Tag Teamed

Today I had one of those exhausting phone calls with the Triple Threat. The Triple Threat is a group of people I used to work with at the Big O, right before I left to go work at the number factory. In case you didn't pick up on it, there are three of them.

Norris is a character we've seen on Bizzybiz before, as he is the individual responsible for setting me up with 1153. He likes to fish and drink beer. He doesn't really like people a whole lot, and got married at Lake Tahoe specifically to prevent most of his family and acquaintances from attending. His wife is lovely, though when asked he will tell you she is fat and doesn't speak English, and that he only married her so she could stay in the country. Norris adds he likes to have a good time at any time (unlike me).

Morgan and Minnick are new to the blog. Morgan is one of my closest girlfriends. She is a big fan of discount stores (specifically Marc's for you Cleveland readers), beer, weird festivals, volunteering, Halloween, and anything that can in any way be construed as a "deal". She is not a big fan of rude sales clerks or of her husband. She is also good at letting her mouth lead her brain, such as the time during a product design brainstorming meeting with several big company execs when she announced one way to connect two pipes together would be to have a ring attached to one that could be rolled down over the other, "you know, like a condom."

Minnick is an engineer turned some kind of marketing/sales guru. Minnick has a tendency to come off as somewhat of a caustic prick from time to time (the views and opinions expressed in this sentence are gleaned from conversations with other people and do not necessarily reflect those of the Bizzybiz Blog or it's author). This has led to at least one instance of using the phrase "There's a fine line between confidence and cockiness" in a performance review when describing himself.

The Triple Threat works their magic by ganging up on people. They make phone calls in tandem, and they all talk at once, bombarding you with reasons why they are right and you are wrong in an attempt to confuse you. Much of the time their argument is completely ridiculous and they know it, which is somewhat the point: to see how outlandish of a thing they can get you to go along with. Today's call involved a group vacation.

"Pack your bags, we'll pick you up at the airport in Norfolk."

"Oh God. What are you guys talking about now?"

"Our vacation. Next weekend. Kill Devil Hills in the Outer Banks."

"Right. Because I can afford that."

"No listen. Your lodging and meals are paid for. You just have to pick up the airfare."

"With what? I'm broke, I can't afford it."

"Wait, don't you have a job? Are you still working part time?"

"I was never working part time. I've been full time since I started."

"Oh so you're fine then. Great we'll pick you up in Norfolk Thursday night."

"You guys, seriously, I can't afford it."

"Ok, fine. We'll split it then. We'll pick up your airfare, and then we'll meet you in Norfolk and pick you up. We're getting this sweet minivan, we'll be drinking."

"You know I'm going to Cleveland next weekend right? With Fish? To make pies with my dad?"

"Your dad is making pies with Fish?"

"No, I am making pies with my dad. Fish is coming home with me."

"Well, they can go too. They have to buy their own plane tickets though, we're only buying yours."

"You guys. Seriously. I can't go."

"Are you engaged?"

"What? No."

"Pregnant? Are you pregnant? Because you need to get that abortion in before the new court takes over you know."

"I'm not pregnant."

"Well then you can fly. So we'll see you there. It's going to be sweet, we'll party..."

"Listen. I can't go. I'm going to Cleveland. Actually I'm kind of mad, I wanted to have lunch with you guys. I was going to come to the O."

"We won't be there. We'll be in North Carolina."

"Yes, I KNOW that. And I'll be in Cleveland, making pies with my dad."

"OK, here's what we'll do. We're actually saving you money." (that was Morgan talking, she'd found one of her "deals".) "Wednesday night, we'll fly you to Cleveland. It's $29. You'll be leaving from Midway. Wednesday night you'll make pies with your dad, and Thursday morning we'll get in the van and drive down. Stay the weekend. Then you can choose what day you want to go back. We'll get you a ticket direct from Norfolk to Chicago for any day you want."

"Great. Can you make it so I only miss one day of work? Because that's all I can miss."

"Um, no. You have to miss at least 2 and a half days."

"Well then I can't do it."

"Amber! You are turning down a free vacation!"

"With regret, yes."

"When you're 88, you're going to look back on this and say 'That was a huge mistake. I should have gone on vacation way back then'. And you're going to be miserable."

"Norris, I am never going to be 88 years old, and even if I was, by that time I'd have so many regrets this wouldn't even be a blip on the screen."

"If you don't live to be 88 you won't have as many regrets so when you are this might be the only thing. Think about that." (See what I mean? That doesn't even make sense.)

"I can't take that much time off in October. It doesn't work that way. If you were going in November, or even December..."

"Amber, this is Mike talking now. Listen, there is this thing called 'weather'. And the weather makes it cold in November and December. So we are going now."

"Well, I can't go."

"Amber, if you don't go we're going to boycott you. Forever. I can't believe you are doing this. You are ruining the whole plan."

"Yes, Norris, and someday when you're 88 you'll look back and say 'What a bitch Amber is, she ruined all my vacations for the whole rest of my life'."

"I'm already saying that."

"Listen, I will go in the winter. I will go in the spring. But I already have plans and I can't take that kind of time off work anyway."

"OK, so we'll book your flight then and e-mail you the itinerary."

The above example is maybe a quarter of the total conversation, which as I write this, has spilled over into an e-mail conversation during which Norris has sent me the link to the condo website three separate times, Minnick pointed out that they'd be eating at some specific restaurant I've never heard of, and Morgan wanted to know how I have time to blog at work, but can't take off for vacation. (She has a point. I'm going back to work right now.)

I like these people, but they exhaust me.

I'll Have a Golf Trip, but Hold the Golf

Ah, the Tai's crowd. Ah, Galena. Ah, the Tai's crowd drunk in Galena.

A good time was had by all, witnesseth my notes:

My two closest buddies on the trip, the bartender and Chris G., were golfing together and therefore sharing a cart, and my drunk cart driving buddy from the last trip didn't make it to this one, so instead I ended up a passenger in the "shot cart" with BigRon. The shot cart, of course, is the cart loaded with Jagermeister and Ketel One and a case of Red Bull that you drive around the course offering shots to people and getting them very drunk (this is not to be confused with the "beer bong cart", which drives around the golf course with a whole lot of beer and a beer bong offering beer to people and getting them very drunk). One thing I've noticed about being in the shot cart is that everyone you come across has an expectation that you, also, will be doing a shot. This got to be tricky as I had been left in charge of making sure Chris G. made it back to the hotel safely since he was planning to drink heavily (helped along by his good pal in the shot cart of course). I ended up talking BigRon into splitting most of the shots with me. And by "splitting" I mean I breathed the fumes first, and then he drank the shot.

The other adventure BigRon and I encountered was the Sisterhood of the Traveling Contact Lens. Another of our drive-around-in-cart-not-golfing friends had something in her eye and took out her contact lens while we were out on the course. The wind was angry that day my friends. So angry that it blew her contact lens right off the tip of her finger. So the three of us all got into the "someone lost a contact" pose: hunched over, peering at the ground, trying not to move your feet lest you step on it. And somehow, BigRon actually found it laying in the grass. Don't ask me how he saw that, because I don't know. But it prompted C and me to shout "Ron is GOOD!" to everyone who passed by for the next 10 minutes. Until...

C had her contact lens in her mouth to keep it wet until we could get back to the clubhouse and she could have another go at putting it back in her eye. BigRon wasn't really ready to go to the clubhouse yet though, so he came up with the idea that he and I stand up and form a wind blocking wall while C sat in front of us and put her contact in. Did I mention the fury of the wind that day? The wind was pissed, and to punish us for our audacity, it blew C's contact out of her hands again. And this time, even BigRon's eagle eye couldn't recover it. Prompting C and I to modify our battle cry: "Ron is GOOD! But only the first time."

Other hilarity ensued later. Such as the two-year-old son of another tripster. He was sitting at the bar in the clubhouse and the bartender went over to talk to him. "Hey wee-man! Whatcha drinking, orange juice?" The kid pointed to his drink and shouted "SCREWDRIVER!" His dad insists that screwdriver is his favorite tool. Yeah.

Also, while I did get Chris G. back to the hotel safely the first time, we still ended up losing him later. He had gone to the boat to gamble with many of the others while a few of us stayed at the hotel eating and drinking and a few others hit the strip club. I couldn't go, I was babysitting the babydrunk. People were returning from the boat in small groups all night long...everyone except Chris G. No one knew his whereabouts. "did you see Chris when you left?" we asked, oh, everyone. "No," they told us, or "He was still at a table last time I saw him." Around 3:30 a.m. Chris strolled out onto the patio.

"How did you get here Chris?"

"Oh, I got a ride."

"From who? Everyone else came back hours ago!"

"Yeah, I know. The pit boss drove me home." No joke, the PIT BOSS drove him home.

I also collected a whole catalog of bartenderisms, including but not limited to:

"I mean, that guy's sex life even bothers me!"

"Vodka at 4 a.m. is a bad idea. Why didn't you stop me?"

"I am so tired. I must have yawned 70 times today. Well, maybe not 70, but at least 38."

There were more, I just didn't have any paper to write them all down.

*UPDATE*

I forgot this part until I was at the bar last night. I headed back to the room around 4 a.m. The bartender showed up around 5 and went to bed. Right about 7:30 I woke up to some kind of crinkling, crunching sound. "What the hell are you doing?" I mumbled to the bartender, who was standing with his back to me next to the sink (i.e. not in his bed).

"I'm having a sausage sandwich and some chips! You want anything?"

"What? No. Dude? It's like 7:30 in the morning."

He turned around and grinned at me, popped the rest of his sandwich in his mouth, got back in bed and fell right back to sleep as if it had never happened.
Can't wait for the next trip.

