A Smashing Good Time

I believe I posted something yesterday to the effect of "Aw poop, nothing is happening to me." I would like to revise that sentiment to "Yay! Nothing is happening to me!" This is because I am very happy today due to the fact that nobody hit my car yesterday.

It was a typical Thursday evening at Tai's. I had eaten Chinese and been told I looked like a double amputee because I like to sit on my feet. MrSteve, who is annoyingly on the wagon, showed up and drank tap water because he is a traitor. He was followed by Pothead Pete. I don't remember anything Pete said to me and he probably doesn't either.* I had a delicious glass of Strongbow in front of me and all was right with my world.

From outside we heard the unmistakable sound of metal hitting metal at a high rate of speed indicating that, oh shit, there's been an accident. 911 calls commenced and the bar patrons poured out into the street like the nosy people we are. We surveyed the carnage: a blue car with its passenger side in some disarray was in the middle of the street. A white car had its entire front end smashed in including a broken front axle. In front of that was a white van that had been slammed into so hard that it jumped the curb and wrapped its back end around a parking meter, but not before it slammed into the car in front of it and buried its hood in the car's trunk.

Directly behind and a foot away from this insurance nightmare sat Alistair. I hadn’t seen Alistair all week. He was on loan to the bartender because his car is totally lame. He was being returned to me that night, and just in time because I have exactly no food in my house, not even cheese, and it’s time to buy some groceries. He was the last car in line parked on the very corner. He was also the only car on that side of the street that hadn’t been touched.

The bartender returned from checking on Alistair and looked at me. “Boy,” he said, “I was going to move your car to that spot in front of the bar earlier and I never got around to it. Good thing I didn’t.” Because if he had moved it Alistair would be a very large accordion right now. But he’s not, there’s not a scratch on him. Nothing happened to him.

Yay for nothing!


*Last week, MrSteve invented a great new game called "Let's See How Long". The way you play is to start a game of pool with Pothead Pete, accidentally knock the 8 ball in at the beginning of the game, and then wait and see how long it takes Pete to notice. Sadly, we learned it's possible to play this game more than once per night. Pete is not known for his attention span.

I Have Nothing to Say

You may have noticed I am incredibly boring lately. This is because nothing is happening to me.

Instead I offer this: Which is the more offensive word and why? Friggin or frikkin?

Discuss.

Enough About Cats, Let's Talk About Me

I have a small reputation for not always behaving according to traditional gender stereotypes. I am as likely to say "Check out the tits on her!" or "Nice shoes. Wanna fuck?" as any guy I know. My fall activity schedule revolves entirely around being home for Monday Night Football. I would rather drink beer than any pansy-ass fruit flavored girl cocktail you could mix me. I like to paint walls and hang shelves and wield power tools. I read Playboy like I'm being tested on it. Blow jobs are neat. Et cetera.

Having established said reputation, I need to point out that there are certain gender roles I consider sacred. I have no idea where I got these outmoded and quite possibly sexist views from, but there you go. Among them are the following:

• Women should not call games. Sitting at the anchor desk and giving me highlights after the fact is fine, eye candy on the sidelines asking questions with painfully obvious answers has its place, but play by play and color will never sound right spoken by a woman.
• Men cut the grass. This is not to say that women shouldn't learn to cut the grass as well, but before men can use their penis for anything other than taking a leak, they should have to pass lawn mowing first.
• Likewise women should cook. Men are allowed to cook too - my father is probably the most excellent cook I know. But damn it, ladies, you need to know the difference between a saute pan and a skillet, and you need to know how to make at least one dinner that includes meat and vegetables that doesn't come in a box labeled "Lean Cuisine" and that doesn't taste like burnt gym socks.
• Also ladies, at the very least, learn how to sew a button onto a shirt. Ok, you know what? Guys too, actually. There's no excuse for not being able to figure this out. I take this one back, it's unisex.

I take great pride in the fact that I can do my womanly duty and create meals that people actually want to eat. And I just don't understand it when other girls can't figure this out.
Such as today when Fish gave me a review of the meal created by a girl we know for the Liz residents. It was not good. Apparently she prepared fried chicken with cereal on it, and some broccoli with a cheese sauce that didn't appear to contain any cheese. There were other atrocities committed, but those were the two that stood out in my mind. The hell? Look, I don't even eat broccoli but I can cook it for you and remember to include cheese in the cheese sauce. And if you wouldn't put a drumstick in your morning bowl of Lucky Charms, what would possess you to sprinkle cereal on your dinner?
Both Fish and JoE messaged me today to thank me for knowing how to cook an edible meal:
Fish: I have yet to find someone (outside my parents) who can touch your cooking dear
PGS DenMILF: aw
***
JoE: you cook well
PGS DenMILF: why thank you
JoE: just wanted to let you know, that I appreciate you
Aren't they great? I think maybe I'll go make them a ham or some other meat with no Fruit Loops.

