Last night after work I went shopping at Cupid's Treasure. Cupid's Treasure, if you aren't from here and can't guess by the name, is a sex toy shop. Actually shop isn't even the right word, but we'll get to that.
I had multiple reasons to go there. First and foremost, I was on a mission to replace some of my vibrators that had broken because they were of poor quality*. Also, I was shopping for a birthday gift for a friend. Incidentally, I think everyone should have at least one friend where it is totally normal to buy them something from a sex store in a completely serious non-gag gift sort of way.
But I digress.
I had never been to Cupid's Treasure so I looked it up on Citysearch, which immediately filled me with trepidation. Not because I'd never been in a sex store before, I mean, come on, it's me, but it just gave me the impression that these people were really serious and I feared I would look silly and not be anywhere near their league. Also I was a tad nervous going there by myself. It's counter intuitive to feel better buying masturbatory materials with someone else you know there watching you I realize, but you all know of my fear of talking to people thing and God forbid I need to ask a question of someone whose league I am clearly not in.
Cupid's Treasure is in Boystown, and I'm rarely out that far east, so rather than roll the dice on trying to find a parking space, I just parked by Brandon's and walked. Halfway there I started to feel this was maybe a mistake. Or rather the mistake was in asking my stepmother for a bright red dress coat for winter which makes me completely stand out against all the other people dressed in logical neutral winter tones. LOOK AT ME, my coat seemed to scream, LOOK AT THE GIRL IN THE RED COAT GOING SHOPPING FOR SEX TOYS! Also I decided that wearing a red coat made me a target for muggers for some reason, and I was sore afraid.
At least until I turned on Halstead, because there I was greeted with the ginormous rainbow fallacies lining the streets that signify one has arrived in Boystown. This made me feel better because everyone knows that all gay people are really friendly and nice and so could not possibly be purse snatchers or the like.
"Cupid's Treasure" blinked up at me in red neon lights from across the street and I was instantly nervous again. I had two fears: 1) that the people outside the shop would think I was a sick disgusting pervert for going in and 2) that the people inside the store were going to think I was a completely naive little prude. But I had already come this far so I sacked it up and went inside.
Holy crap. I have never seen such an arsenal of plastic penis in all my life. It's not a shop so much as an emporium. Clevelanders, Ambiance and the like are total amateur hour compared to this place. It's humongus. As are some of the dildos I saw, several of which were literally as big around as a football. I really didn't get that because it seemed like it would be much cheaper to just go and buy a football. There is also a whole room, a really big room, stacked floor to ceiling with porn. I wasn't in the market for porn yesterday so I skipped that room, but I'll be back. Oh yes, I will be back. It could also double as a Halloween store because they had costumes for just about any type of person you might want to fuck. It caused me to decide that one thing I really needs is stockings and really, how have I survived without them? So I'll be back for those too.
The two things I was looking for I found with surprising ease, considering how much crap there was to sort through. It was almost as if I was drawn to exactly what I needed by some unseen sexual force. So I didn't have to ask for any store assistance, thankfully, and also I had tons of time to just wander around and take it all in. They have, like, everything there. I found myself thinking "ooh, I'll have to come back for that" and "interesting, but I'm really quite confident that I will never need nipple clamps". I was like kid in a candy store, or an adult in a sex toy store, which is in fact what I was.
Tearing myself away from my browsing, I went to pay for my items where the cashier guy stood looking completely bored, as if he had built up some kind of plastic penis tolerance or something. And I was totally cool handing him my stuff and paying for it. I was even cool when he opened one thing to put batteries in it and make sure it worked, and the sound of the vibrations on the countertop was loud enough to fill the entire store. He packed all my things in a discreetly unmarked black plastic bag and sent me on my way. I was cool right up until I turned back at the door and announced, "I love it in here!", but thankfully he just said that was wonderful and I should come back soon.
So yeah, totally painless and I was very mature almost the whole time. I was even kind of sad that my bag didn't scream Cupid's Treasures because suddenly I wanted everyone I passed to know how mature and confident in my sexuality I am. I then immediately suppressed that thought because what if some muggers came and stole my new penises? I then began to wonder if maybe I have some type of anxiety disorder I should see a professional about.