The Klutz Reprise

No new bruises to report, only some dry, crusted hot chocolate that I somehow managed to splash on my sweater and in my hair this morning.

BruisyBruise

Here's the thing: I'm kind of a klutz. OK, maybe not kind of; I am a klutz.

Once, when I still worked at the number factory, I was walking down the hallway toward my office with Mary and our VP of Operations following in my wake. Now I had walked down this hallway many hundreds of times in my day; after all, my office lived there. So walking down that particular hallway should have been pretty routine. But alas, nothing is routine if it involves both me and any kind of motor skills or coordination. So when I got to the bend in the hallway (which had ALWAYS been there), I managed to completely miss the yards of open space to my immediate right and plant my face square into the wall. Mary, the world’s most patient best friend, is accustomed to seeing these types of walking fuck ups from me, but Operations didn't spend nearly as much time observing my inability to navigate minor obstacles, and was surprised.

"Did she just run right into the wall?" Operations asked of Patient Mary.

"Yup." Mary checked her wristwatch. "She's about due."

These close encounters with inanimate objects happen far more frequently than even I can imagine. So frequently, in fact, that I very rarely remember them at all. How do I know that these events occur if I can't remember them? Well, by the evidence they leave behind, of course. Because I am always covered in bruises. Always. I always tease whoever I'm currently dating and/or pseudo-dating that people are going to think they beat me because of the purple welts perpetually visible all over my body. (Fish doesn’t beat me by the way. And I don’t beat him either. He fell.)

The current leader of the pack is a quarter sized contusion on the back of my right leg, just above the knee. It is so purple that it’s black, and it’s actually raised like some kind of relief map. Also, it throbs whenever I so much as change my pants. Obviously I backed into something with some serious force. You’d think I’d be able to remember a mishap that would cause that level of damage. But you’d be wrong. A total blank as to how it got there. I only noticed it because I ran a washcloth over it in the shower kind of roughly and was rewarded with a startling pain that almost made me fall forward and achieve a matching bruise in the middle of my forehead.

I love the advice I get from people when I show off my latest transient body art. “Eat more bananas,” people will tell me. “They have potassium.” Or “You need to start taking iron supplements.” Funny how no one ever suggests, “Maybe you should start paying more attention” or “Quit walking into things, you dumb ass.” Because really, giving my body the nutrients it needs to fight the bruising is treating the symptom rather than the problem, isn’t it?

Bartenderism: Coaching Philosophy

While watching college football last night at the bar:

"I hate conservative coaches! If I were coaching, I'd be out there running down the sideline with scissors. That's how it's done."

The Right Way and the Wrong Way to Talk Smack

One of the more juvenile things that I love to do is to get in flame wars over the internet. Yes, I realize that this is very 7th grade of me but I DO NOT CARE. Because I think it's fun, and besides, I don't want to grow up, I'm a Toy'R'Us kid.

If you're going to talk smack on the internet, though (or really anywhere for that matter), there are some things you can do to avoid looking like a complete ass (or at least, slightly less of an ass than you already look like for engaging in this kind of behavior in the first place):

1. Attack the post, not the poster. Being outright mean to people just isn't nice. Also, responses like "Oh yeah? Well, you're ugly!" make you look really fucking stupid. (Thanks to Fish for articulating this point much more eloquently 3 months ago)

2. Be able to back up what you say. This doesn't mean be willing to punch someone in the face if they don't agree with you. It means that you need to have a solid argument before you start. For example, if you say "My cat is HUGE compared to yours" I shouldn't find that your cat is a quarter inch longer than mine when I measure them.

In case you are still unclear of the rules, I offer this example from MySpace bulletins posted today. The first, our "wrong way" example, is from Vicodin Jim, who fancies himself some sort of baseball fan:

Yeah!
My Friars took the NL West Division title.
What about the Cubs? Oh yeah. The Cubs suck. The Cubs suck a lot.
Padres baby, eat it Cubs fans.

While this is all true (the Padres DID win the NL West and the Cubs DO (sadly) suck), it implies in it's comparison that the Padres are a far better ballclub than the Cubs. As you will see from my well researched "right way" post, this implication is somewhat misleading:

Hmm, DO the Cubs suck?

Honestly, yes. Yes they do. They suck exactly two games more than the Padres suck.

As of this writing, the Cubs 4th place record is 77-81, while the Padres division clinching record is 79-79. It's not the Cubs fault that they don't play in the hands down worst division in all of baseball.

Speaking of a 79-79 record, when I do the math on that I come up with a division winner that is only a .500 ballclub. Wow, congratulations. That means all they have to do is win ALL FOUR of their remaining games in order to NOT earn the record for fewest wins for a division champion, set by the New York Mets way back in 1973.

Oh and what's this? Oh, they'll be playing the Cardinals in the first round of the playoffs? The St. Louis Cardinals with the best record in baseball, currently three games shy of having a 100 win season? Wow, I bet they're worried. *shiver*

That, my friends, is how it's done. Now if you'll excuse me, the bell is about to ring and I need to go to my locker and get my backpack.

Introducing Fred

Friends, there is someone I'd like you all to meet. Everyone say hi to Fred.

Did I mention that Fish is the bestest guy EVER? He showed up at my house last night with Ghostbusters II, Stripes, pizza money and Fred. Because he rules like that.

First of all can I say Apple's packaging rocks hard core? Because it does. That photo on the front of the box is life size. I know because Fred is sitting directly on top of the picture on his box now. Also I got iPod and iTunes software, a USB cable, ear buds, two sets of ear bud covers, instructions, warranty information, apple stickers and a little dock adapter for a regular dock (sold separately). Fred himself was wrapped in a plastic wrapper that advised me not to steal music. Oh and that Fish guy? Had Fred engraved for me: 'To My Ish: Let The Pending Cease"*. Aww.

When we unwrapped him, we found that Fred was powerful hungry, so we fed him a bunch of songs. Fish, being that he's one of "those", runs around town with an iBook (which I have nicknamed "The Breather" because of that LED light that dims and brightens rhythmically and freaks me right the fuck out), so when we plugged Fred into it, the Breather automatically formatted Fred for Mac. This was ok until I plugged him in at work today and he was wiped clean and reformatted for Windows. I'll be able to put the songs back next time I see Fish, but in the short term, it means I don't get to rock the N.E.R.D. or Jay-Z/Linkin Park remixes on my way home tonight. It also means I have to be careful about how much I play him this weekend on Golf Trip 2 since I won't have a USB port to plug him into for go juice.

I love Fred.

*Yes, we do realize that this makes no sense. We know this girl who is dumb, but thinks she's smart. She tries to prove this by using words that are just slightly too big for her. Such as pending. She grasps that it means you are waiting for something, but not what kind of waiting. So when she asked her ex if they could get back together and he didn't answer right away, she ended up sending him a message telling him she needed an answer which read "I can't take the pending". It's hilarious because she talks/writes like that all the time. Fish calls it "Faux Eloquence". I call it priceless. Stay tuned for more faux eloquence as it occurs.

My Friends Are Nerds

I have a ring with my birthstone in it. It was a gift from my cousin. It's my favorite ring. I wore it this weekend.

Laying in bed last night, I realized it was not on my finger. I called Fish.

Me: "Hey Fish? Can you look around your house and see if I left my garnet ring there?"

Fish: "You think you left your garnet ring here?"

Me: "Yes."

Fish: "A garnet ring from Final Fantasy 9?!?"

*Sigh*

A Monday Poem

Annoyed
My boss
Drives me crazy
Comes to my desk
Looks around and says “excellent”
Then just walks away
What the fuck?
I’m confused
Asshat

Weekend Football Wrap Up

Buckeyes 31 - Iowa 6

The Buckeye defense continues to impress me, sacking Drew Tate 5 times, and shutting down the run entirely (Iowa had 18 rushes for -9 yards).

Troy Smith completed 13 of 19 passes and didn't get intercepted at all. He had a little trouble holding onto the ball a couple of times, but overall I think he's looking better.

Wisconsin 23 - Michigan 14

Michigan losing is always a happy day for me. Michigan losing their Big Ten opener is even better. But most importantly, Michigan dropping from 14 all the way out of the rankings (for the first time since 1998) has me bouncing around the office doing a "Fuck yeah! In your face!" happy dance, complete with "rock on" fingers, exposed tongue and variations on the chicken dance.

Colts 13 - Browns 6

You'd think I'd be upset by the Browns loss, but you'd be wrong. The Browns were getting 13.5 in this game, and managed to only lose by 7. Since I had money on them, I consider this a victory. Go Browns.

Bengals 24 - Bears 7

Kyle Orton may be "The Answer", but with 5 interceptions on Sunday, I'm not entirely sure I understand the question.

In other news, what's up with the Bengals? I knew they were supposed to be better this year, but 3-0 and first place in the division? I simply was not prepared. And I know I shouldn't be rooting for them being that they're in the same division as my Browns, but really, if the Browns can't win it (and I assure you, they can't) I'd rather have it be my Ohio brethren than the Steelers or those fuck-sticks the Ravens (in last place right now by the way. Boo-yah.)

Amber's Monday Football Mood Is: GOOD

You Can Dress Me Up But You Can't Take Me Out

I believe I've mentioned before my debilitating fear of any stranger who asks me a question. Especially if it is their job. Wanna freak me out? Walk up to me in a store and say, "Can I help you?" as if you work there.

