Meat and More Meat

Today is the long awaited Steak and Blow Job Day. Treat your man to some filetio.



P.S. I am extremely pleased with myself for coming up with filetio. No one else I've checked with thinks this is even remotely funny.

Cookie Proofs

The agent: I don't know what I should have for dinner.
Me: Cookies! You should have Girl Scout Cookies!
The agent: Cookies are not dinner.
Me: Cookies are too dinner!
The agent: No.
Me: Listen. Tagalongs are made with peanut butter. And peanut butter comes from peanuts. Peanuts have tons of protein, just like meat. Therefore, Girl Scout cookies count as meat. Girl Scout cookies are dinner.
The agent: Girl Scout cookies do not count as meat.
Me: They do! Girl Scout cookies are meat!
The agent: Maybe Girl Scout cookies are made of soylent green, which would mean they are really made out of people.
Me: People are also filled with protein. So they would still count as meat.

The whole thing seemed perfectly obvious to me.

The Cookie Follies

It's that time of year again. The time that causes me much anxiety as well as the time that makes me both broke and fat. The little green demons are at it again. Yep, you guessed it: it's Girl Scout Cookie time.

It is clear to me that the Girl Scouts are secretly adding MSG or cocaine or some other highly addictive substance to their cookies, as evidenced by the fact that I can't stop eating them. Regular Bizzybiz readers will recall that I've encountered this problem before. When I mentioned my complete lack of self control in regards to Girl Scout cookies to MrSteve, he told me about a thing called drunkorexia, by which people (I'm assuming mostly the vagina kind) starve themselves in order that they can "afford" the calories in alcohol. He jokingly (I think) suggested I might adapt this unhealthy, malnourishing behavior to my Girl Scout cookie problem, ergo Cookierexia. I, of course, thought this was brilliant.

As it turned out I almost didn't have to. Last year, I discovered a website which listed the places and times Girl Scout cookies would be for sale in and around the city of Chicago. It's a great idea except for one small problem: Girl Scouts are apparently enormous fucking liars. On Saturday I wrote down four places near my home that the list claimed had my precious cookie treasure for sale and went to all of them to find ABSOLUTELY NO GIRL SCOUT COOKIES. I was heartbroken. The next day the agent and I tried again. I did find a little Scout sitting on the side walk outside of Trader Joe's, who told me the cookies she had available were: Trefoils and some shit lemony things (ok, she didn't say "shit lemony things" but honestly, ew). No Tagalongs, no Samoas, not even any Thin Mints. Just as I was about to throw myself off a cliff into the pit of despair, the agent found some Girl Scouts selling the appropriate cookies at a school near his office and I was saved.

My cookies will finally arrive tonight. I can't wait to get home and fix. I really and truly NEED the cookies now, as I'm pretty sure I'm now hypoglycemic from the cookierexia. It is obvious that they are now a nutritional necessity.

I Am Only Slightly More Hip Than MrSteve

Some strangers in Tai's are playing horrible horrible pop/dance music on the jukebox. MrSteve and I eye each other, dismayed.

MrSteve: I feel like I should break a move, but I'm not sure how it would go over.

Me: (confused) Do you mean...."bust a move?"

MrSteve: Oh yeah! That's it!

Poetry Corner

A little something I penned while writing a shopping list this morning, for which I am entirely too pleased with myself to justify:


Roses are red
Violets are blue
In Soviet Russia
Flower grows YOU!

You've Got Crap!

Either word has gone around that I am in dire need of some kind of existential help, or the grown ups in my life are deliberately trying to make me crazy.

There has recently been a spate of annoying e-mail forwards hitting my inbox from what are otherwise normal, intelligent adults in their 50s and 60s. You remember these - you used to get them about 10-15 years ago when e-mail was, you know, new. They contain things like "Hey look! I made you a picture of an angel out of ampersands! Aren't I clever? Don't you think everyone you know should have one too? If you send this to your entire address book, Ampersand Angel will send you blessings for the rest of your life! But if you delete it you will ROT IN ETERNAL HELLFIRE!" Some are more specific: "One time some anonymous, unverifiable person didn't forward this e-mail full of pictures of puppies dress up in snowsuits, and later that same day they were dismembered alive by a pack of homicidal gypsies. Don't let this happen to you."