*because I might have gotten into the habit of clenching the cord in my fist, and I may have done that so frequently that I frayed the wires inside.
Thursday, December 15, 2005
Wednesday, December 14, 2005
Post Decoupage
There really is nothing going on in my life right now that is big enough to write an entire post about. Instead, I give you some small pieces of story, which I will glue together in this post and then cover them with a clear lacquer. Please read in a well ventilated room.
My dad makes the best stuffing in the whole entire world, and I know this because I've eaten stuffing made by about four other people and his was the best. Also because my dad is the best at everything. But anyway, I decided it would be really fun and not at all taxing in any way to host a dinner party at my house for the Liz crowd, at which I decided to serve my dad's stuffing. I requested the recipe. The problem with this technique is that there IS no recipe, much like there is no recipe for almost anything he makes. He's one of those natural cooks where everything he does turns out fabulous, and everyone proclaims his awesomeness but secretly hates him for it. So the answer to my question went something like, "Well, you know, bread cubes, some onions and celery, saute those in butter, get some italian sausage, put that in there, chicken broth, pepper, parsley, sage, rosemary, thyme, just like the song (I'm not even kidding you, he said that), couple eggs, you might need some more water. Needs to bake about an hour." Which is not so much a recipe as it is a list of ingredients, and so I was left on my own to figure out proportions of things, which I did mostly by sight as I know what the stuffing is supposed to look like. At any rate it seemed to work, and it got rave reviews and I'm going to make stuffing all the time now.
Speaking of the holiday dinner, I am so Fabulous at throwing parties that Martha Stewart should be watching MY show for ideas. This is mainly because I am insanely anal and make endless lists, and also a schedule for the entire day which actually began with the entry "Wake up". I had tasteful holiday plates, and cloth napkins with festive napkin rings, and an actual TABLECLOTH. All my flatware matched and so did my wine glasses, in which I served actual wine just like a real grown up. Candles and festive lights were our only illumination and Frank Sinatra softly crooned holiday classics from some unseen location while we chewed. All the food came out at the right time and was delicious including, it seems, the mashed potatoes. I was a little troubled about the potatoes because I think they are vile and so I've never actually made them before. And my arm almost fell right off too, from the actual mashing of them, because I kept seeing little tiny chunks and had no idea whether or not that was normal so I was trying to destroy every last one. When I was finished I had no idea if they were going to be awesome or ass because even if they are awesome they're going to taste like ass to me and knowing this I sure as hell wasn't about to sample them for no good reason. People asked for seconds, and thirds, and then they took the whole bowl home with them, so I'm assuming that's good. Though I still haven't gotten an answer about the chunks.
When people send you mixed nuts for the holidays, and the mix happens to include peanuts, everything in the bag will taste like a peanut.
Today I was at Walgreens getting a bag of Doritos for lunch and saw maybe the stupidest thing ever. They have these really ugly-ass black and grey stockings that scream "CHICAGO WHITE SOX WORLD SERIES CHAMPIONS 2005" on the side. You'd think that's the stupid part but you'd be wrong. Because stuck to each of these hideous oversized socks is a big round yellow sticker which reads, I kid you not, "$14.99 or $14.99 each". I can only assume these stickers were issued by the Department of Redundancy Department.
Melle is at it again, and this time she cut off even more of my hair and turned a good chunk of what remained a bright red-purple plumlike color. I am way extremely hot right now, enough to even overlook that extra layer around my waist, because da-ymn. Also, when I found the bartender wandering down Addison, attempting to walk from the Addison blue line stop to his car at Tai's three and a half miles away in 25 degree weather with a giant suitcase and no hat (uphill both ways) and I stopped to give him a ride, he looked at my hair and said, "Your hair looks nice," which if he's speaking directly to you means "I would totally fuck you right now" because he's one who's sparse with the compliments. Or maybe he was just grateful for the ride, it's hard to tell.