Alternatively, you can just be my waitress. Saturday evening, while waiting for the Glorious Fish Man to come home from a LAN party, Thugglife Chris and I decided to take in some Italian food. Out. At a restaurant. A restaurant I've only been to once before, which means I'm still somewhat ignorant of the ordering procedure. Being ignorant of the ordering procedure has the effect of making me nervous, public nervousness tends to cause me to act silly, and acting silly in a nice restaurant frequently causes me to look like an ASS. It is not helpful that Chris can't decide what to eat, and is asking me what different things are on the menu (since I obviously will know, being Italian and all) while I'm trying to construct a complete sentence around what I want to order.

"What's Gnocchi?"

"Huh? Gnocchi? Um, I don't know. I think it has cheese on it."

We manage to order some Cokes without incident, and Chris asks for more time to decide what he wants, causing me to sweat profusely at the thought of our waitress actually coming BACK to the table to talk to me AGAIN. When she does come back, Chris is still not ready and starts asking her about the chicken special.

"It's two pieces of chicken breast, lightly breaded and served with a white wine, lemon sauce and a side of pasta."

Nervous Amber, impatient to get the ordering ordeal over with, puts her hand to her mouth conspiratorially and whispers to Chris, "That sounds good!" - at full whispering volume.

The waitress thinks this is funny, and also whispers to Chris, "It is!" Great, now she's laughing at me.

So Chris orders the chicken and now it's my turn. "I'llhavethecheesestuffedraviolibecausethat'swhatIwant," I blurt. "and can I get a salad with that?"

"Yes, well, all of our entrees come with a salad." See what happens when you don't know the procedure? I'm mortified by not knowing about the "comes with a salad" rule. So my mouth starts running again.

"Really? It comes with a salad? Wow, that's AWESOME! It's like you guys knew I was coming!"

"Um. OK. And I'll bring you guys two more cokes." Because, you see, Chris drinks really fast, and I sucked mine down in one gulp trying to cure my cotton mouth. By the time she brings the (free with entree!) salads, I've sucked the second one down too.

"Wow. I should have just brought you guys a carafe. In fact, I think I will bring you guys a carafe."

"Heh heh, you said carafe." The waitress looked at me like I had three heads and walked away. Chris burst into hysterical laughter.

"Oh my God! What the fuck was that?"

"Listen. I told you. I'm scared of her. She makes me nervous. I just...I can't talk to strange people. It freaks me out."

"Right. So retail is probably not for you then, huh?"

In the meantime, we had eaten all the bread. Our waitress notices this when she shows up with our carafe. "Would you like some more bread?"

Chris, a veteran of restaurant ordering, answered with a simple but effective "No." I, on the other hand, in a frenzied panic (DO I want more bread? It's hard to say. How do I know? What if I don't want bread right now but I'm hungry for it later? What do I do?) manage to articulately spout, "Uuuhhh. Uuummm. Nnnnoo? No. I'm pretty sure I don't require any more bread."

The waitress smiled at Chris and made fun of me like I wasn't even there. " 'I don't require'...I like the way she talks." Great.

Most of the rest of dinner passed without incident, until I discovered that of my six GIANT raviolis, I was only able to consume three. But they were good and I wanted the rest for later. This however, would involve my having to ask for a box, not a small feat.

Her Scariness came over to check on us. "How was everything? Can I wrap that up for you?"

My brain: Yes. Say yes. Or even yes please. Just answer the question and shut up. She already thinks you're a moron.

My mouth: "That would be great, you see, because I want these little guys to come home with me and I want them to be my friends!"

Yeah. People, it is obvious there is no hope for me.

Weekend Visitation

I finally got to see my little one this weekend. I was really nervous about it, so Fish went along with me for support. Thank heaven he was there too; at first I couldn't find anything to say and Fish had to hold up the whole conversation for a while.

It was everything I could have hoped for. Finally getting to spend time with my little one, getting to hold him, listen to him, look on his beautiful face...it was a dream come true.

It got me thinking about the possibility of bringing him home with me to live. I talked to Fish about it and he says he's willing to help me do whatever it takes to get my little one and me together at last. I am so excited I can hardly contain myself. I may even have him in my custody by Christmas!

Bartenderism: Fatter Than You

One thing that I love about people who have been drinking is their accidental honesty, which is when they tell you things about you they would never say to your face under the influence of sobriety.

Such as a couple of nights ago when the bartender rang me about his latest evening out. He had apparently been in a conversation with a girl who turned out later to be a hooker (well, I mean, she was a hooker the whole time I guess, he just didn't know she was a hooker when he started talking to her. Not that he doesn't talk to hookers all the time: he frequently comes home from Vegas with a whole variety pack of "So this hooker comes up to me and says..." stories. But I am rambling now and none of this is really the point. Carrying on:) He's having a conversation with this girl and her rarefied employment is brought up, whereupon he mentions that in Vegas he has conversed with many a hooker because they seem to enjoy talking with him. And her response is that no, they don't really want to talk to him, they are working. And he argues that in fact they specifically pointed out in the conversations that they were indeed not working and just looking for someone to talk to. And again she tells him that this is incorrect since all working girls are always working.

At which point, the bartender abruptly gets up and walks away from her, answering her cry of "Hey, where are you going?" with "You just said working girls are always working, and since you are one, and I would never pay you for sex because I don't find you at all attractive, I'm going to go talk to someone who actually wants to have a conversation with me."

When he got home he relayed this story to me in his deadly serious but always hilarious "I'm so insulted" voice.

"She wasn't even attractive, like at all. She was one of your ugly redheads* and she was fat. Well, not like Orca or anything, just, you know, big. And she was talking about how good she is a blow jobs, and you know how I am, I REALLY like blow jobs. But not from her. And definitely not if I have to PAY her."

"Mmm hmm. So 'not Orca'? I really don't know what that means exactly."

"It means she's fat but not super-fat, you know?"

"No. Like chunky? I don't know what you mean. Can I get a height to weight ratio?"

"She's 5'8". And probably, I would say, like 150 to 165."

At this point I perk up because, at risk of losing my audience who may be picturing me as a rail-thin demi-goddess, in real life I am 5'7" and 145 pounds. Which is not materially smaller than the redheaded prostitute he has just described. And while I find flaws all over my body and wish I could magically drop 10 pounds (and by magically I mean without exercising or changing any of my eating habits), I would hardly describe myself as fat. Also, being that I'm a girl, which we've previously established makes me crazy by nature, I in my infinite insanity decide to use this opening (and his ever so slight intoxication) to get him to admit that he thinks I'm fat. Just so I can wallow in it. Because it's what we do. And so I say, "So she's my size."

Bingo.

"Um, no, she's not really your size. Like for instance, her legs are fatter than yours. And her waist? It has rolls all the time, when she's sitting and standing. Not just when she's sitting. And her ass is the kind of ass that has no real, you know, form to it. Not like it's big but still has a shape. It has no shape. So I wouldn't say she's your size. She's a little bigger than you."

Right. Her legs are fatter than mine? Fatter than mine? And she has rolls all the time, not just when she's sitting. Presumably, as opposed to me, who only has rolls when I'm sitting? What's great is that the trap worked so perfectly I couldn't even get mad. Really, that was way too easy. Anyway, since I was so pleased with the success of my ruse, I decided not to do the typical girl thing and get all indignant on him, but to save the "are you calling me fat?" card to play during a later hand.

Man, I love alcohol.

*He was referencing the Amberance Redhead Theory: that there is no such thing as an average redhead. This is based on 27 years of observation, from which I have concluded that all redheads fall into one of two categories, drop dead gorgeous, or butt fucking ugly. If you are redhead and someone has said you are "ok" looking, it's a lie. They are either trying to protect your feelings, or trying to play it off that they don't want to tear your clothes off and make sweet sweet love to you for 6 days.

In Case You Live Under A Rock

NFL football regular season opens tonight. Patriots versus the Raiders. 9 pm Eastern on ABC.

I think I might be having an orgasm right now.

Congratulations Simone and Russell!

The Bizzybiz Wedding Awards
brought to you by: The Runaway Bride (with apologies to those of you who don't know any of these people)
Most Adorable Couple: Simone and Russell
runner up: Simone's Grandparents, Syd and Dolly
Best Wedding Feature: Simone and Russell, hiring a live band instead of a dj.

Best Speech: Kelly, sister of the bride, for saying "Simone's birthday" instead of "Simone's wedding"

Best Sense of Humor: The Midpark Alumni for interrupting the rest of Kelly's speech by singing "Happy Birthday"
runner up: Brandon, after the reception ended, for shouting "To the bar!"

Best Kept Secret: Simone, for successfully pulling off fake hair

Best Wedding Dress: Simone, as the bride

Furthest Distance Traveled to Attend: Simone's family, "The Brits", St. Albans, Hertfordshire, United Kingdom
runner up: Kelly, Los Angeles California

Most Successful at Making Amber Cry: Simone, for thanking her "American family", by name, during her speech
runner up: rum and coke
Most Hoity-Toity Feature: Small dish of raspberry sorbet, served in between the salad and the main course, to "cleanse the palette"

Most Frequently Mistaken for the Groom: Eric, Russell's identical twin brother
runner up: Sisler
Best Use of the Union Jack at an American Wedding: The Brits, for busting in during "We Are Family" wearing Union Jack plastic hats

Best Performance of an Irish Drinking Song: Brandon, for "We drink and drink and drink and drink and drink and drink and FIGHT!"

Most Asinine Display: The Midpark Alumni, for drunkenly singing the Alma Mater and the fight song while hugging each other and swaying back and forth on the dance floor

Best Accidental Flashing: Amber, for her boobs popping out of her strapless dress no less than three times while swing dancing with Doug to "Jump, Jive and Wail" *

Worst Job of Denying Having Hooked Up: Vinny, for "Diana had an extra bed..."