Amber and Heather Beat a Path to Fame and Fortune

VelociHeather: you should just move here and be our fun quirky neighbor who walks in whenever they want
PGS DenMILF: that would rule. I'll walk in and start looking through your fridge
PGS DenMILF: sometimes you'll come home and find me there, cooking on your stove
PGS DenMILF: I'll be like "Hey guys! I'm making gezpacho!"
VelociHeather: hahahaha
PGS DenMILF: Maybe sometimes you'll be sitting there eating breakfast and suddenly I'll come up from out of the basement with a basket of laundry and go "Hey," and then just keep walking back to my house
PGS DenMILF: and you and Amy will look at each other for a moment and then go back to your cereal
VelociHeather: exactly
VelociHeather: then i'll write a sitcom
VelociHeather: and make millions
VelociHeather: you're now my co-writer
PGS DenMILF: Tuesday should talk in your sitcom. Or better yet just roll her eyes at strategic points
VelociHeather: with a loud "WHA WHAAAAAA" at that point
PGS DenMILF: or if she talks kristen could talk too. that would be our gimmick. at the end of every show the cats get together to break it down and make fun of us
PGS DenMILF: they are both very pithy
VelociHeather: they are
VelociHeather: it'd be like cat MST3K
PGS DenMILF: there it is.
VelociHeather: why aren't we in hollywood making millions right now?
PGS DenMILF: i know. clearly we've missed our calling.

Kristen cat could eat no fat, Her mom could eat no lean, And so between the two of them, They licked the soup bowl clean.

This awful bastardization of a beloved children’s nursery rhyme is brought to you by Kristen Ann, hands down the cutest cat who has ever lived. It popped into my head last night as Kristen and I were enjoying our evening meal.

Remember that stupid joke from when you were a kid, “What’s grosser than gross?” It always ended in something that would never actually happen, like “sliding down a giant razor blade into a pool of alcohol,” which doesn’t seem gross so much as painful, but kids are dumb. Well, for me the thing that is grosser than gross is soggy bread. I don’t want to look at it, I refuse to touch it, and I’d rather be ass raped by a wild orangutan than have to eat it.

In general this is not really a problem because I don’t eat a whole lot of bread. The only time it comes into play is when I’m having French Onion soup. French Onion soup is my favorite soup in all the land. This may or may not* have to do with the fact that the whole thing is covered in a thick layer of melted cheese. For the uninitiated, it works like this: you poor some soup into a bowl or crock. Then you float a piece or bread on top. You cover the bread with a whole bunch of cheese and stick it under a broiler until the cheese is all melty and toasted. You then collapse in paroxysms of joy. Mmm, cheese…

The problem is once you have broiled your awesome cheese, you are left with a layer of soggy bread separating your cheese from your soup. As anyone who’s ever seen me eating French Onion soup can attest, I will spend the better part of 20 minutes carefully peeling back my cheese and fishing the bread out of my soup with my spoon. Many people have asked me, “Amberance, why don’t you just get the soup with no bread in it?” No friends, this is not an option. The bread is an integral part of the cooking process. Cheese does not float on its own, so without the bread my lovely cheese is going to sink to the bottom of my soup. If it’s under my soup instead of on top of it, it’s not going to get all toasted and bubbly when I stick it under the broiler. I have no choice but to use the bread and then carefully remove it (I’ve already tried wax paper. It doesn’t work.).

The result of this is that I end up with a pile of wet bread hanging out on my plate whilst I enjoy the bread-free fruit of my labor. Generally I turn it so the bowl is in between me and the bread so that I won’t have to look at it.

Kristen Ann is the most well behaved animal on the face of the planet – unless you’re eating something that she wants. When that happens she becomes quite the furry little behavior case. This was the situation earlier this week when I decided to make myself a delicious batch of soup. I sat down at the dining room table with my soup and a fat glass of chocolate milk and set about by pre-soup eating bread extraction. In the meantime, Miss Kris had realized I was eating something that smelled very much like beef. Curiosity led her to jump up on the dining room table. She’s not allowed on the dining room table and she knows it, but she also doesn’t care. I yelled at her and tried to swish her off the table, but she sidestepped my swipe and stayed on the table just out of my reach. I’m a pushover, so I ignored this and continued to work on the bread. Bread removed, I started in on my soup, slurping up onions and cheese with glee.

My little Kristen happens to be a goddamn kitty genius. Her grasp of science is unparalleled amongst cats. Noticing that I was engrossed in my cheese, Kristen took advantage and crept up to my plate. She sniffed at the bread, decided it was worth it and pawed a piece off of my plate on onto the table. She’s picky like her mom, and wanted nothing to do with wet bread either, but she did want to get at the beef flavor she knew it contained. Here is where her scientific genius kicked in, for she realized that applying pressure the bread would cause it to contract, releasing the beef broth it was currently holding. Armed with this knowledge, she pressed her little mitten paw down on the bread. Sure enough, the beef broth was released, wetting her little paw, which she then raised to her mouth to lick. It was so damn cute I didn’t bother trying to stop her. Instead I wrote a really stupid poem about the two of us sharing a bowl of soup.