I've been having incredible spider luck lately and it's kind of scaring me because I think they're trying to lull me into a false sense of security before the big assault. But while cleaning for the holiday dinner, out of nowhere there's this GIANT SPIDER crawling around on my wall. I'm known for exaggerating the size of my eternal tormenters but in this case I don't even have to because this asshole was the size of a daddy long legs. And in a big fat hurry. I had just closed the front door when I saw him running along at a frightening clip on the adjacent wall. I screamed and stood paralyzed, as per usual. When he got to the door, though, he stopped on the molding and looked around, not with malice, but in confusion. Then it hit me and I somehow mustered up the courage to re-open the door. Through the crack of which he promptly crawled out as if he were late for his own wedding or something. I don't know if maybe he was doing recon or if he just wasn't a fan of ceramic pine trees or stockings hung by the chimney with care. Either way, he left and I was grateful.
Here is why my cousin Rick is funny: He e-mailed me to ask how things were in Chicago, so I wrote back that they were fine, I liked my apartment and my neighborhood and I had become a regular at Tai's. He answered me, "I'm glad to hear that you are a regular. I was afraid when you moved to Chicago you'd become a large."
My dad makes the best stuffing in the whole entire world, and I know this because I've eaten stuffing made by about four other people and his was the best. Also because my dad is the best at everything. But anyway, I decided it would be really fun and not at all taxing in any way to host a dinner party at my house for the Liz crowd, at which I decided to serve my dad's stuffing. I requested the recipe. The problem with this technique is that there IS no recipe, much like there is no recipe for almost anything he makes. He's one of those natural cooks where everything he does turns out fabulous, and everyone proclaims his awesomeness but secretly hates him for it. So the answer to my question went something like, "Well, you know, bread cubes, some onions and celery, saute those in butter, get some italian sausage, put that in there, chicken broth, pepper, parsley, sage, rosemary, thyme, just like the song (I'm not even kidding you, he said that), couple eggs, you might need some more water. Needs to bake about an hour." Which is not so much a recipe as it is a list of ingredients, and so I was left on my own to figure out proportions of things, which I did mostly by sight as I know what the stuffing is supposed to look like. At any rate it seemed to work, and it got rave reviews and I'm going to make stuffing all the time now.
Speaking of the holiday dinner, I am so Fabulous at throwing parties that Martha Stewart should be watching MY show for ideas. This is mainly because I am insanely anal and make endless lists, and also a schedule for the entire day which actually began with the entry "Wake up". I had tasteful holiday plates, and cloth napkins with festive napkin rings, and an actual TABLECLOTH. All my flatware matched and so did my wine glasses, in which I served actual wine just like a real grown up. Candles and festive lights were our only illumination and Frank Sinatra softly crooned holiday classics from some unseen location while we chewed. All the food came out at the right time and was delicious including, it seems, the mashed potatoes. I was a little troubled about the potatoes because I think they are vile and so I've never actually made them before. And my arm almost fell right off too, from the actual mashing of them, because I kept seeing little tiny chunks and had no idea whether or not that was normal so I was trying to destroy every last one. When I was finished I had no idea if they were going to be awesome or ass because even if they are awesome they're going to taste like ass to me and knowing this I sure as hell wasn't about to sample them for no good reason. People asked for seconds, and thirds, and then they took the whole bowl home with them, so I'm assuming that's good. Though I still haven't gotten an answer about the chunks.
When people send you mixed nuts for the holidays, and the mix happens to include peanuts, everything in the bag will taste like a peanut.
Today I was at Walgreens getting a bag of Doritos for lunch and saw maybe the stupidest thing ever. They have these really ugly-ass black and grey stockings that scream "CHICAGO WHITE SOX WORLD SERIES CHAMPIONS 2005" on the side. You'd think that's the stupid part but you'd be wrong. Because stuck to each of these hideous oversized socks is a big round yellow sticker which reads, I kid you not, "$14.99 or $14.99 each". I can only assume these stickers were issued by the Department of Redundancy Department.