Best Wedding Ever: Simone and Russell.

Congratulations guys!

* I'd like to thank God, my family, the GAP, my partner Doug for swinging me around like a ragdoll and making this all possible, and the fans. Without you guys I could never embarrass myself this frequently.

Morning Bartenderism

A 7:00 am telephone conversation I had with my favorite pint puller yesterday:

Bartender: "So I was out the other night with this friend of mine who's in from out of town, and she has this other friend that went out with us who has a tattoo on her pussy. Not right above it, but actually on it. She pulled her skirt up right in the bar and showed it to me."

Me: "Really? Ouch! What was it a tattoo of?"

Bartender: "How the fuck should I know? I was just looking at her pussy."

Hide Your Vegetables. Thugglife's In Town.

As I mentioned earlier, I'm out at the Douche Dorm this weekend, and I have the plague. It reached it's worst point yesterday evening while Fish, Thugglife and I were watching American History X. So when it was decided that the group would go out to dinner at Buffalo Wild Wings, I declined to attend. I wasn't terribly hungry, what with the plague and all, and I didn't want to face the prospect of having to sit up in a chair for an extended period of time. Instead it was decided that I would take a nap on the couch while JoE, Fish, Chester and Thugglife went to dinner, and that they would bring me back an order of celery and ranch.

So I napped fitfully for a while and awaited their return. In the course of this I suddenly discovered I was ravenously hungry. It came out of nowhere - I wasn't hungry at all, and then in the next moment I could have devoured an entire horse. So I was happy when Klug came home and told me the boys were on their way back, which meant that so was my celery. Or so I thought.

The guys trooped into the house. The moods of these gentlemen were a bizarre mix: Fish had a look of barely restrained fury, Thugglife was moping along sheepishly, Chester seemed nervous, and JoE was on the verge of cracking up laughing. I knew immediately that something was up. Fish sat down beside me on the couch. "Where's my celery?" I asked.

"Ask Chris," says Fish, at the same time as Chester says "There isn't any." Chris looked at his feet and JoE snickered.

I tried again. "Where's my celery? I'm starving," I addressed to Fish a second time.

"I told you to ask Chris," he spat. Chris had retired to the porch for a cigarette by now but JoE and Chester were in the kitchen attempting to restrain laughter. "Yeah, it's real funny for you guys, but I'm going to be the one getting guilt-tripped all night because there isn't any celery."

"You guys forgot my celery?"

"No. Almost. We remembered at the last minute and JoE went to get it. But it's gone now."

"What happened to it?"

"Ask Chris."

I am now pissed off for a number of reasons. First of all I am starving, and the meager dinner I was expecting was clearly not going to materialize. Secondly, there is obviously something going on that I don't know about and they're doing a shitty job of hiding it. And third, I'm angry at Fish for apparently thinking that I am going to start a jihad over a couple pieces of celery. Does he really think I am that much of a shrew? I decided on the silent treatment method of punishment for them all, closed my eyes and pretended I was trying to go back to sleep.

When Thugglife came back inside he sat down in the Lovesac and said quietly, "I'm sorry, ish*."

"Chris, where's my celery?"

Crickets.

Fish says, "Do you want me to make you something?"

I am exasperated. "NO. What I want is for people to answer questions when I ask them something. Where's my celery?"

"I already told you. The person you can thank for your celery not being here is Chris. So ask him. I'm going outside."

I exploded. "JESUS CHRIST! Is it that hard for you people to answer a simple fucking QUESTION? It's JUST LETTUCE!" Fish said nothing and shut the door behind him. JoE sat down on the couch next to me and I looked at Thugglife.

"I'm sorry, ish," he said in a tiny voice.

"Chris," I said calmly, "I'm not going to freak out over a couple pieces of celery. The only way I would freak out about it is if you guys just said, 'Fuck her' and didn't bother to get me any. Obviously at some point there was celery, and now there's not. What happened to it?"

"I ran it over with the car."

"You WHAT?" I shouted, and then burst into hysterical laughter.

"I ran it over with the car," he said again.

I was laughing so hard that I had tears running down my face. "Chris," I choked out. "How the hell do you run over celery with the car?"

"It was in the street."

"The street? How did it get in the street?"

"Ask JoE."

By now I'm laughing so hard my head hurts and I turned to JoE, who was also doubled over. "What did you DO?"

"O.K.," he says, "Here's how it went. We went out and then realized we forgot to get your celery. So I ran back in to get it. When I was coming out, it just leapt out of my hands and into the street right behind the wheel. And Chris ran it over. And then I just jumped in the car and we took off."

I didn't think I could laugh any harder than I was already laughing, but somehow I did. My head is pounding and I still can't stop. "That's just....(laughing)...That's...(laughing)....you ran it over with the car? BWAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHA!!!" Over and over, until finally I had the entire house cracking up with me.

I dined on pretzels and orange juice that night. It was the best I'd felt all weekend.

*They nicknamed me ish, because while I am not Fish's girlfriend, I am girlfriend-ish.

I Think I'll Go For A Walk

Hey there kids. Just wanted to say that I have the plague. I'm in the care of Dr. Fish and his crack(head) team of nurses out in Lisle. Dr. Fish has me on a strict regimen of DayQuil, Kool-aid and episodes of Deadwood. I hope to have my condition improve soon, as I don't want to go on the cart.

Crazy Girls

Some years ago when 1153 and I were in Vegas we went and saw a show called Crazy Girls. It was alright I guess. I was somewhat underwhelmed. I mean, I was entertained by it, but it seemed kind of pointless to me to be sitting 14 rows back from the stage watching topless girls dance around when, for about the same price as the ticket, I could be watching completely naked girls dance around up close and in my lap at a strip club. When in Rome I guess.

That little story is pretty much not related at all to the point I'm trying to make here, and that point is this: Girls Are Crazy. They're all of 'em crazy, and they will drive you crazy, and they will drive themselves crazy. If you are a girl and you are reading this thinking, "but I'm not crazy!" well, that just proves that you are not only crazy but also delusional. Let me explain by way of example:

Driving Themselves Crazy

What is it with girls that are in bad relationships with bad people who make them entirely miserable and cry constantly that they will do absolutely anything to stay in their terrible relationship? Huh? (By the way, I am one of these.) Their ability to rationalize and explain away disrespectful and even downright abusive behavior on behalf of their partners is far more acute than almost anyone of the male half of the species.

I have this awesome friend who I love. She is pretty and funny and fun to be around, has a great heart, a great sense of humor, great taste in music and a job she's good at. Her boyfriend is a lazy, verbally abusive, persistently drunk, almost certainly cheating, very certainly lying, freeloading bottom dweller with no job. No paying job anyway. He lives in her house with her, uses her computer to chat online with countless other girls (who are told by him that he has no girlfriend) and justifies that behavior by saying he can't respect her because he doesn't like this guy who she knew, like, 5 years ago (4 1/2 years before she met her boyfriend), despite the fact that she hasn't talked to him since before she met her boyfriend.

We talked about it this weekend and I sat and listened while she relayed the following things:

• She feels she has to have him living with her because she doesn't trust him not to cheat if she's not right there watching him.
• She came across an e-mail from a mutual friend of theirs that alludes to him having already cheated on her.
• She is afraid to hang around with another friend of ours because she thinks he'll tell her bad things about her boyfriend that she doesn't want to hear (even though they're true).
• He continuously makes statements like "If we can't go three days without fighting it's over" and then conveniently "forgets" when they fight after a day and a half. (Keep in mind he has no where else to live.)

This girl is not stupid. She knows he is untrustworthy and she knows she should leave him. But she won't. Why? Because maybe this time he'll keep his promise. Because that 5 minutes a day when they're not fighting are really great. Because anecdotal evidence of cheating is not the same as actually catching him. In short, because she is a girl. In the end this relationship will not be over until he leaves her for another girl. Which she knows, but disregards. This is how we drive ourselves crazy.
Driving You Crazy
On the flip side of that coin, you sometimes find girls in perfectly good relationships with very nice people. And when a girl finds herself in such a situation she will do everything in her power to sabotage it. It's not on purpose. It's just because we can't help ourselves.
A guy friend of mine was recently dating a crazy girl. Incidentally, when it was pointed out to her that all girls are crazy she was horrifically offended, because she is not crazy, she is perfectly sane. She chased after my friend pretty hard-core early on. It started off rocky, but she was quite persistent. My friend is very sweet and nice and funny and adorable and a pretty good boyfriend as far as they go. Because of this, the crazy girl had to destroy it. So she cheats on him. Which is shitty, but that's not the crazy part.
When she tells him that she cheated he doesn't take it particularly well. In fact, he breaks up with her. Her response to this is quite frigging insane. She really, really, really wants him to reconsider and for them to stay together. And, you know, it's not an unreasonable request because the cheating was not her fault. Oh no! In fact, it is my friend's fault for pushing her into a relationship before she was ready! Obviously he should have known that this would lead to cheating. The holes in this logic could sink an aircraft carrier:

• If she wasn't ready for a relationship, why did she chase him so hard?
• The cheating was not an accidental, in the heat of the moment thing. She invited the guy over her house. To sleep over. She deliberately hid this date from my friend.
• If she's not ready for a relationship, why is it so friggin important to get this relationship she's not ready for back on track?

