Moo?

Last night I ended up going to a surprise concert with the bartender. The concert wasn't a surprise, me going was. Our friend Hellbilly had been at Guns N Roses the night before and wasn't up to concerts two nights in a row, so he gave me his ticket. The Matches opened for +44.

We got there in time for the tail end of The Matches' set. Neither of us are really Matches fans, what with their girl pants and boring songs and their emo, emo eyeliner. We found a new reason not to like them at the show. Halfway through one of their songs, a guy walked up to the microphone and pulled out a triangle. The bartender looked at me. I looked around for cows. I wondered if perhaps it was dinnertime. The bartender scowled. Because, come on, it's a rock band. How are you supposed to even hear the triangle? It's impossible. And if it were possible we would know, because the guy was really playing the hell out of the thing. As if it were a pinata, or an effigy of someone they dislike. It was way to much effort for something that was completely drowned out by the guitars. They should have gone for some cowbell.

+44 is the current band of former Blink-182 members Mark Hoppus (bass) and Travis Barker (drums). Apparently they have a thing for naming their bands with a one syllable word and then a number. They're, eh, alright. Listenable. The best part of the show was Travis Barker. Travis would have been the best part of the show anyway, because he's a frikkin amazing drummer. But a few weeks ago he broke his hand, and so played their entire set last night with only one arm all Def Leppard-like. Except that he actually has two arms and was holding the broken one up behind his head the whole time like he was at a rodeo. Or maybe fencing because he had a drumstick in his other hand. But way more spastic than that, so yeah, like a rodeo. I was right the first time. Either way it was awesome.

A good time was had by all.

Or Possibly Ravens Heaven

H-Town: I have made a grave error in the letter I am mailing to you
me: um, ok
H-Town: i made the comment "I would've sent you a Kevin mack card, but I fumbled it on the way into the packing box" My brother says I blasphemed Mack, it was BYNER who did that
H-Town: i knew it was one of those two, but forgot which
me: ah yes, you meant ernest byner there
H-Town: so, i'm going to cleveand browns hell
me: that's ok, cleveland browns hell might be the same as bengals heaven
H-Town: which might be nice,
me: actually no, it's probably steelers heaven. you're screwed

Are You Ready to Ruin Some Football?

Is it just me, or does Monday Night Football blow this year? I have seen I think maybe one game that was worthy of the three hours I devoted to it. And I may have just dreamed that one. Last night's turnover festival was almost comedic, if it weren't for Jerramy Stevens' unwillingness to finish running his routes, which just made me angry. And can Joe Theismann and Tony Kornheiser possibly bicker any more? I swear, Kornheiser contradicts everything Theismann has to say just because he doesn't like him.

Suck My Balls and Assorted Other Christmas Stories

A brief recap of my various goings on:

1. Melle dyed my hair green and red on Friday. I have no idea how I finally talked her into that, as she kept telling me it was cheesy. Also she is a big scrooge. It looks awesomely festive, but every time I wash my hair, my hands end up looking like I've slain a muppet.

2. I am somewhat known for the wearing of inappropriate t-shirts, because I think it is hilarious. Some of my selections include "You say tomato, I say fuck you", "Masturbation: My anti-drug" and "I taught your boyfriend that thing you like". I hadn't really realized how much my shirts had become my trade mark until I walked into the salon on day one of The 40 Days of Christmas wearing a "Joy To The World" sweatshirt I had cross-stitched myself. John stared at me reading my shirt for a long time before finally saying, "Oh. That's it? Because you know how you have that shirt that says 'swallows'? I thought there was a trick to it, like instead of saying 'Joy to the World' it was going to say 'Joy to you sucking my balls' or something."

3. After I left the salon, I went down to the bar where I started wishing everyone a Merry Christmas which earned me many confused looks, two hugs and a mint from IHop. I decided to call JoE, the inventor of the 40 Days. "Happy 40 Days!" he answered.

"Happy 40 Days!" I said. "I'm sitting here in the bar in my Joy To The World sweatshirt and ornament earrings."

"Haha! Is that why you called?"

"Of course that's why I called. That and to tell you that everyone thinks I am batshit insane."

"They just don't understand. Listen, I'd love to talk to you, but I have to let you go. We're in the middle of watching 'It's a Wonderful Life'."

Ah, sweet sweet vindication.

4. It is almost as much fun watching the humbug bartender lug my Christmas decorations up and down the stairs than it is actually decorating. He had no objection to my putting little wreaths around his candle sticks in the dining room, but he thinks the festive red couch cover is a tad excessive. I also found a stuffed teddy bear and a snowman in with my linens. "Kristen, here's a teddy bear for you and [bartender], you get a snowman."

"I don't want a snowman," he complained as I handed it to him .

"Too bad! Hug the snowman." He did. I can't believe that actually worked.

5. I am not, NOT a Barenaked Ladies fan. Not that their lyrics aren't clever, but that folksy plain ass sound to their music drives me up a wall. Having said that, if you're into Christmas music and looking for something different, I strongly recommend their Christmas album, Barenaked for the Holidays. It's refreshingly different, including a song about disgruntled elves that try to start a union, a round of "Jingle bells, Batman smells" and a remake of Deck the Halls where the lyrics have been replaced by them repeating "Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young" over and over again.