Fear and Drinking in Las Vegas

Hi. I'm back. From Vegas.

As it turns out, what happens in Vegas actually DOESN'T stay in Vegas and the reason for this is that I have a blog. The trip was ostensibly for the Tai's Til 4 family of employees and patrons to attend the bar and restaurant show which was in town. The real reason was for us all to get very very drunk and gamble a lot. I've been trying to write this post for 3 days now, but for some reason these people keep giving me work to do. So instead of the original post I was going to write that would have taken you six days to read, I now present the abridged version:

• The bartender, who was my roommate for the trip, and I headed over to Paris the first day to sit in the sports book. I am not a gambler myself, so I was basically there just to watch television. The bartender finds this "not gambling" thing completely foreign and set out trying to convert me by teaching me how to read stat sheets. He might have had a better chance if he hadn't started the lesson with, "Hey math geek, check this out."
• Later that evening, we traipsed over to New York New York and met MrSteve for drinks at the Irish bar. We proceeded to get very drunk. Also, I spent a lot of time staring at our bartender, whose nametag said he was called Lee, because he was the most beautiful boy I have ever seen. In our drunk, the three of us decided the best course of action would be to all stand near the bar, pull out our phones, and start texting people we left in Chicago, where it was approximately 3 a.m. It seems we texted Brandon a few times, which he was very pleased about given that he had to get up in the morning for his first day at a new job. Also, all three of us sent a barrage of messages to Big Charlie, who was also drunk. A good time was had by all.
• The second day, MrSteve and I decide it's time to hit the Star Trek Museum. This was by far the thing I was most looking forward to in Vegas, because I am a huge geek. Luckily, MrSteve also likes to get his geek on so I had a partner. There are two rides at the museum. The first one we went on was Klingon Encounter, where I got to stand on the bridge of the Enterprise, somewhere near the tactical station (hello, NERD!). Somehow Steve and I managed to lose each other in the gift shop after the first ride, and I ended up going on the second ride by myself. This was a mistake because I had no one to grab onto when the Borg started jumping out from behind things and dragging people away to be assimilated. I assure you, it was one of the most frightening experiences of my life.
• Afterwards, MrSteve and I decide to hit up Quark's Bar for an alcoholic beverage. This beverage is called a Warp Core Breach. It is served with dry ice in it so that it smokes and bubbles, and it tastes like purple. While enjoying this, a very drunk woman began trying to start a very loud an incoherent conversation with us. Eventually we moved down to sit closer to her and her husband. Their names were Don and Matilda (I know there's a Waltzing Matilda joke in there somewhere, but I just can't find it) and they were at the Star Trek museum celebrating their 21st wedding anniversary. Don was very nice and normal, was a 49ers fan and talked football with me for some time, while MrSteve was dragged by Matilda into a conversation I'm not entirely sure he needed to be there for. All was well until suddenly I found Matilda behind me, playing with my hair and stroking my neck. Much as I enjoy people playing with my hair, it's kind of creepy when total strangers do it, and I was more than a little freaked out.
• That night, a large group of us went over to The Foundation Room for some fun and vodka. We were waiting for a few late comers to show up when the body came over to the bartender and me and told us he'd taken some new pictures on his phone he wanted to show us. Apparently he'd gone out and hooked up with not one, but two different women his first night in Vegas. Which we didn't know when he came walking up to us and so we were totally unprepared for his pictures. We both stood with our mouths hanging open as the body narrated his little slide show: "This is a picture of her tits, and this is a picture of her sucking my dick, and this is a picture of me sticking it in her ass..." He looked at us for our approval of his two conquests, but we were a little bit freaked out. All the bartender could manage was "I can't believe I just saw your dick."
• The next day I woke up with a fever and a sore throat, because that is exactly what I should have been expecting on my first real vacation in 10 years. Needless to say I was pretty upset, though not as upset as the bartender was. We had discovered the day before when Steve and I went to Star Trek that I was the bartenders lucky charm. Whenever I was standing next to him he won, and whenever I was somewhere else he lost. He had taken to dragging me around with him to all his favorite slot machines and rubbing my head for luck. Sure enough he lost that day.
• The bartender was waiting for a phone call from his friend who was driving us to the airport on our last day. When the phone call came he had just gotten out of the shower and came running out of the bathroom stark raving naked to answer it. This made me extremely happy because I think he should be naked all the time. Later when he was dressed he asked me if I was feeling any better. I told him it should be obvious that I wasn't by the fact that I didn't attack him when he was running around all nekkid, which he agreed was a good point.
• Ever gotten on a plane when you're sick? Don't. It sucks about seven kinds of ass. It sucks about 700 kinds of ass when you're sick and sitting next to Fatty McGee who is taking up half your seat and can't seem to sit still, and also you're in an aisle seat and are prone to motion sickness and really really need to be by a window, and also you want to try to sleep but four other people on the plane are snoring like it's their job, and also there's so much turbulence that you're sure the plane is going to fall right out if the sky.