I think we all know the answer: girls are mother fucking crazy.
If it seems to you that my knowing that all girls are crazy should exempt me from the craziness, let me assure you that it isn't true. In high school I dated a 25 year old alcoholic who routinely had me drive him home long before I had an actual license because he was way too drunk to even handle opening the door. He took all my money from my restaurant job and spent it on booze and weed. He had no job of his own. I stayed with him for over a year. I loved him! Because I am a girl and girls are crazy.
Listen my friends: if you are out there trying to find yourself a girl who is not crazy, you are going about things the wrong way and you will be alone for a really long time. What you need to be looking for is a girl whose type and level of crazy is something you can learn to tolerate. Because we are all of us crazy.

You Know You're Old When...

You know you're old when you are reading the paper in the morning and there's a story about this year's crop of college freshmen which points out that they weren't even alive yet when the Challenger exploded.

Chicago Tip #117

The Paulina Brown Line station is apparently infested with ginormous, hideous, evil, gray spiders. I wouldn't have found that out if I was smart enough to remember to get off at my brother's stop when I've left my car at his house.

Does This Actually Work on People?

Here's a message I just got on MySpace from some person claiming to be named CrAS (oh how I love the trendy new randomized capitalization!) whom I have never met, spoken to or corresponded with in my entire life:


Aug 19, 2005 10:26 AM
Subject:
No Subject
Body:
Yo whattup shortie....not bad. aiight here's the deal, i'm here from california on business and i'm lookin' for a hot date. got tix to the yankees game tonight so holla at ya boy. Also open to going to the 97th floor of the john hancock. CrAS

Be still, my heart! Thanks, CrAS(s), but I already have plans, aiight?

*delete*

Not Feeling It Today

Today marks 13 years since I lost my mom to cancer. I wrote a whole thing about it over on MySpace, but I'm not really in the mood to talk about it anymore. I will say here what I said there:

Do me a huge favor and go hug your mom or call her and tell her that you love her. Because you can. You never know how much of a luxury that is until you lose it.

Sorry I'm not a barrel of monkeys today. I'll return you to your regularly scheduled nonsense tomorrow.
(P.S. Spell check wants to replace "MySpace" with "mishaps" which I think is a great idea.)

Stealth

Well, they did it. They made me watch Stealth. It was even worse than I expected. Off the charts unreal. Really.

Now don't get me wrong, I'm all for suspension of disbelief - it's pretty much how I get through the days. But in this one, they just asked too much of me, to wit:

• The U.S. Navy has no qualms about sending new planes that are still in the testing phase into combat situations if they feel like it.
• Insubordination and failure to obey direct orders in the U.S. Navy is not that big a deal, and in fact, your commanding officer will even tell you that you did a good job on the thing you were expressly ordered not to do.
• An airplane developed by the U.S. Navy to be capable of thinking for itself, flying for itself, and continuously evolving will have an expensive state of the art cockpit built into it, just for fun.
• The U.S. Navy is so inept at advanced technology that they need ubergeeks with scruffy hair and no social skills to take care of their expensive new airplane. Also, they will allow these geeks to hang out on their aircraft carriers.
• Robots have DNA.
• Let me repeat that one. Robots have DNA.
• Technology geniuses who develop planes for the U.S. Navy are all really cool and suave, have giant, ultra modern houses and superhot women in tiny dresses hanging all over them.
• Not only can you eject from your plane at 30,000 feet and still be conscious, but you will also be able to keep a running monologue about how fast you are falling so your friends on the aircraft carrier will know you're ok.
• You can fall from 30,000 feet, have your parachute catch fire, live to tell about it AND have the wherewithal to hang on to your gun.
• Sometimes your commanding officer will try to have you killed by outside assassins if you know too much.
• Not a single person in the North Korean Army save for one guy can aim to save their lives. Our people never ever ever miss.
• The border between North Korea and South Korea is separated by a chain link fence.

If I can save one person from going to see this completely worthless drivel then I can die knowing I made a difference. Please, I beseech you, spare yourself from the agony which I could not escape.

Bobcat Bacchanalia

Old friends are the best kind sometimes (as in you've known them a long time, not as in they're decrepit and smell like mothballs).

My friend Ashley is in town for a few days for all the goings on surrounding the Improv Olympics. Ashley and I went to college together at OU for two quarters until she transferred to another school. She was roommates with Heather and we all lived here. We had really good times in college, such as wearing Ashley's bra as a hat, screaming obscenities at hockey games and "decorating" the boys' floor with tampons colored in red marker.

I haven't seen Ashley in something like 8 years, so when I found out she was coming to town I was ecstatic and promised to pick her up at the airport. As a side note, let me just tell you how cool and native I felt going to pick up my friend at O'Hare all by myself without any help. It was so Chicago of me. I was almost as excited about picking someone up from the airport as I was about seeing my friend after nearly a decade.

Our plan was to check her in at her hotel, her shower and get dressed because she didn't want to be airplane fabulous all night, grab some dinner somewhere, and then meet up with a bunch of her friends for an improv show. This would have been all well and good if it hadn't taken us over an hour to find her hotel in Evanston. This is not my fault: when the directions say to travel 5 miles, I don't regularly assume that by "five" they mean twelve. We traversed the street twice before finally calling the hotel and demanding a list of landmarks to guide us to our destination (which Ashley dutifully checked off as we passed them and cheered loudly). So by the time Ashley was ready to go in her way awesome strapless dress and cutest shoes ever (I was wearing jeans and a t-shirt that reads "I taught your boyfriend that thing you like." which Ashley thought was awesome and tried to take a picture of, but it looks like she was just trying to take a picture of my boobs), we had to skip dinner because we were going to be late for the show. This was maybe not the best idea.

When we get to Wrigleyville and friggin' PARK, Ashley calls her friends from her improv troupe so we can met them for the show, and is told that we won't be attending the show after all since all the tickets are sold out. As an alternative plan, they've decided we should just drink tons of beer all night long (except for Ashley, who rocked it hard core with double shots of Malibu and coke), which was great for the two of us since we'd eaten nothing at all the entire day. Consequently I was drunk in 11 seconds.

Ashley's friends are awesome and funny and quick, and Dave pointed out to me that I should probably have expected that since they all do improv comedy, which was a very good point I thought. In short order we started telling some "this one time at college" stories, which in turn caused me to say "Hey, we should call Heather!"

"OH MY GOD WE SHOULD TOTALLY CALL HEATHER!!!!" I love Ashley because she says this like she thought it up and I didn't just say the exact same thing one second ago. And also because where Heather lives it's 1:30 in the morning on a Wednesday night. It took us a couple of tries to get it right however. The first call we completely screwed up so we had to try again. What follows is an e-mail I got from Heather this morning, which will describe this event much better than I could (because she was not drunk):

-A detailed account of Heather Moyer's activities between 1:20am and 1:50am on August 11-


Heather is sleeping. She hears the phone ring, but she never answers the phone while she's half-asleep because if it's really important, the person will call back right away.In the background, Heather hears an oddly distorted message, but can't make it out as the machine is too far away from the bedroom.


Suddenly, Heather's cell phone rings. Her stomach drops because that now means someone is dead or something is on fire. Amy grumbles about who the hell is calling us right now.


Heather gets up, staggers into the living room, steps on the cat, steps on the cat's sharp toy, and then turns the light on. The cell phone has stopped ringing, so Heather listens to the message on the machine.


The following is a transcript of that message on the home phone number's answering machine:
----------
(loud noise and garbled words), HAHAHAHAHAHAHAH, CRAP, SHIT, WHAT? HAHAHAHAHAH
aslgijwogijwerovijnoivjhioerjhvboijhweroibhoi!!!!!
*beep*
------------
Now Heather listens to the message on her cell phone's voicemail. The following is a transcript of that message:
------------
(very loud background noise)
Okay Heather. this is Ashley and Amber, for real. We're leaving you a message, we would like to apologize for whatever message is on your phone. HAHAHA!!!!!!!!!
And now we are clearly drunk, ahhahahahahahhahahahaha!!!!!!!
laishfolahifsadghiwiouvbhuiweb!!!!!!!!!!
Mindy is someone I know who Amber only met tonight and Mindy is using Amber's vibrator in her nether regions!!!!!
hahahhaahfgoaihgwoirhgouwerhgvaosifhoaihvoahvoh!!!!!!!!!
*beep*
------------
Heather's lovely wife rolls over to ask what's going on after hearing Heather say, "Those fuckers" while laughing.


For the next 20 minutes as Heather tries to go back to sleep, she will just start to doze off and then start giggling uncontrollably at what the hell just happened. The words "nether regions" keep making her crack up and Amy is
getting irritated that Heather keeps shaking the bed with her laughter.
FIN

I really only remember the rest of the night in snips, such as Ashley's dress falling down and Dave saying something about it being a Jesus dress because it rose again, and Sam managing to sing all of "Piece of Shit car" at kareoke without swearing, and drunk dialing the bartender because someone said the word "manhole" which is a now defunct bar he used to manage (bartender: What are you doing up? me: Dude, someone just said manhole so I called you! bartender: It's not there anymore. It's closed. me: I know! And Mindy just kissed Ashley's teeth! bartender: *click*), and trying to get my keys back from Mindy, who did indeed have my keychain vibrator in her nether regions.

It was a completely awesome night and I'm so glad I got to see her, and so sorry we made her walk about 5 miles up and down Clark Street in her fabulous but totally impractical shoes. And so disappointed that we waited 8 freaking years to do that.

I Think They Like Me

If you haven't noticed, I spend a fair amount of time with my awesome friend Fish. Yeah. His friends have noticed as well, as evidenced by this IM conversation between Fish and Thugglife Chris, which will also serve to illustrate how much we both are loved:

Thugglife: You guys are a couple
Fish: I know
Thugglife: of dorks. I wasn't finished.

