Amberance Conquers Fear and Nature (A Little)

I'm a little bit of a spazz about Christmas as evidenced by:

• owning 9 Christmas trees
• making my own bows for said trees, as well as my own wreath
• borrowing JoE's truck to bring my Christmas decorations to Chicago and still not getting them all here, despite bringing three boxes with me when I first moved and three more back over Thanksgiving
• washing two loads of laundry consisting only of Christmas related apparel at The Liz this weekend
• owning right around 30 Christmas music CDs (and thinking that this is not NEARLY enough)
• walking around my office all week wearing a santa hat with the Ohio State logo on the front
• multiplying my recipe for cherry thumbprint Christmas cookies by six so I would have "enough" cookies

Yes that's six batches of cookies. About 16 cups of batter, give or take. I take my Christmas cookies very seriously.
Which is why two cookie sheets away from being done baking them yesterday, I did something I have rarely done in the course of my life - I killed a spider. All by myself.
I know; I can tell you don't believe me. Here's what happened: I'm going along happily making cookies and I'm on the phone with Fish, when I walk into my kitchen and see a spider milling around on the backsplash of my kitchen sink. In my recollection he was about a centimeter end to end, so in reality he was probably near microscopic and only barely visible to the naked eye. And it's a good thing too, any bigger and my cute little still warm cookies would have been left for dead. But dammit, I worked HARD on those cookies and I wasn't in the mood to let one of those evil demons coughed up from Hell to steal them.
He was headed right for the cookies, by way of climbing over my Mr. Clean Magic Eraser. I had to act fast so I grabbed the other end of the Eraser (with the fingernails of my index finger and thumb) and quick as I could threw it in the sink. He jumped off the sponge just as I turned the water on him full blast. He rolled into a little ball, but I'm no dummy and I wasn't about to fall for that "playing dead" trick just so he could unroll and JUMP RIGHT ON ME. I splashed water on him screaming "GET IN THERE! GET IN THE DRAIN! GET DOWN THERE YOU LITTLE FUCKER!" until he floated downstream and into the drain. And then I ran scalding hot water in the sink for the next 35 minutes. "They're tenacious," I explained to Fish, who sat patiently through yet another spider episode over the phone. "I don't want him grabbing onto the side of the drain pipe and hanging on so he can crawl out and get me later. I know his ways."
So yeah, I killed a spider, and I was reasonably calm about it (outwardly, though my heart was desperately trying to escape from my chest the whole time and for a good hour afterward). And I was only mildly shaking while staring fixedly at the sink drain while I washed the cookie sheets later. And the only nightmare I had that night was that I was a character on 7th Heaven. And I saved the cookies. From the spider, if not from me.
Ah, the power of Christmas spirit.

Family Legacy

The one year anniversary of this blog came and went without my making a big deal out of it at all. Don't get me wrong, I meant to - I just was busy and forgot. But I've been doing this bloggy thing for a while now, and one blog has grown into three, and now apparently it's begun to rub off onto my family.

My brother has started a blog. It's primarily a sports blog thus far - an online soapbox for his opinions on various teams and sports, which are many and vehement. So far my favorite part of it is his friend Brooke's first comment...about how hilarious my blog is. No just kidding, that's not my favorite part*. But anyway, go check it out if you're a crazy sports person, especially a crazy sports person from Ohio.


* I lied, it is my favorite part.

The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

I've never been able to understand those people who dread the holidays. They all have the same reason - their families are mess up somehow and they hated the tension or outright fighting that occurred when everyone got together for their mandatory merry-making. It was never like that in my family; everyone looked forward to spending time together. In fact Christmas lasts for three whole days in my family, during which we do totally Norman Rockwell things like sit down and watch a movie as a family or sit around the dining room table playing a board game or collectively building a jigsaw puzzle.

But for two years running now, the holidays have kicked off with some event that makes me dread the coming months.

I logged on this evening to try and post a MySpace comment for a newly minted 22 year old I am friends with (however, MySpace is being a bitch tonight, so Heather, I hope you're having fun in Virginia), and I came across a very long comment on Bizzybiz from my uncle to a post I wrote over a year ago. I would never even have seen it if I didn't have all my comments e-mailed to me. The comment was made to a long-winded angry treatise I wrote about a conversation I had with my aunt last year.