So those are the highlights (and lowlights) of Amberance Goes to Vegas 2006. Stay tuned for Amberance Goes to Florida in May and Football Season: Vegas Strikes Back sometime in the fall.

Today is March 14th.

Happy Steak and Blow Job Day.

It's Got a Good Beat, but I Can't Dance To It

I can hear my downstairs neighbors having sex. I know they can't hear me having sex, because I'm not having any*. And while I know I have a reputation for being sort of pervy, this is actually not a good thing. Because it usually wakes me up.

Their bedroom is right below mine, and apparently their bed is on the same wall so whenever they get busy the noise shimmies up the wall into my room. Also, they seem to be "morning sex" people. Because the thumping usually begins right around 5:30 in the morning (though thankfully ends at about 5:33).

So what I have is people thumping on the wall and waking me up at 5:30 in the morning. In and of itself this is not so bad. But today while I lay there listening to them mate I realized that I would never want to sleep with either one of them. The guy is average and the girl is actually pretty hot, but it makes no difference. They are just so damn boring. I never hear her at all. She does not moan, scream or talk. At first I wasn't even sure that she was awake. But then after listening I decided she's just bored. She's bored because this guy is freaking boring. I mean really. It's almost unnatural the way he manages to keep the exact same rhythm and intensity. It never varies. He's like a fucking metronome. And clearly she has no original ideas of her own either. This was all going through my head when the thumping stopped as abruptly as it had started. I shook my head with pity and went back to sleep.

*at home**.
** with other people.

Take That, Bitch

Co-worker I actually talk to: One time my cat wanted me to wake up so she took her paw and smacked me right in the eye.

Me: Wow, really? Kristen never does that. She just head-butts by arm when she wants to wake me up.

CWIATT: That's what Ginger normally does. That was the first time she ever bitch-slapped me.

Supermac and Ass

I was doing some emergency grocery shopping and I came across a new product: Kraft Supermac and Cheese. In Fairly Odd Parents and Spiderman shapes.

Supermac and Cheese is being billed by Kraft as a healthier alternative to their regular Mac and Cheese. It's got more calcium, more whole grains, and more vitamins and minerals. The box was colorful and promised me that kids love it, and since I'm maybe not so good with the healthy eating thing, I decided to buy a box and check it out for myself.

I decided to make it the other night. I was a little afraid that the pasta would be that whole grain brown color and taste like healthy, which is a flavor that I hate. While the water was boiling I opened the box and shook out a Timmy and a wand (shut up, I love that cartoon). They looked pretty normal so I ate one and found that it tasted just like regular pasta! I was happy.

I finished making my meal (because now that my mac and cheese has more vitamins and minerals, it now counts as a complete meal) and sat down on the couch with Kristen to watch Gilmore Girls. I put the first bite of cheesy goodness in my mouth.

Then my face scrunched up just like in those old "bitter beer face" commercials.

"Ass," I said out loud. "This tastes like ass."

Kristen stared at me blankly, partly because she likes the taste of her ass just fine judging by how much she licks it, and partly because she's a cat and blank stares are what they do.

Let me ask you all a question: what the hell ever happened to truth in advertising? Because Kraft has named their new product "Supermac and Cheese" and this implies to me that the "mac" part of the equasion is what has been made super. This is a big fat ass-tasting lie. They made the cheese super, and by super I mean awful. "Supermac and Cheese" is straight up bullshit. If they were telling the truth they'd have called it "Mac and Supercheese" which would have given me some warning that they'd fucked with my cheese so I would have been more prepared for the sweaty feet mixed with unwashed balls flavor they've created. Even Kristen hated it. I let her lick my spoon since clearly I wouldn't be needing it. She took two licks and walked away from me, and as I said before, this is an animal who thinks her ass is effing gourmet. There is no way kids are going to like this stuff.

Supermac my cheesy ass.

The Correct (IMO) Diagnosis Goes to Dr. MrSteve

I've done something horrible to my wrist. And before you make any snide comments, it's the other wrist. This has been going on for over two weeks. It hurts from my hand to halfway up my arm, and I have no idea what I did.

I have had three different diagnoses from three different people I know who are not doctors. The bartender immediately decided it was some type of pinched nerve in my hand, and recommended wrapping a rubberband around my fingers and then flexing them as some type of resistance exercise. "It's an old bass player trick," he said. Which I'm sure probably works great if you play bass, but I don't and after several hours of this, I decided that my pain resembled "more" rather than "less", so I think, maybe, he's full of crap.

MrSteve thought so too, and labeled this malady Carpal Tunnel Syndrome, based on his background of Typing on the Computer A Lot. He has told me to switch to using my mouse left handed for a week, and insists the pain will go away or at least lessen. So I've been mousing left handed all week which is annoying, and also difficult as the mouse I have is contoured to fit the right hand. Also, the pain is not going away.

Cap, who is an athlete and briefly toyed with the idea of majoring in physical therapy, feels that I have some type of tendonitis, which is what I originally believed the problem was. He recommended ice packs and Ibuprofin, which have helped slightly.