Melle is at it again, and this time she cut off even more of my hair and turned a good chunk of what remained a bright red-purple plumlike color. I am way extremely hot right now, enough to even overlook that extra layer around my waist, because da-ymn. Also, when I found the bartender wandering down Addison, attempting to walk from the Addison blue line stop to his car at Tai's three and a half miles away in 25 degree weather with a giant suitcase and no hat (uphill both ways) and I stopped to give him a ride, he looked at my hair and said, "Your hair looks nice," which if he's speaking directly to you means "I would totally fuck you right now" because he's one who's sparse with the compliments. Or maybe he was just grateful for the ride, it's hard to tell.
I've been having incredible spider luck lately and it's kind of scaring me because I think they're trying to lull me into a false sense of security before the big assault. But while cleaning for the holiday dinner, out of nowhere there's this GIANT SPIDER crawling around on my wall. I'm known for exaggerating the size of my eternal tormenters but in this case I don't even have to because this asshole was the size of a daddy long legs. And in a big fat hurry. I had just closed the front door when I saw him running along at a frightening clip on the adjacent wall. I screamed and stood paralyzed, as per usual. When he got to the door, though, he stopped on the molding and looked around, not with malice, but in confusion. Then it hit me and I somehow mustered up the courage to re-open the door. Through the crack of which he promptly crawled out as if he were late for his own wedding or something. I don't know if maybe he was doing recon or if he just wasn't a fan of ceramic pine trees or stockings hung by the chimney with care. Either way, he left and I was grateful.
Here is why my cousin Rick is funny: He e-mailed me to ask how things were in Chicago, so I wrote back that they were fine, I liked my apartment and my neighborhood and I had become a regular at Tai's. He answered me, "I'm glad to hear that you are a regular. I was afraid when you moved to Chicago you'd become a large."
Monday, December 12, 2005
Amberance in 2016!
PGS DenMILF: heather and i have decided to run for president
PGS DenMILF: on the "everquest is stupid" platform
PGS DenMILF: we figure it will be a landslide victory
PGS DenMILF: because everyone who opposes us will be too busy playing everquest to vote
Fish: seems sound enough
PGS DenMILF: now all i have to do is turn 35
PGS DenMILF: on the "everquest is stupid" platform
PGS DenMILF: we figure it will be a landslide victory
PGS DenMILF: because everyone who opposes us will be too busy playing everquest to vote
Fish: seems sound enough
PGS DenMILF: now all i have to do is turn 35
Thursday, December 08, 2005
More IM Fun with Amber and Heather
For today's random topic, we chose the film "Sin City" and discussed why I couldn't watch it past the first 20 minutes:
PGS DenMILF: it's like [the bartender] picturing himself in his buddies sex stories
VelociHeather: ah
VelociHeather: you pictured yourself in it
PGS DenMILF: all i can think of is what it must be like for someone to cut off my hand and make me watch them eat it
PGS DenMILF: and then i want to throw up
VelociHeather: gross
PGS DenMILF: if i'm ever captured by the enemy and thrown in prison they'll get much further fucking with my head than they will with running electricity through my genitalia
VelociHeather: and voila - there's the quote of the day
VelociHeather: hello next blog post
PGS DenMILF: you're my muse
VelociHeather: I try
VelociHeather: i still have a really old hand-scrawled note I wrote myself back in college
VelociHeather: it was a quote from you I wrote down on a post-it
VelociHeather: "Some people think i'm sarcastic, but really i'm just a bitch"
PGS DenMILF: it's like [the bartender] picturing himself in his buddies sex stories
VelociHeather: ah
VelociHeather: you pictured yourself in it
PGS DenMILF: all i can think of is what it must be like for someone to cut off my hand and make me watch them eat it
PGS DenMILF: and then i want to throw up
VelociHeather: gross
PGS DenMILF: if i'm ever captured by the enemy and thrown in prison they'll get much further fucking with my head than they will with running electricity through my genitalia
VelociHeather: and voila - there's the quote of the day
VelociHeather: hello next blog post
PGS DenMILF: you're my muse
VelociHeather: I try
VelociHeather: i still have a really old hand-scrawled note I wrote myself back in college
VelociHeather: it was a quote from you I wrote down on a post-it
VelociHeather: "Some people think i'm sarcastic, but really i'm just a bitch"
Ask A Silly Question...