I'm not really sure how to address this. I wrote the post in anger over a year ago. It's not really how I feel now, and truthfully not even how I felt the following week. I actually feel like it's been a really good year as far as my aunt and I are concerned. The few times we talked were pleasant, I was always pleased to get her e-mails, and was looking forward to going on vacation with them next May. But my aunt and uncle are in a different place. They feel as though this was yesterday, because for them it was.

It wasn't my intention to hurt my aunt - I wrote it and got it out of my system. That's what a journal is for. I actually love my aunt (and my uncle) very much. For the record here's a little background on my aunt:

My aunt came into this family long before I did when she married my mother's brother. Since that time, she has done more to see to the welfare of this family than any "blood" relative I can think of, most especially me. I am very adept at shirking any family responsibility which could potentially be emotionally taxing for me. She raised two amazing sons who are both brilliant and well-adjusted, and who both outperform me entirely in intelligence and maturity.

However, she is also relentless in her quest to help out. She means well, but it's not an approach that has ever worked well with my personality.

For much of my memory I have had the feeling that I am a major disappointment to my family. I've consistently failed at every turn to live up to what my family wanted for me. This always becomes strikingly apparent after those types of conversations with my aunt. To her credit, it's because she's generally the only one who is ever upfront with me about what she thinks. Nevertheless, it always has the effect of making me extremely uncomfortable. I can't think of anything more painful. And sometimes I feel like I could drown in the guilt I have for dreading picking up the phone for fear of having to have one of those conversations. But it is what it is.

My uncle ended his comment with a kind of "ball is in your court" message. For sure, I have been an exceptionally lousy niece; I can't deny that. But I also know I can't pretend to be someone I'm not. I've tried it, and it was totally transparent to everyone. Part of my move to Chicago in fact was for me to stop doing that. And part of that is just what my uncle said, the don't get close to me signs are there. I am happiest when I work through my problems alone.

My uncle questioned whether it was worth the exhausting effort to continue to try. I'm not sure, but i think it was meant as a challenge: would I try to be more accessible, or will it always be a one way street? With sad but brutal honesty I think the answer is no. You're not going to find anything in me that will justify your efforts. I'm never going to be the niece or daughter that lives her life and makes decisions you can be proud of. I think our value systems stand in too much contrast for that.

It's a bizarre feeling to adore your family and at the same time know that you'll never fit in with them the way you or any of them wishes you would.

I spoke to Fish and to the bartender before Halloween and told them that I didn't feel like going home to Cleveland for Christmas this year. It just seemed like it would be depressing: half the family missing, no Boxing Day and a rudimentary Christmas Eve to accommodate what I understand is some major kitchen remodeling. (Also, because I'm totally insane, I feel guilty about leaving Kristen alone on her birthday, as if she even knows when her birthday is.) I think now that I was right about that instinct, and it looks like most likely I'll be Christmasing in Chicago this year.

I'm not even sure of what my original point was here. I'm quite sure this post can't do anything except make the situation worse. But it's my journal so I get to determine the content. Anyway, I'm sorry I hurt everyone's feelings; it seems to be something I excel at.

Everybody enjoy your families this Thanksgiving. Eat lots of turkey and get fat so I don't feel like the only one.

I now return you to your regularly scheduled jocular fare.

We Are Competely Sane and Rational Adults

VelociHeather: want to hear something horrifying?
PGS DenMILF: um, yes?
VelociHeather: seriously, brace yourself, it involves your least favorite creature
PGS DenMILF: OH GOD WHAT HAPPENED?
VelociHeather: a spider just ran across my desk and almost touched me
VelociHeather: a good-sized one, too
PGS DenMILF: AGH!
VelociHeather: my hand, SO CLOSE
VelociHeather: he was yellow and big
PGS DenMILF: holy crap
VelociHeather: well, not huge, but big enough
VelociHeather: so I yell and my boss freaks out about it too
VelociHeather: then another guy comes over....
VelociHeather: PICKS IT UP AND SQUISHES IT WITH HIS BARE HANDS
PGS DenMILF: AAAAAAAAA
VelociHeather: i died
PGS DenMILF: that's horrible, what is he thinking?
VelociHeather: he had just wanted to put it in our garbage can without killing it
VelociHeather: but thankfully he squished it on the way
PGS DenMILF: oh man, i'm checking my whole desk for spiders now
VelociHeather: seriously, i'm convinced there are legions of them waiting for me
VelociHeather: all inside my drawers and files
PGS DenMILF: what the hell? put it in the garbage can alive? it's just going to come back out again
VelociHeather: no shit
VelociHeather: did he think it would say, "oh damn, I don't have my climbing gear, i'm trapped!"
VelociHeather: but again, thankfully, he accidentally squished it on the way to the can
PGS DenMILF: sweet. what's with the touching though? bare handed. it's creeping me out
VelociHeather: no kidding
VelociHeather: i was ready to grab my shoes and smash it to bits
VelociHeather: it was hiding under my keyboard for a second
VelociHeather: BEWARE!
PGS DenMILF: all gaps are suspect now. i'm surrounded, i know it
VelociHeather: you must cover your desk with Raid
VelociHeather: a thick mist of raid, that is the only way
PGS DenMILF: and on me as well
VelociHeather: oh yes