Cap's theory seemed to best fit my pain and also his therapy was the only one that seemed to have any effect at all, so I was prepared to deal with this as a tendon issue, until I went rooting around on the internet yesterday looking for details on Carpal Tunnel Syndrome, mostly to explain to Steve why I didn't have it (sorry, Steve). The problem is I am now pretty sure he was right. It seems one of the main symptoms of Carpal Tunnel is tingling or numbness in your hands and forearms when you are trying to sleep. Which is something I've been having problems with for months. I thought I was just sleeping on my arms weird. Wikipedia, who has never lied to me that I'm aware of, says many people with CTS think exactly the same thing. Also, Cap's therapy is working because it's one of the main treatments for temporary relief of CTS. And MrSteve's therapy is NOT working because despite not mousing, I am still typing constantly (such as right now), in a hand position that is ergonomically poor, and therefore, NOT resting my wrist.

I've decided that my upcoming Vegas vacation is no longer a nice break from work, but a medical necessity.

I Think He's On To Me

Today my boss was handing out those awful, chalk tasting candy hearts he had left over from Valentine's Day. I friggin hate those things, they taste like ass plus baby powder. So, I don't eat them often.

I haven't had one in a really long time apparently, because the message written on it was one I'd never seen. It read "PAGE ME". Hello, what?

"Page me?" I asked my boss. "That's a new one. Where the hell did that come from?"

" I think it's a Gen-X thing," replied my 52 year old boss. "Or maybe it's Gen-Y. I'm not sure which. Are you in Gen-X or Gen-Y?"

I am 28. "Both, sort of. I'm the age that's right on the cusp. Which probably explains what's wrong with me."

"Yes, we were wondering about that."

The Dumbest Joke Ever

Thursday night was joke night at Tai’s. I stood around with my group and we took turns telling jokes that ranged from silly (“Knock, knock.” “Who’s there?” “I eat mop.” *) to the insane (“If you are driving down the street backwards in a canoe with four flat tires, how many shingles does it take to paper the roof?”**). I myself got to tell the lawnmower joke as well as my favorite knock knock joke. Over the years I’ve learned to tell a pretty mean joke. When I was kid, not so much.

Kids have a weird sense of humor. Back when I was a little ape I would laugh at just about anything. Cap and I spent a lot of time with Kelly and Simmy growing up. For four really smart kids, we could be pretty stupid. For instance, when our parents would get together, we’d hang out playing all day, and every time we’d decide we should have a sleepover. But instead of just going and asking our parents for permission like sane people, we created a little scheme. We’d wait until we were told to get ready to go home, and then go tell our parents we couldn’t find our shoes. The reason we “couldn’t find” them was that we’d hid them somewhere. While the “search” was on, one of us would be sent downstairs to ask the parents if there could be a sleepover. Almost invariably we were told that if we’d asked earlier it would have been ok, but now it was too late for that. We never ever caught on that instead of hiding our shoes we should just ask earlier. For our part, the parents never caught on to the fact that we’d actually hidden the shoes to buy time. In the end the joke was on us though, because rather than use the extension to keep playing, we actually spent our time pretending to look for our shoes.
But even dumber than that was our jokes. We told each other some of the dumbest jokes ever invented. The dumbest one also happened to be our favorite: The Green-Eyed Ghost. We told this joke over and over and it never seemed to get less funny:

There’s a green-eyes ghost sitting at the counter of the restaurant. A lady comes in and sits down. The green-eyed ghost looks at her and asks, “Are you afraid of ghosts?” The lady says no. Then the green-eyed ghost says, “Well, are you afraid of green-eyed ghosts?” The lady says no. The ghost says, “Well I’m a green-eyed ghost and I’m going to touch your thighs.”*** So the lady screams and runs away.

Another lady comes in and sits down on a chair next to the green-eyed ghost. The green-eyed ghost says, “Are you afraid of ghosts?” The lady says no. He says, “Are you afraid of green-eyed ghosts?” She says no. , “Well I’m a green-eyed ghost and I’m going to touch your thighs.” So THAT lady runs away.

Then this big, (pause for emphasis) FAT, (pause again) big fat lady comes in and sits down on TWO chairs next to the green-eyed ghost. The green-eyed ghost goes, “Are you afraid of ghosts?” The big fat lady says no. The green-eyed ghost says, “Are you afraid of green-eyed ghosts?” The big fat lady says no. The green-eyed ghost says, “Well I’m a green-eyed ghost and I’m going to touch your thighs.” And then the big fat lady says, “You ain’t gonna touch my thighs, or I’m gonna touch your FACE, man!”
At which point we would dissolve into hysterical laughter every single time. Kelly would usually end up being the teller because she did the best voices. But other than that, I have no idea why it was funny.

And yet I can’t stop laughing.

*Say it out loud: “I eat mop who?”
** None, because ice cream has no bones.
*** Yeah, I don’t know either.