Happy Birthday Thugglife Chris

Today is Thugglife Chris' birthday. This is important because for his birthday we are going out to BD's Mongolian BBQ, which is better than sex*. Unfortunately I also promised him I would watch some movie about a repentant, formerly evil airplane that wants to stick its fuselage inside Jessica Biel. I tried to get out of it by claiming I was drunk when I said it, but I was at work at the time, and for some reason I wasn't believed. That's alright. For my birthday we'll be having lobster and watching Ishtar. Two can play at this game.

*depending on who I'm having sex with and how hungry I am at the time.

Oxygen Starved

I have a tendency to write stuff down a lot, because funny things happen around me all the time and I think to myself "I should blog that". But then I sit down to write and I go "Wait, what was that again?" So I started writing things down so I would remember to blog them.

The problem is I'm sometimes in such a hurry to write something down that I provide myself with no notes as far as context or even who may have said the thing I thought was funny.

This is my guess at what must have happened last Thursday, when I came across a snip of paper in my purse this morning which read as follows:

"Last week I almost took a breath. But then I thought about it."

Don't You Know My Time is at a Premium???

You know what sucks mad dick? When you are one or two pages from completing a report for a client that took the entire day yesterday and most of the morning today, and then your boss comes over and says, "Oh, I forgot to tell you, on that Client X report, we need to change, um, everything."

So much for having an actual life this weekend.

And Speaking of Jennie Smash...

As soon as I posted that last thing, I ventured over to her blog to see if there was anything new, only to find that she too wrote about peeing, bugs and trains. I'll let you know if the crazy has any comments on this coincidence(?).

Ghost in the Machine (and other tales about my crazy)

As my heroine Jennie Smash might say*, I have a touch of the crazy. As such, my brain occasionally** derails over ordinary, mundane things.

Today I had to go to the bathroom at work. I try not to go in there much, because there might be other people in there and I don't want people knowing that I sometimes pee. But extra coffee this morning (because I was tired, because I slept on the couch, because there was a spider in my room) necessitated that I go in there, so I did. I was relieved to find that I was in there all alone. I choose a stall and sit down, and the next thing you know I hear the toilet in the stall next to me flushing. My immediate thought was that there was someone crouched on the toilet seat so that I couldn't see their feet trying to catch me in the act of peeing. I am not making this up. But then the toilet flushes again. And again. And I realize that this particular toilet must be the ghost toilet, and not only that but there must be one heck of a line.

So now that I know it's just ghosts and not a pee spy, I feel much better and go to wash my hands. Did I tell you about the automatic soap dispensers? You stick your hand under there and it drops the perfect amount of soap into your palm. I am still completely mesmerized by this. But today there is a problem. The dispenser on the right, which is my preferred sink, has a flashing red light. And again, the crazy tells me that a flashing red light in the soap dispenser means someone has planted a bomb in it. If I use that particular soap dispenser the bomb will go off and blow me to smithereens. As much as my logical, rational side (and I do have one) keeps trying to tell me how ridiculous that is, I end up washing my hands in the left hand sink. Just to be on the safe side.

Speaking of bombs, yesterday I'm sitting on the eL at noon, playing collapse on my phone. Across from me is an enormous (in the solid sense, not in the fat sense) black man with work boots on. Which really wouldn't be anything to write about in and of itself, except that when he got off the train, I saw some kind of round metal thing that had been left in the seat next to him, and I presumed by him. And I start to freak out because they've been bombing trains and buses in London lately, and while Chicago is neither London nor New York, it still is a pretty big city, so someone leaving a bomb on the eL is not entirely out of the question. But seconds later I relax as this thought jumps unbidden into my brain: Don't be silly, black construction workers do not leave bombs on trains. Which is true as far as I can tell, but don't ask me where my brain came up with a blanket statement like that. I have no idea. It is futile to ask questions of the crazy.

So did I slip it by you? The part where I was on the eL at noon? Right. That was because I was headed home on my lunch break due to the crazy insisting to me that my lovely cat had jumped out a second story window and was lying in a crumpled heap in my backyard. See, I had left a window open without a screen in my kitchen because for some reason there's a bunch of flies in my apartment and rather than kill them like a normal person, I decided to leave a window open all day long while I was at work in the hope that they would taste freedom and just fly out. But an hour after getting to work, I realize that I opened it pretty wide...wide enough for Kristen to fit through should she so choose. Now mind you, my cat doesn't really show signs of wanting to escape, let alone by way of a two story drop onto a slab of concrete. Additionally, she seems to lack any kind of initiative for anything other than trying to steal chicken from me. Nevertheless, the crazy had a hold of me by then and there was no way I was going to be able to concentrate until I was sure she was safe inside the house. Which she was; I found her sleeping on the couch right where I left her when I went to work in the morning. Explaining to my boss when I got back about what my "emergency" was at home was...interesting. But may I say thank heaven that guy thinks his dogs are his kids the way I think Kristen is mine.

So what have we learned today kids? Nothing really, except that Amber's thought patterns may or may not be based in reality depending on the day, and possibly the size of the room. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to concentrate on chewing the exact same number of M&Ms on each side of my mouth to prevent my face from becoming visibly lopsided.

*Must give credit where credit is due. There's been a rash of e-plagiarism lately, especially on MySpace. Also, she might argue that she is crazier than me.
**frequently

Betrayal

I have loved IKEA since the first time TupperDoug dragged me to the one in Pittsburgh. "It's a furniture store," he told me.

"Whoopity-doo," I said.

"No, you don't understand. It's Swedish."

Having set my expectations firmly at underwhelming, I was entirely unprepared for the awesomeness that awaited me on the inside of the gaudy blue and yellow building. Everything is set up like rooms that look exactly like the rooms on the Real World (which I was still into at the time)(The reason for this is that MTV decorates the Real World houses with stuff from IKEA). It's so modern and trendy looking, and affordable! and best of all, you can take your furniture home with you the same day. Oh the hours I spent at Pittsburgh IKEA, wandering around with Doug and not with Doug, since my addiction became so great that I started sneaking into town behind his back to quench my IKEA need. I soon had a couch, several chairs, a dining room set, a coffee table and assorted rugs, curtains and picture frames. My house could have been an IKEA catalog page and I was so, so happy about it.

Flash forward a number of years to 2005 when I moved to Chicago. My friend Fish just bought a new house, where he has moved with 3 and a half other fine gentlemen (the half gentleman being Phil, who doesn't officially live there, but also never seems to leave). Move in was two weekends ago and I went out to the new abode for the duration to help out. One of our first orders of business? A group outing to Schaumburg IKEA. Imagine my joy at spending the better part of four hours in the store of my dreams! JoE, Fish and I giggled as we stood in line with an overflowing shopping cart and two flatbed carts full of at home assembly joy.

It was all downhill from there.

The first problem encountered was Fish's new four drawer dresser. It wasn't that it was difficult to build, it's just that it is difficult to build a four drawer chest when you've only been provided with two drawer bottoms. I mean, you can do it, but there wouldn't be much point now would there? The bottom is kind of an important part of the drawer. In the meantime the MASSIVE wardrobe JoE had purchased ( I am not kidding you, you could comfortably fit five people in there) was the wrong color and had to be exchanged. Also the mirrors that are meant to be hung inside the doors were missing the adhesive backing that we were assured would be in the package.

And then there was Fish's bed. It seemed simple enough at the start. If you've never built IKEA furniture before, let me explain that there are no words telling you what to do anywhere in the instruction book. The entire tale is told through drawings. On the first page is a drawing of the tools you will need, which in this case included both a phillips head and a flat head screwdriver. Step one was a drawing of this: screw hex nut onto double threaded screw. Use included flimsy wrench to drive screw into the footboard. Further use included flimsy wrench to remove hex nut from double threaded screw and save it for later. This went ok until I tried actually getting the hex nut off. For every time I tried to turn it, it would start unscrewing the screw from the footboard. Eventually we solved the problem with a pair of pliers holding the screw in place, however I was mildly annoyed at that fact that pliers were not pictured at the beginning of my instruction manual. Next there was the problem of the metal supports spanning the space between the midbeam and the sideboards. The screws required here were miniscule, and had to be screwed in upside down, into pieces that kept slipping out of where they were supposed to be even when someone else was holding them there for you. Fish and I struggled with this for an hour. Just as we thought we were nearing the end we discovered we were missing one screw. FUCKERS!!!! There was no way I was giving up. Fish was sleeping in his bed that night come hell or high water. We managed to scare up a screw in the house that was the same size but a different thread, which I managed to force in through sheer will.

After all that, my blind devotion to the IKEA gods is waning. All those years, IKEA, all those years of loyal purchasing, only to be betrayed during my most comprehensive visit yet? Why? Why have you forsaken me IKEA? I have done everything that you asked: I have pulled my own boxes out of the warehouse, loaded my own car, assembled my own pieces. I don't understand why you would abandon me like this. IKEA you have broken my heart.

Atkins, Shmatkins

I discovered at Bed, Bath and Beyond this weekend that I've lost about 5 pounds on the Only Eat Dinner (if that) and Walk to the Bar Diet. I bet I could lose even more if I start drinking some straight up Jack Daniels instead of the fattening beer. It would be gross, but in order to look your best you have to make sacrifices.

The Height of Laziness

I have a few pieces for you all, but no time to write them today. It is busy season after all, as Mary, Timmy and Bia can attest. But in the interest of giving you at least SOMETHING to read, here is a post I wrote for my MySpace blog on Friday when I was in an exceptionally bad mood. As bonus material I will include the comment from it left by my new friend Kat, who is extremely funny and should have her own blog. I know moving material around from one place to another doesn't technically qualify as a "new" post, but try and work with me on this one, alright?