Harry Potter and the Theater of Annoying Gits

Apologies for the post title; every time I see a Harry Potter movie, I find myself saying things like "git" and "bloody" and "What's all this, then?" for a couple of days.

Fish and I went to Harry Potter last night at this dinner and a movie theater somewhere around or near Downer's Grove (I'm sure Fish can fill in the details). It was really cool, you sit down and there's a menu there, you order whatever you want, and they bring it to you right before the movie starts. You can even get fancy frozen drinks and everything! I was amazed by this concept because Cleveland is lame and has no such theater that I'm aware of. I am told that this is fairly normal here.

The movie was good. Very good. The mistake I made was not re-reading the book just before we went. I did this before I saw the Lord of the Rings movies and it helped tremendously in my not being annoying to sit and watch a movie with. But I didn't think to do it this time, and so the ever patient Fish was bombarded with whispered "I don't remember that part" and "What house is Cedric in?" type comments throughout. My bad, Fish, sorry. Hermione, by the way, is growing up to be smoking hot. ("She's 14!" Fish pointed out. It's ok, I can wait.) Also Voldemort as played by Ralph Fiennes is terrifying. I didn't know who Ralph Fiennes was, of course, because that's the kind of thing I don't know. I don't bother to learn names of the actors I like; I just refer to them as characters from other films they've done. "So, you know Cy Tolliver [from Deadwood]?" I said to Fish recently. "He's the one bad guy from Tombstone!" Fish was kind enough not to roll his eyes at me.

"Voldemort was great," said Fish in the car on the way home. "You couldn't even tell it was Ralph Fiennes."

"Um, ok, I don't know who that is."

"Yeah you do; he was in the English Patient."

"Oh," I said. Then, "OH! Yeah, I know who he is. Dude, he TOTALLY looked just like the English Patient!" Because he did, he was all pale and hairless and missing parts of his face that seemed important, such as most of his nose, and it looked very similar to a burn patient. So I was happy about that.

I was also happy about the people watching, which was very funny. "Mullet, 9 o'clock," said Fish, and I turned to look. Lo and behold there it was in all it's mullet glory. Oh and perfectly white by the way. So as not to appear to be staring at the mullet guy, I kept turning my head and found something even better.

"White corn rows, 8 o'clock," I told Fish. And they were good too, not just braids going straight back on his scalp; these were some complicated abstract designs zig zagging around this dude's head. I thought it very K-Fed of him.

What I was not happy about was the other movie patrons. I mean, I know I have a reputation for not liking people, but I try to give them the benefit of the doubt even though I usually fail miserably. Such as the parents of all these school age and not yet school age children who have brought them to a 7:00 p.m. showing of a two and a half hour movie on a school night. Some of these kids were no older than three, and falling asleep in their parents’ arms before the theater even opened for seating. And I wanted to think that it was a once in a while, very rare treat for these kids to be out on a school night and not get to bed until after 10:00 because Harry Potter is special. But in my heart I know that's just not true.

That wasn't even a big problem though, because I recall no crying or talking children (small children anyway) during the movie. What I do recall is some girl who sounded like she was at least high school age and possibly older, SHRIEKING at the top of her lungs at a point of the movie which was not scary, but which was very quiet. Haha, hilarious, you little douche. I clenched my jaw, as I do, and tried to concentrate. The best was yet to come.

What's more annoying than some assjanitor who forgets to turn off their cell phone in the theater and lets it ring three friggin times before they silence it? How about actually answering the phone and then having a FULL VOLUME conversation in the middle of the movie! I was almost too amazed to even be angry; it takes some serious self-centeredness or a complete lack of social awareness to pull that one off.

Overall, though, I'd rate the experience as a success and recommend that everyone go see Harry Potter right away.