The Best Thing About Heather Is She Writes All My Blog Posts For Me

VelociHeather: i have to share this
PGS DenMILF: you may begin
VelociHeather: Amy said they just hired a gal in her office whose name is "Latrina"
VelociHeather: seriously
VelociHeather: i could not stop laughing
PGS DenMILF: BWAHAHAHAHAHA
PGSDenMILF: do people not think?
VelociHeather: i guess not
VelociHeather: her parents must be retarded
VelociHeather: I would go by my middle name and never, ever reveal my real first name
PGS DenMILF: what if your middle name was swampass?
VelociHeather: i would make up a symbol, like Prince
PGS DenMILF: Latrina SwampAss Moyer
VelociHeather: Latrina Swampass McButterfart
PGS DenMILF: maybe your symbol could be a little rectangle with two little concentric ovals right beneath it. like an overhead view of a toilet
VelociHeather: haha
VelociHeather: i like that
VelociHeather: of course, hopefully no one would call me "The Woman Formerly Known as Latrina Swampass"
PGS DenMILF: yeah, that could be a problem

I Expect A Lot From My Guests

Heather: I had a dream last night where I was visiting you. You were living in a college dorm, and when you introduced me to your friends I said, "Now don't expect me to defile a towel like your other visiting friends have!" And then everyone busted up laughing.

I have no idea what that means.


Me: It means when you visit me you should wash your ass before you wipe it on my towel.

Heather: What the hell? Why don't you just handcuff me and take away my rights as an American!

Ill-annoying

Honestly people, all I wanted to do was officially become an Illlinoisian. Illinoiser? Illinoisan? Whatever. I wanted to officially be from Illinois. That is, get Illinois plates for Alistair and an Illinois driver’s license for me. Well, let me tell you something kids: you better fucking be from here in the first place because they don't take kindly to foreigners in these parts.

Since I have a social phobia regarding any situation I haven't previously encountered involving other people, I checked first with my good friends out at the Liz to get the low down on what to expect. Their utter amusement did nothing to allay my fears.

"Do you have your old registration and proof of insurance? Your old driver's license and some proof of residency, like a utility bill? You should have everything you need then. And don't worry, if you don't, they're very kind and understanding," said Klug.

"Oh, and by the way, don't tell them you've lived here an entire year," JoE advised. "You're supposed to get an Illinois license within 10 days of moving here. Although, you can tell them how long you've really been here if you want. I’m sure they'll be very kind and understanding."

"Don't worry about where you need to go or anything," Fish assured me. "There's a guard at the door now. You tell him what you need to do, and he'll tell you what line to get in. He's very kind and understanding."

I suspected they were mocking me.

The guy at the door was a little Mexican guy in a very official looking outfit that implied if I said anything stupid, he had the authority to shoot me. He looked neither kind nor understanding, and I would come to find out that my first impression was correct. But he did know where to send me. Driver's license first. Line 2.

Line 2 was very short, although the area just beyond Line 2 looked like Ellis Island circa 1907. To get an Illinois license you need the following items: your old out of state license, proof of birth, proof of Social Security number, and proof of residency. I had on me the following items: my Ohio driver's license (with my Social Security number included), my birth certificate, and a bill from People's Energy.

"Where's your Social Security card?" asked the Line 2 attendant.

"I don't have it."

"Well, you need proof of your Social Security number to get an Illinois license, so you won't be able to get that today."

"Um, but it's printed right there on my Ohio license," I said. Because it seemed to me that if my Social Security number was ON MY OLD LICENSE that it should qualify as "proof" that this was MY Social Security number. Putting your SS# on your license is optional in Ohio, but as far as I know, you don't have the option of putting just anyone's number on there. It has to actually be yours.

"That's not on the document list," he said, handing me a sheet of paper and circling Section C, "Proof of Social Security". Sure enough the items on the list included a U.S. Military ID, a State of Illinois ID card, a letter from the Social Security people officially stating your SS#, or your Social Security card. Out of state driver's license, whether you number was printed right on it or not, was not included. "Come back with your Social Security card. Also you'll have to take a written exam and a vision test." He shoved all the paperwork back at me, indicating that I was dismissed.

"Can I still get plates though?" I asked him. This was the more pressing issue, as my driver's license won't expire until next year, but my Ohio tags expired last week. He said I could, and also permitted me to just unhook the rope and get in Line 1.

Now I was in line 1, and for this exercise I had ready: my Ohio registration, my loan agreement, and my insurance card. I would not need any of these immediately. The woman behind the counter began rapid firing her automated list of questions at me and pulling out forms as I answered them. Because I bought the car outside of Illinois, new, from a dealer, still owed money on it, and used it outside of Illinois for a specified period of time, I was handed a stack of approximately 87 forms to fill out before I could receive my two metal rectangles indicating that my car lives here. I headed off to the long table in order to accomplish this.

As I was working, a surly employee made his way down the table peering over everyone's shoulder, deeming each of us stupid in turn, and sending us off to the auditors for "help" filling out our small forest's worth of forms. I was doing pretty well, I thought, but not well enough for the Form Enforcer. "Ma'am," he said in an exasperated tone as if I was just too dumb to understand (though I hadn't said anything to him at this point), "you need to go over to the Auditors and have them help you fill this out right now. We'd like to get out of here some time today." I'd been standing there for maybe three minutes when he said this and was already halfway done, due to my diligence with Having Things Ready. But this wasn't good enough, so I headed over to the Dummy line.

