Freaks and Ghouls and Professionals

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

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

I Can Make a Federal Case Out of Just About Anything

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

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

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

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

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

5 Minute Major - For Sucking

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

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

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

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

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

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

From the article:

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

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

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

Amberance Ruins Chicken and Porn

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Panic Sets In

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

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

Snowing. Ugh.

Hadn't Thought About That.

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

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

Wardrobe Malfunctions

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

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

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

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

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

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

Footballs, Horns and Pitchforks

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

Hear Ye, Hear Ye

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

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

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

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

Sadly, This is Actual News

T.O. Practices.

Holy shit, stop the presses!

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

Samuel L. Jackson called me on Friday.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yes. Yes I am.

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

Random Thoughts From My Lunchtime Walk

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

When It Rains, It Pours...

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

Browns Center Ephraim to be Suspended

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

For My Buckeye Fans

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

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

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

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

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

We're going to have to work on this.

Pity Party

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

On The New Subtitle

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

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

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


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

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

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




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

It's A Miracle I'm Ever Taken Seriously

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

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

Off to a Great Typical Start

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

*SOB*

Shows and Hoes

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

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

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

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

Seems I have more cleaning to do than I thought.