The Chipotle Charm

As a burgeoning fat girl, it is important to eat huge lunches filled with fat and empty calories. It was with this in mind that I ventured out today to get myself a good, old-fashioned Tortilla of Lard from Chipotle. It did not work out the way I planned.

"Chicken fajita burrito," I said to the Real Mexican! taking orders.

"No chicken," she replied. I frowned. No chicken? It is lunchtime. It seems there should be a constant supply of the most popular meat available at Chipotle being produced during the hours of 11 and 1:30, don't you think? Maybe I'm crazy, I don't know. I'm not in the fast food business. But I look around and saw no chicken in the tray, and no chicken on the grill. Apparently, 2.4 seconds I stood there confused was far too long, because Real Mexican felt the need to start making decisions for me. She warmed a tortilla, slapped some rice on it, and some fajita mix and some black beans. The thing is though, I know perfectly well I didn't say "I'll have beans instead" because I HATE beans. Passionately hate them.

"No, no beans," I said. Real Mexican gave me the look of death, threw out the bean burrito with a vengeance, and warmed a new tortilla. As she testily slapped the rice on, the next Real Mexican on the assembly line asked me, "So you want vegetarian then?"

"No," I said, because I didn't. I was under the impression that was what beans instead of chicken was, and we'd already established that was not something I was interested in. "Steak," I decided. Which was not at all what I wanted, but seemed to be the least objectionable alternative. RM2 proceeds to put steak on my tortilla with the rice and slide it down the line. "Um, can I get some of the fajita mix on it though?" Again, usually when you ask for a fajita burrito it means, you know, with the fajita stuff on it.

"You said no vegetables," admonished RM2.

"No, I said not vegetarian. I want the peppers on it." They must train them to do this or something, because I got the identical look of death that I had gotten from Real Mexican 1. She begrudgingly added about two peppers and one onion.

Assembly line person three added the extra sour cream and extra cheese, and assembly line person four rolled it, wrapped it in foil, and added some illegible hieroglyphics on the top.

I moved down to speak with Register Operator. "Steak fajita?" she asked. I nodded my affirmation. "That will be $8.05." I handed her a 20 thinking I change from chicken to steak and the price goes up two freaking dollars? What gives? I glanced at the menu. STEAK 5.95 reads the sign. Something is wrong.

RO hands me my change and I look at my receipt: steak fajita, 5.95. guacamole 1.35. Huh? Guacamole since when? I hate guacamole more than I hate beans. I also hate arguing with people, which I had already done - twice. I was tempted to eat the money and walk away. Problem is, I'm flat fucking broke, to the point where every cent counts. That's about 10 packs of Ramen noodles worth the overcharge. Also, I didn't even really want a steak burrito in the first place and was not quite ready to be overcharged for something I didn't want by a buck and a half. I swallowed hard. "I didn't have guacamole."

My third argument resulted in my third look of death from the charming Chipotle staff. She snatched the bag out of my hand and threw it at assembly person four. "She says she didn't get no guacamole. Check it and see." I waited nervously while four unwrapped the steak that I don't even want fajita burrito and checked to make sure I wasn't lying about the guacamole. Which of course I wasn't. She looked at Register Operator and shook her head no. RO sighed and took my receipt back from me to figure out what the hell she was going to do now, while assembly person four rolled my burrito back up, poking a GIANT hole in it in the process. RO addressed me. "Guacamole was $1.35. I give you back a dollar thirty-five, ok?"

Technically, this is not what she owes me, because she didn't back out the tax that I paid on the guacamole I never had in the first place. But at this point all I wanted to do was get the eff out of there and back to my office, so $1.35 was just peachy by me.

I went back to the office and sat down at my desk, warily eyeing my burrito. I was starving (fat girls are always starving). I unwrapped it and took an experimental bite.

Let me tell you something: steak burritos from Chipotle are fucking gross. Unbelieveably unpalatably gross. And since we had to do the burrito wrapping twice, there is nasty ass flavored steak juice tainting almost every single grain of rice in it. I am now out $6.50 and incalculable piece of mind for a lunch I'm not even going to eat.

I am now crying. I'm crying over a burrito. I have hit an all time low.

Foody McFacestuff

I have no idea why I'm getting fat again. Seriously, none. I keep from taxing my body by resting constantly on my couch and on bar stools, I drink nutritious beverages such as hot chocolate and beer, and I eat well balanced meals for dinner, such as last night when I had crab rangoon, an egg roll, and two pieces of apple pie. What am I doing wrong?