6. Buckeye football rules. Browns football, not so much.

Tis The Season For Giving

Amberance: i need to think of what i want to engrave on [the bartender’s] ipod
H-Town: oh man, the engraving has to be something classic
H-Town: like "I farted"
H-Town: or "This iPod fits in my ass"
H-Town: all are timeless phrases of joy and love
Amberance: that's awesome. i was totally going to write something all mushy, "BFF" or something but you're totally right
Amberance: "I like poo"
Amberance:"To [the bartender]: I shat this iPod for you. Love, Amber"
Amberance: "Warning: ipod not intended for use in masturbation"
Amberance: actually that's not even true, the one I'm getting him plays videos
H-Town: hahaha
H-Town: "Please Wipe me Off When Finished"
Amberance: I'll wrap it with a box of kleenex
Amberance: and some lube
H-Town: and a six pack

The 40 Days of Christmas

Merry Christmas everyone!

What's that you say?

Why no, I don't think it's a little early. Yes, I know it isn't even Thanksgiving yet. It's The 40 Days of Christmas today. See, back in the day, JoE and Phil, my fellow Christmas enthusiasts, created The 40 Days of Christmas to celebrate their love for Christmas and everything it stands for. Notice that it is The 40 Days OF Christmas and not the 40 days TO Christmas. It's not a countdown. Every day, from November 16th until December 25th, is Christmas. If you're as big of a Christmas spazz as me, it's actually 41 days, because I always tack Boxing Day onto the end of that period.

I'm so excited. I've had a hard time this year waiting for it to be Christmas. On Halloween night, I stopped by Target on my way home for who knows what reason and ended up spend over two hours in there walking through their already set up aisles of Christmas decorations. I also bought a new Christmas CD that day. Because, you know, clearly 30 Christmas CDs are not even close to enough.

Yesterday was the slowest day ever in the history of time. I thought the day before The 40 Days of Christmas was never going to end. I was biting my lip waiting for the elevator after work, when a woman who work for the building came out of her office laden with three giant shopping bags. One of them was emitting a shimmery magical sound and my face lit up like a Christmas tree (har, har). "I hear jingle bells!" I announced. That's how excited I was - I deliberately started a conversation with a total stranger. She grinned at me sheepishly. I think she was expecting to get made fun of for running around with Christmas items in the middle of November. So I set her at ease and explained to her about The 40 Days of Christmas, and my nine Christmas trees and nativity collection and Santa collection and 30 Christmas CDs. She told me that the building was putting it's decorations up the day after Thanksgiving and that there would be musicians in our lobby every Thursday serenading us with Christmas tunes. "Oh my God, Christmas songs every Thursday? Carolers? Will there be carolers? CAN I SING WITH THEM?" I was practically screaming this. By now we were in the middle of a busy street walking to the trains.

"I don't know if there are carolers. You know like when we had the string quartets serenading us for a while? Like that. But if there are carolers, just go ahead and start singing with them if you want."

"I will so be singing with them! I want to go caroling! Maybe we can carol in the building, like go to people's offices. That would be so cool. Will you carol with me?" By now the girl who thought she was way ahead of everyone on Christmas joy could not get away from me fast enough. No one out Christmases me. No one.

I'm not sure how well The 40 Days are going to go on the homefront this year. The bartender's birthday is Christmas Eve, so his birthday has always been overshadowed by Christmas. Because of this he's not so much a fan of my Christmas cheer. Hopefully I can distract him with cookies and he won't kill me.

Guilty or Innocent, This Is In Poor Taste

O.J. to Discuss Killings in Book

Conspiracy?

The bartender finds it very suspicious that there was a business card for a tire shop down the street stuck in my windshield the day my tires were slashed.

Bunch of Savages In This Town

So I've recently found out that we are in the midst of National Blog Posting Month, or NaBloPoMo (I will not be calling it that because, dude. Come on.). I have, up til now, not participated in this, but I had a very good reason. I was busy. Busy dealing with the fallout of cockbreath assfaces who decided to do some vandalizin' last week.

I headed to my car on Wednesday morning, all ready to drive my lazy ass to the train station so I could go to work, only to find when I got to it that it seemed to be lacking something. Such as air in the tires. When last I'd left it, there had been a full supply of air in all the tires, so this seemed strange. It also went a long way to explaining the cop sitting in his car on the corner of my street, and the knocking on my door I had heard at 5:30 that morning, which I originally thought I dreamed, but was actually the cop. As it turns out, all four of my tires had been slashed, the driver's side had been horribly disfigured by someone's key, and six other cars suffered similar fates due to, I imagine, some damn kids "having fun".

AAA, bless them, came and took my car away on a flat bed truck so that I could be privileged to spend over $500 on some new ones, and later the insurance company took some pictures of the paint damage and estimated that that would cost something in excess of $1,100.

Operation Shrink the Fat Girl took a break for the day as I managed to consume 3 tacos, a small cheese sticks and small Hawaiian Punch from White Castle, a chocolate chocolate chip cookie and a small root beer courtesy of my friend Manny, a full slab of ribs, 4 slices of pizza, a coke, a small salad, two pieces of bread, an order of spaghetti and meatballs and three hard ciders all in the course of one afternoon.

Everyone except for the cop wanted to know who it was I had pissed off. I found this question curious. I don't have the kind of friends that I expect to slash my tires when I anger them. Who are these people hanging around with that this is their first thought?

At any rate that has been the focus of the last week, but I promise that from here on out there will be a blog post for each remaining day of National Blog Posting Month, even if it's crap.

Thanks, I Think

Parent Company Accountant: What's for lunch today?
Me: A glass of water.
PCA: That's it? Are you trying to starve yourself?
Me: Yes.
PCA: You know what you need? (holds up a McDonald's bag) A McRib!
Me: I haven't had a sandwich from McDonald's in 20 years.
PCA: Twenty years? Woah. Are you against trans-fats or something?
Me: I'm against foods that taste like my ass.
PCA: Haha. Hmm. Well your ass tastes pretty good at McRib time.

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!