Among his other responsibilities, Catholic Dennis runs a football pool at the number factory. When I first started playing, he walked around with little half sheets of paper and scored them by hand, but now he's all high tech and we make our selections on the internet. I've played off and on since I started working there. So far this year I've missed about half the season, though I did win one of the weeks I played. The past two weeks I didn't get around to it, so when he sent out the link today, it was accompanied by another e-mail asking, politely, where I've been lately. After I answered him, I got another e-mail that read "Boy did I open myself up to that one! Note to self: never ask open ended questions to Amber." I can't imagine why:
I know, I’m sorry!!!!!!! I missed the window Thanksgiving week due to traveling, then I forgot to ask Jeff for his real-gambler-with-two-fantasy-teams insight last week. Actually, none of that is true; I was kidnapped the day after Thanksgiving and forced to join the circus, until the powers that be in the MINI Cooper cult noticed I hadn’t been “motoring” and mounted a rescue mission led by Marky Mark Wahlberg and Ed Norton. On the way back we robbed a sauerkraut factory, then gave everything away to a band of homeless gypsy orphans (we were feeling the Christmas spirit, you see). When we got back, Ed signed my copy of American History X and Mark tried several times to give me a copy of Planet of the Apes, which I declined. Then we all went to see Blue Man Group, but it was sold out so we went bowling instead. So I didn’t really have time to make my picks, but I will this week, Scout’s honor.
I know, I’m sorry!!!!!!! I missed the window Thanksgiving week due to traveling, then I forgot to ask Jeff for his real-gambler-with-two-fantasy-teams insight last week. Actually, none of that is true; I was kidnapped the day after Thanksgiving and forced to join the circus, until the powers that be in the MINI Cooper cult noticed I hadn’t been “motoring” and mounted a rescue mission led by Marky Mark Wahlberg and Ed Norton. On the way back we robbed a sauerkraut factory, then gave everything away to a band of homeless gypsy orphans (we were feeling the Christmas spirit, you see). When we got back, Ed signed my copy of American History X and Mark tried several times to give me a copy of Planet of the Apes, which I declined. Then we all went to see Blue Man Group, but it was sold out so we went bowling instead. So I didn’t really have time to make my picks, but I will this week, Scout’s honor.
Monday, December 05, 2005
How Did I Not Know This?
I take my guy-like tendencies very seriously. My ability to intelligently discuss sports, use crass language and ogle a nice pair of tits on par with the boys fills me with pride. So when I come across a guy thing that I don't know about, I get really surprised and sort of angry with myself.
My Sunday morning call from the bartender contained one of these things. He was telling a story about a couple who are regulars at the bar. They are not a particularly attractive couple, but they are nice, and usually pretty quiet, especially the girl. Not so that night.
"[She] was so drunk. Usually she's so quiet, you know? But she was all drunk and screaming stuff. Like, 'I'm so fucking horny! I needed to get fucked! People think I'm all reserved, but really I just like to get FUCKED. REALLY. HARD.' It was fucked up."
"You're fucking kidding me. She never talks like that!"
"I know. She was all crazy. So then I said to [him] 'I better cut you off from that whiskey, bro, or you're going to be in trouble later.' And then [she's] like 'No, it's cool; if he's too drunk I'll just make him eat my pussy all night.' Haha, isn't that gross? I told the other guys and they were all saying I always say the grossest things to them. It's awesome. I bet I hold the top five grossest things [the owner's] ever heard!"
"Yeah, that is pretty gross, but then again, it's [him] that's eating her out, and he's no picnic either, so it's not that gross because at least they kind of match."
"No, you don't get it. They were all picturing that they were the one eating her out."
"Shut up. Seriously? Why?"
"That's what all guys do. When someone tells you about a chick they're fucking, you don't picture your buddy fucking them, you picture yourself."
"You're fucking kidding me. I always picture that stuff in third person, like I'm standing there watching it."
"Nope, guys picture themselves. It's just how we are."
"Wow. No wonder. You're right then, that is pretty fucking gross."
OK. Guys. Help me out here. Is this accurate? Everyone does this? And why didn't anybody ever tell me? I feel so female right now. It's bothering me. I need to go rip ass on a crowded train and then tell all my friends about it or something to get this girlie taste out of my mouth.