Stop it. I mean it. Stopstopstopstopstop. I thought we had collectively outgrown this annoying habit. Even accounting for the possibility that maybe these people have just now discovered this cutting edge technology that is electronic mail there is still no excuse. These are GROWN PEOPLE, old enough to realize that failing to send out horribly stupid chain mail is not going to cause a catastrophic outcome somewhere else in your life. As far as the little angels that want to shower me with celestial blessings, I think this would be entirely negated by the principle of "Do Unto Others". If you wouldn't want your inbox cluttered with crap, it would behoove you to refrain from sending it to others. No soup blessings for you.

R.I.P. Todd Kawaguchi

Hey, dumbass. We miss you already. Tai's won't be the same without you.

Eleven Degrees Farenheit = ....

... not nearly enough degrees.

I can't feel my face.

Only One Month Until SBJ Day!

"Why are you here?" seemed to be the $64,000 question at Tai's on Thursday night. Because it was Valentine's Day, see, and I have a boyfriend this year. I attempted to justify myself to MrSteve. "You know how much energy it takes for you to spend four hours with me?" I asked. "[The agent] just spent four entire days with me in Florida. He could use the break."

This seemed to appease him (he agreed that four hours in my company is draining indeed) but the truth is that this has nothing to do with it. The real reason is that I hate Valentine's Day and I fail to see why having a boyfriend should affect my overall opinion. OK, hate may be a strong word. It's just that I can't bring myself to believe that there should be one magic day on which your love must be declared in embarrassingly florid terms lest you sign yourself up for Certain Doom. If I fail to show my love an overwhelming majority of the time, I doubt some dead plants and a cardboard box filled with heart-shaped confections will be the magic relationship fixing elixir. (Except for chocolate covered strawberries from Malley's in Cleveland. Those can fix anything.) I find it more satisfying to celebrate the St. Valentine's Day Massacre because a) that's how Valentine's Day tends to make the lonely single people feel and b) that really was a pretty badass piece of trickery.

Having said that, I did dye the rice pink when the agent came over for dinner on Friday night.

Two Girls, One Chat

me: i wish i was a muppet
H-town: doesn't that really just mean you want a hand in your ass?
me: *hangs head in shame* yes
H-town: Ah, now I know what that tingling is - it's the knowledge that this is going to be blogged
me: i said the same thing to MrSteve last week and he said "My dear, you ARE a muppet"
H-town: Really, I just like making "hand in the ass" references
me: who doesn't?
H-town: proctologists?
H-town: zing!
me: hand in the ass is a masterpiece of comedy
H-town: *rimshot*
H-town: hahaha, rimshot
H-town: I AM ON A ROLL
me: i am on a bagel
H-town: zing!
H-town: oh yeah, folks, we'll be here all week
me: try the veal

My Tonton Will Die Before I Reach the First Marker

"You're going to have a rough commute today," announced the bartender this morning. I blew this off and attempted to roll over and go back to sleep. (It turns out I couldn't move, because Kristen was sitting on top of me like a conquering explorer with a look on her face like she was going to yell "I claim this mountain for the United States!" and plant a flag in my hip.) It had snowed all night overnight and was still snowing. I wasn't concerned. After all, I take the train to work like a sane person so how bad could it be? It is this kind of thinking that causes one to fail at life.

In fact, it could be very bad. My four block walk to the train took me 20 minutes. This is because there was a foot of snow on the ground and it was too early for anyone to have shoveled. Also when I got to the train I was exhausted and sweating from the effort. I figure, who needs an exercise plan when you can just walk in feet of snow with a backpack? I reasoned that if I had to do this every day I'd be as skinny as Twiggy. Except for my thighs which would be more like Barbaro (pre glue factory).

I hate snow.

My Hair is Sometimes Misleading

Co-worker: So what's happening?
me: Very little. I lead a boring life.
Co-worker: Yeah right.
me: No, I'm serious! I don't do anything, ever.
Co-worker: Yeah, but you don't do it with flair.

It's Still 'Happy Birthday' To Me

So I have been 30 for nearly two weeks now. I am now officially too old to be trusted. I'm both old enough to know better and too old for this shit.