Burger Time

My friend Heather and I appear to be connected by some kind of cosmic thread, in that we tend to be doing to same kinds of things at the same time, unbeknownst to each other and also 700 miles apart. Like today, when I made my daily check of her blog, only to discover that last night she was playing the classic game Oregon Trail (which for the record I have never played) at the same time that I was being schooled in the intricacies of another classic 80’s video game, Burger Time.

I have a confession to make: I’ve never played Burger Time either. In fact, outside of Tetris, PacMan, and Super Mario 1, I haven’t played many video games at all. This is due both to an almost total lack of interest and the fact that I flat out fucking suck at it. But last night at the Liz the conversation somehow wound from Doom 3 back to Burger Time, and Chester and I goaded Fish into retrieving his Playstation 2 (is this right, Fish? Cuz you got kind of uppity when I referred to your Powerbook as an iBook, and I don’t know much about gaming systems, so I don’t want to get in trouble for referring to something the caliber of an Xbox by the name of something of the quality of ColecoVision by mistake) from his bedroom so we could play Burger Time on the big screen downstairs.

Did I say I’ve never played it? What I meant was I’ve never actually seen it before. And as I watched Chester run up and down ladders, building Whoppers, drinking coffee, and running from deranged hot dogs, I felt young again. And also extremely guilty. Because 1153 once tried to explain Burger Time to me and I called him a liar.

You have to understand, 1153 has four young children, so lying is part of his job as a parent. He’s a good story teller, mostly, but sometimes his tales get a little farfetched. Like the time Bigfoot was walking through his backyard and asked him for directions, or the time he saw the Loch Ness Monster swimming in Lake Erie. So when he told the kids and me about Burger Time, we were understandably skeptical.

“Burger Time! You never played it? It’s the best game ever! You’re a chef, and your job is you have to build these hamburgers. You have a bun, and then a burger, and a piece of lettuce, and them the top bun. On some levels there’s a slice of cheese. And you have to knock them down.”

“That sounds stupid.”

“No, it’s awesome! And while you’re doing that, eggs and hotdogs chase you around and try to kill you.”

“You lie. You’re making that up.”

“I’m totally serious! They chase you, but if you sprinkle pepper on them you can get away.”

“OK, now I KNOW you’re making it up.”

“No I mean it, I’m really serious this time I swear! On the higher levels you get chased by pickles instead of hotdogs.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

This is the conversation that was running through my head last night as I sat on the edge of the couch shouting “Go, Chester, go! Oh my God, look out for that hotdog! He’s COMING RIGHT FOR YOU, Chester, RUN! AAAAGGHH!” 1153, I’m sorry I called you a liar. I just didn’t know.

57

Happy birthday, mom.

*Gasp* Shocking!

Every day I'm amused by adult type people who have nothing better to do all day than find things to be appalled about. Witness this article from the Chicago Sun Times.

Ok, actually, I shouldn't make fun of this because I AM appalled. "'No one over the age of 25 knows what it means, but I guarantee you that 90 percent of college students know what it is,' Josh said. " You know what? Fuck you, Josh. I know what the shocker is, and I'm nearly 28. Fucking ageist little brat.

Captain Jack Sparrow Would Be Ashamed

Speedboats? Grenade Launchers? Ski masks? What the hell? That's not romantic at all! What happened to the tall ships, peg legs, eye patches, cannons, pointy hats? What happened to "Aye, mateys" and "Arr, ye scurvy dogs"?

Somalian pirates be warned: If you're not sailing a wooden ship with a skull and cross bones flag flying or dressed in appropriately stereotypical pirate costume, you will get nothing from me except for a swift kick in the nuts. Squa in the nuts, I tell you.

Per Pronto's Request

Here's the new haircut. I'm in my "Trinity" outfit, and giving my patented "come hither" look (which is often misconstrued as my "I'm pissed at you" look). Appropriately, I am sitting in the Lovesac at The Liz.

Green Thumb

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

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

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

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

"How did that happen?"

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

It's how I roll.

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

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

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

Mitten Paws

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

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

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

Ego Maniac

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

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

Melle Gives Good Head Hair

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Like a bob?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You Can't Go Home Again

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sociology 101

Here's a fun little sociology experiment to try:

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing For Me, Thanks.

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

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

Well, until Saturday.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

More From the Triple Threat

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

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

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

Morgan: Have you ever seen such a thing as

Minnick(in the background): pierced balls?

Morgan: If you had balls would you

Minnick (sounding closer): pierce them?

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