My Sunday morning call from the bartender contained one of these things. He was telling a story about a couple who are regulars at the bar. They are not a particularly attractive couple, but they are nice, and usually pretty quiet, especially the girl. Not so that night.
"[She] was so drunk. Usually she's so quiet, you know? But she was all drunk and screaming stuff. Like, 'I'm so fucking horny! I needed to get fucked! People think I'm all reserved, but really I just like to get FUCKED. REALLY. HARD.' It was fucked up."
"You're fucking kidding me. She never talks like that!"
"I know. She was all crazy. So then I said to [him] 'I better cut you off from that whiskey, bro, or you're going to be in trouble later.' And then [she's] like 'No, it's cool; if he's too drunk I'll just make him eat my pussy all night.' Haha, isn't that gross? I told the other guys and they were all saying I always say the grossest things to them. It's awesome. I bet I hold the top five grossest things [the owner's] ever heard!"
"Yeah, that is pretty gross, but then again, it's [him] that's eating her out, and he's no picnic either, so it's not that gross because at least they kind of match."
"No, you don't get it. They were all picturing that they were the one eating her out."
"Shut up. Seriously? Why?"
"That's what all guys do. When someone tells you about a chick they're fucking, you don't picture your buddy fucking them, you picture yourself."
"You're fucking kidding me. I always picture that stuff in third person, like I'm standing there watching it."
"Nope, guys picture themselves. It's just how we are."
"Wow. No wonder. You're right then, that is pretty fucking gross."
OK. Guys. Help me out here. Is this accurate? Everyone does this? And why didn't anybody ever tell me? I feel so female right now. It's bothering me. I need to go rip ass on a crowded train and then tell all my friends about it or something to get this girlie taste out of my mouth.
Um...
Usually I don't end up getting any spam e-mail at work because it gets filtered out before it gets to me. And when it does get to me, it is usually still filtered into a junk e-mail folder. Today though, one got through. And it was weird:
with his teeth, and set him free, exclaim You ridiculed the idea of my ever being able to help you, expecting to receive from me any repayment of your favor; I now you know that it is possible for even a Mouse to con benefits on a Lion. The Charcoal-Burner and the Fuller A CHARCOAL-BURNER carried on his trade in his own house. One day he met a friend, a Fuller, and entreated him to come and live with him, saying that they should be far better neighbors and that their housekeeping expenses would be lessened. The Fuller replied, The arrangement is impossible as far as I am concerned, for whatever I should whiten, you would immediately blacken again with your charcoal.
I didn't cut the beginning off: that's just how it came. Is it all like this? Because if so I wish I got more spam. It's funny.
with his teeth, and set him free, exclaim You ridiculed the idea of my ever being able to help you, expecting to receive from me any repayment of your favor; I now you know that it is possible for even a Mouse to con benefits on a Lion. The Charcoal-Burner and the Fuller A CHARCOAL-BURNER carried on his trade in his own house. One day he met a friend, a Fuller, and entreated him to come and live with him, saying that they should be far better neighbors and that their housekeeping expenses would be lessened. The Fuller replied, The arrangement is impossible as far as I am concerned, for whatever I should whiten, you would immediately blacken again with your charcoal.
I didn't cut the beginning off: that's just how it came. Is it all like this? Because if so I wish I got more spam. It's funny.
Morning Bartenderism
Discussing a friend of ours who is a bit of a flake:
"Chris is so dumb that when he's reading a book he's not sure when he's supposed to turn the page."
"Chris is so dumb that when he's reading a book he's not sure when he's supposed to turn the page."
Wednesday, November 30, 2005
Amberance Conquers Fear and Nature (A Little)
I'm a little bit of a spazz about Christmas as evidenced by:
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.
- 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
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.
Monday, November 28, 2005
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.
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.
Thursday, November 24, 2005
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.
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.
Monday, November 21, 2005
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
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.
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.
Friday, November 11, 2005
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.
"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?
Thursday, November 10, 2005
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.
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.
Wednesday, November 09, 2005
*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.
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.
Monday, November 07, 2005
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.
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.
Tuesday, November 01, 2005
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.
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