Friday, July 29, 2005

Shit that pisses me off
Current mood: aggravated

- People who say "nine-one-one" instead of "nine-eleven". 9-1-1 is a telephone number you call when your grandma mistakes your heroin for her insulin. 9/11 is the date of a horrible tragedy with massive civilian casualties. Get it straight. My boss just did this in a meeting - twice. If we were setting a meeting for that day, would he say "Are you available on September one one"? NO OF COURSE NOT. Because it makes no sense. STOP DOING THIS.

- My cat getting bizarre knots in her fur. WTF??? This just starts all of a sudden? How the hell is she doing this? And Fish even bought me a special shedder brush which I brush her with EVERY SINGLE DAY and yet somehow when I'm brushing her yesterday I still find a knot! Kristen Ann, this has to stop. Seriously. Are you doing this on purpose? Do you grab my brush when I leave for work and tease your fur like it's 1986? I can't figure out how you are managing this feat. But cut it out.

- The bartender's roommate has a swollen lymph node that they are removing on Tuesday and doing a biopsy to see if it's cancer. I assure you, it is. This will be the THIRD FUCKING TIME. Testicular cancer, followed by two brain tumors, radiation and chemo both times...and more fucking cancer. The kid is like 24 years old for fuck's sake. CAN WE CUT THIS POOR GUY A BREAK PLEASE? There is no one I can punch in the face to make me feel better about this. And I'm not even the one with the cancer.

-Ann Arbor, Michigan and all things contained therein. This should be pretty self-explanatory. Maize and blue are shitty colors and they can suck the shit out of my ass. Lloyd Carr is an asshat. Go Bucks. Scarlet and gray baby! Let's start the football already, I'm tired of waiting.

- Not having a garbage disposal. This is the single most important appliance in the house people. Scraping plates into the garbage a) sucks and b) means your garbage is going to stink when the food rots which means you have to take it out more often, which is another thing I hate doing. And also, when you have to clean the little trap out in the sink? Fucking grossenating. Who wants to stick their hands in that shit? It should be a law: all kitchens must be equipped with a garbage disposal. If landlords fail to provide said appliance, they shall be made to lick the trap in the sink every day until one is provided. Seriously, this is not the 50's. Not having a garbage disposal is like not having a flush toilet and having to use an outhouse. I can't live like this anymore.

Kat's comment:
haha, i like your cynicism. this is going to be a BEAUTIFUL friendship.
i just thought i'd add a couple things that i, myself, hate:

i hate that Mariah Carey still has a career, i hate when people call scissors "skizzors", i hate PEOPLE WHO TYPE EMAILS IN CAPS LIKE THEY DONT REALIZE THAT ITS REALLY INTERNET CODE FOR OBNOXIOUS, i hate dying (but not quite dead) bugs that walk away when you're trying to kill them, i hate when you walk into wal-mart to buy, like, toothpaste and walked out with $361.00 worth of stuff thinking "thank god i didn't buy the fishtank.", i hate pretentious middle initials, i hate MLA format, and i hate how i have to suddenly buy ALL my movies on vhs ALL OVER AGAIN because vhs is the new beta.

but thats just me, i hate everything.

Are You Ready For Some Football?

I am. I love football. I love Chicago. I love IM conversations all day long at work.


PGS DenMILF: i downloaded a desktop theme for my 'puter today!
PGS DenMILF: GO BROWNS MOTHER FUCKER!!!!!!!!!
Fish: setting yourself up for disappointment
PGS DenMILF: The "waiting" cursor is a little tiny referee
PGS DenMILF: am not. dude listen, we've got romeo coaching now AWESOME
PGS DenMILF: and
PGS DenMILF: AND
PGS DenMILF: Braylon Edwards
PGS DenMILF: BRAYLON EDWARDS!!
PGS DenMILF: no, this year will be awesome
PGS DenMILF: romeo: defense covered. edwards: offense covered
PGS DenMILF: it's going to be awesome
PGS DenMILF: AWESOME
Fish: oh ok
PGS DenMILF: so awesome that i have to keep repeating key words twice
PGS DenMILF: Hey
PGS DenMILF: Did you know the Browns actually play the Bears this year? During the season?
Fish: battle of the titans
PGS DenMILF: They play twice, pre-season and week 5
PGS DenMILF: we have a bye the week before, we will be rested
PGS DenMILF: too bad it's in Cleveland, it would have been awesome to go
PGS DenMILF: in my brown and orange
PGS DenMILF: fuck some bears
Fish: they probably will too
Fish: the bears suck
PGS DenMILF: i know, that's why i feel so at home here.
PGS DenMILF: white sox are fucking up my shit this year. i can't handle living somewhere with teams that are good
PGS DenMILF: it confuses me and screws up my world

An Important Announcement

After many years of abstinence I have rediscovered the mouthwatering joy of Nacho Cheesier Doritos.

Carry on.

Sheep Counting Alternatives

Things to try when you find yourself wide awake for no apparent reason at 2:00 a.m.

1. Call your cat. Over and over and over until she gets sick of listening to you and climbs in your bed.

2. Pet the cat. Then grab the brush and try brushing her.

3. After the cat runs away, drink a glass of warm milk.

4. Send a text message to your bartender. Wait 30 minutes for him to either call or text you back. Give up.

5. Lay in your bed, stare at the ceiling and think "I have to fall asleep. I really really need to fall asleep right now."

6. Masturbate. Um, for a while.

7. Lay there for 10 minutes wondering why you're not asleep after all that masturbation. Make a mental note to put batteries on your grocery list.

8. Sing. Out loud. To yourself. Christmas carols.

9. Ponder what your friends would say if they knew you were singing Christmas carols to yourself in the middle of the night in July. Make a note to post it on your blog so you can find out.

10. Masturbate. Er, again.

By following these simple steps you should finally fall asleep around 5:00 a.m.






The phone call you gave up on getting from the bartender will come at 5:30 a.m.

I Hate Feet

My feet are going to be the death of me, I swear it. I was awake all night because of them.

Here is the problem: It's hot in Chicago right now. Really hot. Even with the air on in my apartment it's freaking hot in there. Consequently I am hot in there. Especially my feet, which seem to be the temperature control center for my entire body. If my feet are cold the rest of my body is freezing; if my feet are hot my body is on fire. Fix the temperature of my feet and everything else will follow. I do have air conditioning, and also a fan. So when I go to bed, if I could just put my feet by the fan, all would be well, right?

Well probably, but I can't do that you see. In order for me to sleep, my feet have to be covered. Because if my feet are covered, nothing can get me. And I'm not talking about some flimsy bedsheet either, I mean a substantial blanket must completely enclose them or I risk being dragged off by the boogyman. Currently I am being guarded by an old Pokemon comforter that used to belong to my youngest son (before I did his entire room up in Ohio State colors, the way a boy from Ohio's room should be decorated). It is thick and comfy, but above all it is warm. Extremely, unrelentingly warm. So not only am I not able to put my feet by the fan, but I am also having to tuck them away inside a poly/cotton blended furnace.

I tried making a little hole at the bottom for the air from the fan to get in, but the boogyman could penetrate that so easily I might as well not have a blanket at all. I tried covering just my feet and nothing else, but since my whole body is controlled by my feet, that exercise was pointless. I tossed and turned all freaking night, staring at my clock and waiting for daybreak so that I could stick my feet out (the boogyman melts in the sun, you know). Tonight doesn't look too promising either. I hate my feet.

Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Bookworm

Lest you think that I'm faking this whole "Amber is a geek" thing so I can score with nerds, let me tell you about my weekend. I read the new Harry Potter book. And pretty much that's it.

Well, not entirely. Steve and Chris G. decided they would like to have pork for dinner Saturday, so they roasted a 100 pound pig and invited several hundred of their closest friends over to share. I stopped in for a few hours, but I couldn't fully perform the requisite mingling as my mind kept wandering back to the shiny new book I knew was sitting on my coffee table. The bartender had stopped over as well, but had to be at work by midnight, so I used the fact that he's been borrowing my car to get him to drop me off at home on his way to work (a figure of speech as coming from Steve and Chris' place, my house is not remotely on the way). That way I could get a few chapters in before bedtime (which, because I'm lame, is usually right about the time the parties are getting started anyway). I fell asleep at some point during the train ride to Hogwarts and dreamed of wands, and cauldrons, and bland English food.

I was jolted from my slumber at 5:45 in the morning on Sunday by a text message from the bartender, which was basically a commercial: SOCIAL DISTORTION AT HOB SEPT 25. TICKETS ON SALE NOW! I was briefly annoyed at being awakened at dawn on a Sunday to be told that there will be a concert two months from now. That is until I realized that as long as I was up anyway, I might as well use the time constructively and read me some Harry Potter. Consequently, when Fish arrived around 2:00 I was four chapters from the end while he was only four chapters in. This proved to be disastrous. I will not put any spoilers in here, but by the end of the book I was, quite literally, sobbing. Bad enough for Fish to get up and bring me some Kleenex. I was completely heartbroken. I needed someone to talk to, to commiserate with and pool our collective sorrow, and Fish was only on fucking chapter 10. I snapped at him when he put his book down to try and comfort me. "KEEP READING!" I shrieked. "The longer you try to make me feel better, the longer I have to wait to talk about it!" Of course he left before he finished it, so I had to wait all the way until today to talk about it with someone.