I was having trouble finding inspiration for my 30th birthday recap post. "You know why?" said my co-worker, BrownsFan. "It's because if you blog about it, then it must be over. You can't blog about it because you'd have to admit that it wasn't your birthday anymore. You can't write about it. You'll never be able to. You'll never blog again."

"Hmm. Well," I replied, "I'm certainly blogging that."

Amberance: Dead Sexy

MrSteve: Oh! Vampira died!
Me: Who?
MrSteve: Maila Nurmi.
Me: [blank stare]
MrSteve: Did you see 'Ed Wood'?
Me: No.
MrSteve: Oh. She was one of his favorite actresses. She played a vampire. A vampire with an outfit cut down the front to her waist.
Me: Well if I was a vampire, I'd wear an outfit cut down to my waist. Because, realistically, once you're the undead, who do you have to be modest for?

Wow, I AM a Huge Geek

The agent (attempting to quote from The Empire Strikes Back): No, that one goes here and this one goes there.
Me (accompanied by pointing in the appropriate directions): No no no, THIS one goes THERE, THAT one goes THERE.
The agent (shaking his head at me); Who am I to say?

Mr. Smith Steve Goes to Washington School

MrSteve finally made good on the threats he's been making for as long as I've known him and quit his job. So for a number of weeks now Melle, the bartender and I have been experiencing "No Rant Steve". Where once we could count on our Thursday nights being filled with vitriolic anti-Bush, anti-sports or anti-traffic discourses peppered with lists of reasons why everyone he works with should kindly perish, we are now subject to mock-ignorance of the daily grind ("Work? I don't understand this word you are using.") and cheerful recollections of his free time experiments ("I made my cat yawn!"). He's very happy now. It is oddly disconcerting.

This confusing change of disposition may or may not continue. MrSteve has decided to use his break from gainful employment to obtain a Masters degree. He's been very excited about this, whereas I've been very excited about the prospect of his being assigned homework. For some reason I'm quite amused by the whole going back to school thing.

Today MrSteve came downtown to have lunch with me before heading over to the library in hot scholarly pursuit. "Have fun at school," I quipped. "Do you have your backpack? Do you have your sack lunch? You don't want to miss your bus!" I started skipping in place, pretending to be Steve on the way to school with his lunch bag.

He glared at me. "I was bringing lunch in a bag and taking the bus before you were even BORN!" he retorted. This is 100% true.

"Wait a minute," I said. "Is that supposed to be insulting to...me?" I am, after all, about to turn 30 in five days.

He paused to think. "Damn it!"

It's good to have you back, MrSteve.

Update From Yesterday

While admiring an artists rendering of a court case with my co-worker just now, I announced "I want a drawing made of my head in court!"

Yeah.

I Wish I Had Something To Post

One of the many odd quirks of my personality is to wish or declare that I want things that are either completely ridiculous or downright impossible for me to have or be. This becomes more noticeable as one spends greater amounts of time around me. Such as the agent, poor thing. I am lucky in that he finds this amusing and keeps threatening to start a list of the Most Ridiculous Things I have ever wished for. Some recent examples:

• I wished I had an Oompa Loompa.
• I wished I was an Oompa Loompa.
• I wished I had a beard.
• I wished I was a cartoon.
• I want to play the calliope.
• I want a tiny light saber to use for carving roasts.

I should probably add to this list that I want to be taken seriously.
In other MUCH more important news, I will be turning 30 on Saturday with much fanfare and abundant celebration. I expect you all to wear your virtual party hats.

2007 In Review

I have resolved to make no New Years resolutions for 2008. So therefore, if I accomplish anything this year, it would actually make me a failure. And who wants to be a failure, right? Exactly.



