story will probably not be very interesting. For months now, every time we'd walk past the construction site Mary would say, "I've GOT to get in there!" in this really intense voice, as though it were some sort of exclusive members-only club reserved for the Fabulous.

So today we finally got in.

Immediately upon walking through the door, a rather stout black woman with a sparkley t-shirt and the teeniest, tiniest nose ring ever walked up and started talking to us. "HI! WELCOME TO THE HOUSE OF BLUES!!!" she shouted. "ARE YOU HERE JUST TO LOOK AROUND OR FOR LUNCH?"

Mary took several steps back due to the force of the shockwaves from this woman's extremely loud speaking voice. "Uh, for lunch."

"GREAT! JUST GO PUT YOUR NAME IN WITH THE HOSTESS AND SHE'LL TAKE CARE OF YOU!!!!!!"

We gave our name to the hostess, who told us at a much more reasonable volume that the wait would be 20 minutes. Since lunch hour for us is really supposed to be an hour, Mary looked at me for guidance. "Twenty means ten," I said. This seems to be some kind of industry standard. For some reason they feel that if they lie to you and tell you the wait is twice as long as it actually is, that you'll somehow be grateful for the privilege of waiting.

To kill the next 20 (but really only 10) minutes, we headed over to the company store to check out the merch. In addition to the usual fare of t-shirts, magnets and keychains they also have some evil looking plushy cats, several varieties of hot sauce, and some cool and interesting art. Mary noticed the art before I did. "Oh! Look at the glittery chicken!" After Mary both started and completed her Christmas shopping at the merchandise store, we went back out to the lobby.

"Mary, party of two? Your table's ready." Nine minutes, 57 seconds.

We were seated in a room covered from floor to ceiling in really cool art. A sign on one wall read "Barristers Gallery/ Lien Adulteresses Whores/Keep Out No Lien Dopes Pushers". I have no idea what that means, but I want one for my house. Sitting next to us were three guys (two had goofy hats) all speaking in American Sign Language. For some reason, I just love to watch people sign in public. Don't know why, just one of my quirky things. Our waitress was named Tara. There was something just a smidge Kate Hudson about her. "Have you eaten at the House of Blues before?"

"Actually no. We just FINALLY got in here."

"Okay, well I've tried everything on the menu so if you have any questions I'd be happy to answer them."

"You tried everything on the menu? Does that come with the job? You have to eat everything?"

"Actually yes, it's part of the training. You have to at the very least put one bite of everything in your mouth and chew it. If you don't like it, you can spit it out, but you have to try at least one bite of everything. Unless you're allergic." I've never had a waitress discuss spitting out half chewed food with me right before I ordered ever before in my life. I liked her immediately.

Tara informed us that HOB Proudly Serves Pepsi Products, so Mary and I each ordered pan seared voodoo shrimp with rosemary cornbread and Dixie beer reduction and a Pepsi. This writer strongly recommends pan seared voodoo shrimp. It was excellent. But we were not yet sated. Dessert was in order.

We elected to split some white chocolate banana bread pudding. This is the best. Dessert. Ever. And it's huge. Halfway through I told Mary I couldn't eat anymore. She said "Yes you can!" and proceeded to divide what was left with her spoon and push half of it towards me. I use the term "half" loosely here. It was more like two thirds and she did it on purpose because she wants to make me fat.

"Oh no you don't!" I said, and proceeded to rearrange the sections with MY spoon so that the bigger portion was closer to her and the smaller one closer to me. This is funnier if you know that Mary is OCD, and having my spoon which has been in my mouth and has my spit on it touching her food is a special kind of torture for her. However, that shit was so good she ate it anyway.

Finally, when we had eaten every last crumb on the table and the check was paid, Mary looked at me. "I'm going to throw up," she said.

"Me too. Hey, since we ate the same thing, do you want to throw up in the same pile?"

"That is disgusting. How about you keep yelling about puke in a crowded restaurant for everyone to hear?"

Don't mind if I do. :) I'm so glad we got in there.

Random Disjointed Bullshit

So, I was just thinking how pathetic it is that I have this blog and absolutely no one reads it. Except of course for Mary, but even so, she never leaves any comments and besides, she is me and I am her, so for her to be the only one reading my blog is the same as me keeping a journal with a little lock on it and keeping all my thoughts to myself. And most of this stuff she was there for anyway since neither one of us ever leaves work, except for the stuff that happens in Chicago, where she won't go visit with me cause she's a giant meaniehead.

Speaking of which, Cap's party is Saturday. Now, normally I don't obsess over what to wear to things, cause I'm just not that girly (although I must admit I do go around looking for opportunities to wear my "Rock This Bitch" t-shirt, but that's because I crave attention, not because I'm trying to look cute). But in this case, I've been thinking about it all week. Reason being, I'm trying to decide if I should dress up in something that will completely embarrass Brandon. I'm kind of on a roll, what with the whole Karen thing and his bizarre perception that I stole his bartender from him, so I figure electric blue snakeskin pants or a black miniskirt made out of PVC (both of which I actually own) might be in order here. Or not. Cuz on the other hand, that Bowman fuck-knocker is gonna be there and I don't need to hand him any more ammo than the shit he already makes up. But then again, fuck him. It's really fun to embarrass the shit out of Cap, especially at his own party. I hope he gets obliterated too, he's such a fucking tool when he's drunk. Cracks me up.

Here's another example of why I am a giant loser - I wrote a love poem the other day. In all the years I've been writing, even in the really prolific years before they gave me the drugs that made all the "I'm worthless" feelings stop (or potentially just hide), I never wrote a love poem. Ever. Not for pedo-george, or for alcoholic-dave, or for either of the two fabulous gentlemen I almost married. No, I always wrote really sad, hopeless odes to pain and suffering that make people cry. Until now. Who was it that inspired this artistic outpouring of joy and contentment? Has some fabulous knight ridden in on his horse to whisk me away to fairy-land? Have I decided that Karen or some other girl is all I was looking for all along, and now I am complete? No of course not. The poem is about my cat. In all of my life, the only thing to bring me enough pleasure to write happy thoughts down in metered verse is Kristen. Thank God for the drugs, otherwise I might have to go out and shoot myself right now on principle. I'm probably gonna end up being one of those crazy old ladies with 87 cats, who almost completely stops talking to human beings because they only want to be with their cats and almost never leaves the house except to go procure more cats and their clothes smell like shit and cat litter and all the neighborhood kids are scared of them and make fun of them behind their back. Maybe I'll post it here. It's totally embarrassing, but as I pointed out before, no one reads this shit.

Oh, hi Mary.

Screw you guys, I'm going home.

Sylph

Mary and I went out for Bourbon Chicken for dinner tonight. On the way there, we went past Public Square. They are putting up the city Christmas tree. I was looking at it and it looked kinda funny for a tree. It's kind of woman-shaped. Like it has a waist, sort of. I mentioned this to Mary, and she said "You mean like a sylph? Do you know what a sylph is?" Meaning "a graceful slender woman." But I thought she said "SILF". So after consideration I came up with "Spruce I'd like to fuck?" BWAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Oh we laughed and laughed and laughed.

Twice the ignorance?

I thought double entendre was a pretty common phrase, but I guess not since half the people I know seem confused by it's usage. We can't all be word snobs I guess. Mary and Rob are going to be a double entendre for Halloween. Should be fun. Now if only I could find two hairy guys to be Playboy bunnies to my Hugh Hefner...