Turns out I belonged in the Dummy line. I handed all my documents and papers to the older gentleman assisting me, and of course the first thing he asks me for is the exact mileage on my car. That particular nugget being the one piece of information I did not have. I told him this and he looked around tiredly. "Doesn't look like the doors are locked yet," he said. "Better go out and get the mileage off your car." So chastened, I ran out to my car and diligently wrote down "14,242" on my forms before heading back inside.

I walked in and immediately headed back to the Auditor lime. But before I could take three steps the little Mexican man (hereafter, "the Mexi-nazi") stopped me with an authoritative bark. "Ma'am," he said sharply, "what's your business here?"

"Um, I was just here, remember? I need to get plates? I just had to get something out of my car."

"Line 1," said the Mexi-nazi coldly.

I thanked him stupidly, then ignored him and went straight back to the Auditors. At least he didn't shoot me.

I got a different auditor this time. She took my registration and loan agreement away and made copies of them (no one ever asked me for proof of insurance. WTF?), stapled them to my paperwork, signed and stamped a dozen things, and sent me off to stand in another line so I could give them my money. I stood in the line and glanced around, as you do. And in so glancing, I noticed a sign on the wall. "We accept, cash, personal check, money order, and Discover Card."

So rarely have I been in a place that accepts Discover but not Mastercard or Visa that I had to read it twice. And instantly I wished I had read it before going to take down my mileage, because in my purse I had no cash, no money order, and no Discover card (since I carry Mastercard like a normal person). I did have a checkbook....in my car. The Form Enforcer was nearby, so I went to him and timidly said, "Um, can I please run out to my car? I left my checkbook there by accident." He approved my trip and I went out to the car a second time.

I was gone, oh, 45 seconds, tops. When I got back, I discovered the front door was locked. So I did what any other rational adult who had been granted permission to get her checkbook from her car would do: I went in through the exit door.

A small but strong hand gripped my shoulder as I stepped inside, and I turned around and came face to face with the Mexi-nazi. "You can't come in Ma'am," he announced.

I heard a whiney little kid speaking and realized it was me. "But I was just here. The man told me I could go out and get my checkbook." I looked around for the Form Enforcer only to discover that he'd vanished into the ether. Instead I sheepishly held out my finished paperwork.

Mexi-nazi tightened his grip on my arm and shook his head at me. "You can't come in. We're closed." He steered me back toward the doors. It was clear that I would not be granted the privilege of giving the state of Illinois $143 that day.

Defeated, I let myself be escorted off the premises without obtaining an Illinois driver’s license or Illinois plates. When I got to my car, I immediately called Fish to complain. When he answered I announced I was moving back to Ohio because everyone here was mean and then promptly burst into tears.

Fish was very kind and understanding.

Bartenderism: The Language of Gay

"I'm telling you, he's gay. I have a gay brother and a lesbian sister, and I used to be the general manager a gay nightclub. I'm well versed in gay."

Chipotlame

I just got back from Chipotle (they had chicken today and charged me the correct amount for it thankyouverymuch), where I saw a very sad sight indeed.

What I saw were two women, approximately my age, sitting together at a table each eating...

...a bowl of shredded lettuce.

That's it. I think the one girl had a little bit of cheese on hers. There were no others at their table eating a proper burrito or anything. Just them.

I almost cried for them. (I cried with joy at my delicious fajita burrito with extra cheese and extra sour cream instead. Mmmmm.)

The Naked Standard

Here's an argument I'm having with Fish. Actually it's two related arguments. I thought I'd poll the experts (this means you, lovely readers). Here's the set up:

Fish: so joe and I are arguing whether you get to see Beckinsalebreasts in Underworld 2
Fish: I told him no because I would have heard about it
Fish: but he is adamant
PGS DenMILF: WHAT?
PGS DenMILF: are you talking about
PGS DenMILF: oh wait
PGS DenMILF: Kate Beckinsale’s tits?
Fish: yeah
Fish: Joe says yes, I say no, only you have seen it so we need to know
Fish: titties or no titties
PGS DenMILF: you're both right
PGS DenMILF: you see them, but you don't see any nip
Fish: oh
Fish: so thats a no
Fish: I win
PGS DenMILF: no it isn't
Fish: yeah it is... nipple = nudity... breast = provocative
PGS DenMILF: there's a part where michael is unzipping her catsuit
PGS DenMILF: you see the outline of her breast. it is HOT
PGS DenMILF: you see a full body shot of two naked people, head to toe
PGS DenMILF: but somehow all their naughty parts are covered
PGS DenMILF: they kept zooming in on her stomach
PGS DenMILF: it was hot
Fish: I don't jerk off to outlines
Fish: so it isn't nudity
Fish: sorry
Fish: in the end, its a tease
PGS DenMILF: ok, so you've never jerked off to a girl that was dressed
Fish: not that I recall
PGS DenMILF: that's effed up
PGS DenMILF: Kate Beckinsale wearing the cat suit is not masturbatory material
PGS DenMILF: that's what you're saying
Fish: for me?
Fish: no
Fish: society has taught me that nipples are the difference between a PG-13 and R rating (except for a few instances) so they must be special... not as special as a crotch shot which guarantees an R
Fish: its the difference between maxim and playboy
Fish: between USA up all Night and Skinimax
Fish: as you can see... these aren't my rules
PGS DenMILF: But my argument is that both Maxim and Playboy are provacative
Fish: the original question is does K.B. get naked (aka nude) and, the answer, is no
PGS DenMILF: The rule is, if you have NO CLOTHES ON you are naked
PGS DenMILF: The answer is YES because she's not wearing any clothes!
Fish: No
PGS DenMILF: some dude on top of you humping you does not qualify as clothes!
Fish: no nipple, no jerkoff, no deal
Fish: that's how we roll
PGS DenMILF: i think that's just how YOU roll
PGS DenMILF: if you're at a strip club, and the stripper is topless, but she has pasties on, you're saying you haven’t seen her breasts
Fish: yes

It went on like that, but you get the point. The two arguments are:

1. Do you have to see nipple (pubes, dick, etc.) to qualify as naked?
2. Do men only masturbate to images of naked women, or do women dressed provacatively work as well?

And since it's my blog and I don't have to play fair: Fish is saying that none of my readers are going to masturbate to this image of Hot Heather licking my boobs just because I am wearing a corset:



Say it ain't so. ;-)

Bathroom Mysteries

I'm having issues in my bathroom right now. One is an intriguing garbage can finding; the other has to do with my being a complete moron.

Saturday morning I got up at 3 a.m. to take a shower so I could be at Tai's to start painting by 4:30 (I am very serious about my work). I groggily got up, crashed into the door frame to my bedroom (as I do), and staggered through the dining room and kitchen and into the bathroom to get ready. It was when I went to throw a tissue into the trash can that I saw it: a mysterious twig was poking up out of the can. My brain slowly worked this over: Where did this twig come from? I didn't recall putting a twig in the garbage can. I decided maybe I had better get myself fully conscious before I sprained something thinking about it, so I jumped in the shower.

Now awake (also clean and naked), I got out of the shower to find that there was still a twig in my garbage can. I went back over my movements for the last few days, and found none that involved placing a twig in my garbage can. I started going over other options.

Option 1: Kristen put it there. There are several problems with this theory. For one thing, Kristen does not go outside so she'd have trouble getting her little paws on a twig to begin with. I'm sure she could have found it in the house if I tracked it in there somehow, but I don't really think so. Also, being that she's a cat and all, she doesn't have opposable thumbs to grasp a stick and throw it in the trash. True, she could have picked it up in her mouth and dropped it in there, but to do that she'd have to jump up onto the toilet with it and lean over at a weird angle to get it in there. Also, and most importantly, why would Kristen want to put a twig in my garbage can in the first place?

Option 2: The bartender did it. Besides me there are only two others with keys to my apartment, the landlord, and the bartender who happens to also be my catsitter. If the bartender came over while I wasn't home, he could have tracked in a branch that he noticed and threw out while using my bathroom. But the thing is, the bartender would not just show up and use a key to get into my house without telling me. We're in a big fight right now too, so if he had been in there when I wasn't home, I would have expected to find some of his belongings that I'm currently storing to be missing. So probably not the bartender.

Option 3: The landlord. This seems like the least likely, because in order to come in my apartment, the landlord is supposed to call and warn me first. In fact, the few times they've been in there they've never failed to call first.

So I have no explanation for a twig in my garbage can and it is really bothering me. When I talked to MrSteve about it yesterday he was unimpressed. "Fine, but we might be about to invade nuclear facilities in Iran. Don't you think that's maybe a little more important?"

"Well, no, because how does that effect me, Steve? Oh wait! Unless it was Iranian terrorists and they broke in and put a twig in my garbage can. That might be it."

"Right. Why would terrorists break in your house and put a twig in your garbage can, Amber?"

"To fuck with my head! Obviously. And it's working."

Poor Steve, I don't know why he bothers trying to talk to me at all. Anyway, the twig is still in there and it is still bothering me. I need help on this one, folks. What am I missing?

My other problem is that I am unbelievably stupid at practical things. Such as changing the batteries in my Crest Spinbrush. I can't get the damn thing open to get at the batteries. I've tried pushing, pulling, twisting, pulling and twisting, twisting and pushing, squeezing and twisting, pushing and squeezing, and banging it against the sink. The little drawing on the side implies that it should just swing open at one end, but I'm telling you, I tried that and it didn't work. The worst part of this is that I got it open once before because I've changed those batteries once already. I can't figure it out. My toothbrush is going to die if I don't find a solution to this problem soon. Please help me.