I did, however, accomplish quite a bit this year. To recap:

• I learned how to make a french silk pie from scratch. Prior to this, I though french silk pie was a proprietary pie of Baker's Square and that the recipe was a closely guarded secret, like the formula for Coke, or the inner workings of the Daley administration. It's not though. Plus mine is better.
• I moved. Into an apartment with its very own jacuzzi tub, which is great, a crazy drunken next door neighbor, which is not great, and across the street from a candy store, which can only be described as dangerous.
• I read 48 books. This is a mere two more books than Heather read, as she nearly caught me at the end. Among my favorites: a re-read of The Count of Monte Cristo, The Kite Runner (trendy novel readers of the world, unite!), Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, and The Great Gatsby, which I somehow managed to miss reading in high school. Heather has invited me to "taunt her a second time", so let Reading Challenge 2008 begin! I am about to begin book #2.
• I got myself a boyfriend. The agent is responsible for such things as finding my apartment, pointing out that I am a HUGE geek after I recited Star Wars: A New Hope for him in its entirety, 10 extra pounds, my first visit to New Mexico, learning how to meditate, trips to go get pie halfway across town at 11:30 at night (he will tell you I am actually the one responsible for this. Many of the truths we cling to depend greatly on our own point of view.), my addictions to The Office and Flight of the Conchords, a great deal of singing in harmony, much childish giggling and a general sense of happiness and well being. Why didn't I think of this before?
• The Browns finished the season 10-6, and beat the Ravens twice. While this probably doesn't count as a personal accomplishment of mine, I did relearn how wonderful it feels to root for a football team that is actually adept at, you know, playing football.
• I hosted my first Thanksgiving. This involved another accomplishment of mine which is roasting my first turkey. The event got rave reviews. My inner Martha Stewart stills glows with pride.

I plan to have many weird adventures to blog about in 2008. Stay tuned.

What Happens in Vegas Gets Blogged on the Internets

I've just come back from Las Vegas and I have to say, I am more than a little bit shell shocked. Now, I've been to Vegas before, a number of times actually, and other than the propensity for middle-aged women to don velour pant suits for the duration of their trip (Seriously, what is the deal with this?) I have a pretty good understanding of the place. This ain't my first rodeo. But I saw more strange things in one day than most people see in a year. Snow notwithstanding, I was relieved to come home.

The purpose of the trip was to see Social Distortion and Mitch Fatel. Mitch Fatel didn't happen due to his not showing up, but despite the illness of Mike Mess, Social D performed at the House of Blues as scheduled. Let me just say that HOB Vegas is lame. The bartender and I were forced to surrender our studded belts because they weren't allowed. I am not certain what damage security thought we were planning to cause, but I can assure you, our only goal with them was to hold up our pants. I found it interesting that we couldn't wear our belts inside, but that a kid with a broken leg on crutches was allowed, not just into the show, but into the pit. Sure enough, we later saw him being carried out by security screaming in agony because he'd gotten hurt in the pit. After paying $7 each (!) for a freakin' Coors Light, we got into a conversation with a couple of girls (who were wearing the same kind of studded belts that we were told to check). It was during this conversation that a kid came stumbling by us in a gigantic parka. He was obviously impaired as evidenced by his erratic gait, but as he passed on his way to the pit we were left in no doubt. We all watched in horror as Parka barfed into his beer cup....and then drank from it.

This was merely the icing (or vomit I guess) on the cake for the day. We happened to arrive on the day of the Las Vegas Marathon. As such there were myriads of people wandering around with what appeared to be giant pieces of aluminum foil. I am sure there is a perfectly reasonable explanation for this, like that it reflects the sun away from you keeping you cool, or possibly gives you super powers. But anywhore, as the bartender and I sat in traffic with our guide after a lovely lunch at Fatburger, we saw a bum laying underneath one of the giant foil thingies in the middle of the sidewalk. At first glance he appeared to be sleeping. On closer inspection, however, there seemed to be some movement occurring underneath his shiny blanket. I also noticed that his left hand seemed to be jammed pretty far down his pants. A gust of wind blew the blanket up and that's when we all simultaneously realized that the guy was masturbating right there on the sidewalk. From the backseat, I was the only one who had a clear shot of his head, and let me say he was sporting quite the impressive "O" face. The bartender immediately began calling everyone he knew. For my part I fired off a text message: "Ah Las Vegas...where you can watch a bum jerk off right in the middle of the street. Which I just did." I finished just as he did, I assume based on him extracting his hand from his pants and rolling over on his side for a nice post-monkey spankin nap.

Later in the trip I drank some ass juice at Double Down and bought a Christmas CD there featuring songs like "Santa Was a Cross Dressing Nazi", "Imo Shoot Me a Reindeer" and "Santa Blow Me".

But the masturbating bum...yeah. Just....yeah.