I really don't see how this is a children's book. I mean AT ALL. People die horrible deaths, or get gruesome injuries. There's a whole bunch of reanimated dead bodies running around doing whatever reanimated dead bodies do. People are swearing. People are sucking face like it's an Olympic sport. Don't get me wrong, the book is AWESOME. I just wouldn't give it to my 10 year old any faster than I'd give him a copy of Playboy or front row tickets to a beheading. I was so depressed by the end of it I started reading a book of Dilbert comics to cheer me up. Then I got all depressed again when I realized I would have to wait years, YEARS to find out how it all ends. That is just completely not fair. Oh Madam Rowling, you torment me so.

That's What It's All About

Do you know any of those people who think the entire world revolves around them? You know the type: Constantly steer the conversation to themselves no matter what it was originally about, overdeveloped sense of entitlement, little if any consideration for the feelings of others, excuses for every untoward thing that they do, obsession with their own appearance, bound and determined to be offended and hurt by remarks not directed at them? For example, you say something like, "I'm enjoying being in a committed relationship." and they respond with "Oh, what, so I'm a big fucking whore? You're calling me a whore? Where do you get off saying something like that to me?" Or maybe they run a traffic light and hit someone else's car, and then insist that it isn't their fault at all because they were being rushed to get somewhere, and in fact, the driver they hit should be at fault for making them more late? They're the ones who frequently leave you thinking "Where the hell did THAT come from?" or potentially "What a fucking asshat." Do you know any people like that? Or worse, are you, maybe, one of them?

If so, then let me let you in on a little secret: It's not about you. Really, it's not. I know it seems like everyone is trying to hurt you, or that the length of your hair is important enough to effect the tides, but none of that has anything to do with you. At all. Trust me on this one; I know.

Because it's about me.

Seriously, look at the evidence! The spiders? They're all after me. They seek out not only the location of my bedroom, but then position themselves directly above my bed to maximize their ability to jump on me. They've even taken to attacking my friend Heather in an attempt to torture her into betraying me. Also, baseball: directly related to me. I lived in Cleveland and rooted for the Indians and they sucked. But I move to Chicago and start rooting for the Cubs, and suddenly the Indians are pretty darn good, but now the Cubs suck. Sorry Cubbies fans, that was me. And the nastygrams I get from people if I don't update my blog for a week? I'm obviously the primary entertainment in the lives of millions, checking back day after day in the hopes of learning more about me. Just the other day the entire city of Chicago turned around to check out my ass. The bar around the corner from me keeps my favorite Cleveland microbrew ON TAP. Why? Clearly, it is for me. The crew at my local D'Agostino's knows me by name, I just have to tell them my phone number and they know it's me*. My cat cries if I don't pay enough attention to her (though strangely enough that only happens in the kitchen). My favorite color is green, and the leaves on the tree outside my front window are green. Coincidence? I think not.

See? It's so clear. It's not about you, people. It's about me.



*Actually, Fish has to give them my number. I'm scared talk to the pizza man on my own.

The Funniest Geek You Know

Excerpted from an IM conversation I was having with Thugglife yesterday:

Amberance: The stupid thing is that I warned him this is what would happen, and then I turned around and did it anyway. Everything is proceeding exactly as I have foreseen.

Thugglife: Dork.

Amberance: Who is the bigger dork, the dork, or the dork who gets it?

I crack myself up sometimes.

(It's a Star Wars reference for those of you who don't get it. (Mary))

Shopping Misadventures

I'm not good at shopping. Like, really not good at it. It involves a whole host of things that I'd rather avoid: going out in public, talking to strangers and more recently, finding parking. None of these are my forte, which is why I try to shop online as much as possible. Nevertheless, I found myself out shopping yesterday, being that it's Fishy's birthday tomorrow and I was pressed for time.

I did start out online, though. I started out online some time ago when I was reading Dear Abby and she mentioned this cat book, about the history of cats. Fish loves cats, and also Mary loves cats, the bartender loves cats, Kelly and Simone both love cats, and so on. So being the quick thinker I am, I carefully write down the title and author of said book, figuring that I'd hit up a book store and buy half a dozen or so of them and hand them out to the cat people as opportunities arose (also one for me!). I wrote it on a post-it, stuck the post it to a receipt and stuck the receipt back in my purse. And went about my life.

So now weeks have gone by, it's too late to get the damn thing from Amazon and I need to find a bookstore. My awesome brother, practically a north side native now, informs me that I can find a great big Borders at Clark and Diversey and not only that, the mall across the street has a garage I can park in. Which of course, since I'm not paying attention I pass the first time and have to go around the block and start over. But hey, at least I found the place. So I hide my backpack under the seat, grab my purse and head for Borders.

I find the animals section and reach into my purse to get the receipt with the sticky note on it. Surprise! It's not in there. And since I wrote it down, I didn't bother to memorize the title, let alone the author. As I'm making a mental note to flog my smug self, I hear a voice behind me say "Can I help you?"

OK, let me just say something right here. I do not like talking to people who are strangers. Most especially I don't like talking to people who I perceive as having greater knowledge about the subject at hand than I do. For example, I am terrified of asking for drinks in a bar, because the bartender knows more about making drinks than I do. Even with my bartender friend I am afraid (blessedly he pretty much knows what I like and rarely asks me anymore). The most feared groups for me are bartenders, librarians, and the pizza guy. But just about anyone who is working somewhere when I need something will turn me into a quivering pile of jelly. So whereas a normal person hears "Can I help you?" and is grateful, when I hear it I turn into a stammering nut. The fact that I have no idea what my book is called or who wrote it is not particularly helpful. Not surprisingly, the guy can't find my book based on my half-assed description. I try to explain about the note, that it must have fallen out of my purse, but the guy obviously didn't care and scuttled off to go make fun of me behind the counter with the other people who are smart at finding books and remembering what they're called.

I continued to shop, making it a point to avoid the area where the guy tried to "help" me and eventually find a few things I think Fish would like and buy them. And go back to my car. The parking garage I'm parked at is an unattended lot. To get out you have to go to the little kiosk, put your ticket in and some money, and it will validate your ticket so that the gate will let you out. I put my ticket in the kiosk. $9. I have $5 in my purse. Fuck. I hit cancel and start thinking about where I can find an ATM. But then I see the sign that says I can pay with a credit card. So I put my ticket back in. And now I can't find a slot for my credit card. I tried one slot and realized it was for bills. I hit cancel again. Maybe it's broken? It doesn't look broken. I put my ticket back in. I look around me. No credit card slot that I can see. Hit cancel. Debate whether I want to walk up to the one on the 4th floor and try it there. Decide there has to be something I'm missing. Put my ticket back in. Nothing. Hit cancel.

Finally it dawns on me, what the little pictures are trying to say. That the credit card goes in the same slot as the ticket! Who knew? I smack myself on the forehead. Problem solved, I put my ticket back in the slot. And the machine spits it right back out at me. "Invalid ticket" the machine tells me. What? I try again. Same thing. Apparently, you can only put your ticket in the thing so many times before they decide you are so stupid you should have to pay full price for a lost ticket. Swell.

When I finally got out of the garage I went over to Target because I needed some wrapping paper for Fish's gifts. In the aisle labeled "wrapping paper" I find all kinds of great paper...for weddings, baby showers and graduations. For your average birthday boy there is nothing. NOTHING. The aisle on one side has greeting cards, on the other side candles. This is the only paper they have? I think. What the hell kind of Target is this? I start thinking maybe I can get one of the plain white bags for weddings and color it or something. Which seems ridiculous for anyone over 12, but I am desperate here. I decide to think on it a while I wander over to the toy section to find some goofy Star Wars thing I can give to Fish (which I found: a Darth Vader bobble head pen). Heading back over to the wrapping paper, something brightly colored caught my eye. It was more wrapping paper! Four aisles away from the other wrapping paper aisle. Seriously, whose idea was that to put wrapping paper in two totally different places in the same store? I find some paper appropriate for a mid-20's male and make for the registers.

Walking across the parking lot, I pass a guy who is sitting in his running car with gansta rap blaring loud enough you can hear it 6 blocks away. As I walk by he turns the music off, leans halfway out the window and SCREAMS at me, "Woo! That is a fine ass! I mean, that is a FINE ass! Can I PLEASE get your number?" The entire city of Chicago turned around to look at me. People, I know I am an attention whore, but there are limits. For instance, calling everyone within a 10 mile radius to examine my ass.

I get in Alistair and curse myself for losing my sticky note, being unable to figure out a garage pay booth by myself and not having a stash of wrapping paper already in my house.

From now on I am only shopping on the internet.



Post script: Today on the train to work, I pull the book I am reading out of my backpack, to discover my receipt/post-it combo marking the place where I left off. Fucking A.

Shiv & Lemon

Yesterday I had lunch with His Holy Fishness and spent a good part of the afternoon hanging out with him and Thugglife Chris at their place of employment. And I'm pretty sure I'll never be invited to do that ever again. Also, it is clear to me that, while they think I am the crazy one, the reality is that they just fail to see the incredible brilliance of my idea.

I'm hanging out in the store talking small gamer talk (ok listening. Truthfully I had no fucking idea what they were talking about) and wound up somehow having two items in my hands: A Nerf-like lemon thingy from Jamba Juice and one of those little metal hook-like hanging-thingies you put on the wall and hang shit from when you want to display it (Fish is currently shaking his head at my extremely articulate description of this. But you all knew what I was talking about right?).

And being that I'm hanging out in a video game store, as well as the fact that I'm a jackass, I randomly start slashing at things with my display hook. Which I've now begun to imagine is some type of shiv. After a particularly vicious slice to Thugglife's chest, I remember my "lemon" and say "Oh hey, wouldn't it suck if I had actually cut you? and then squeezed some lemon juice into it with my real lemon? If I had one? Boy that would be totally mean."

That was when it hit me, and what hit me is this: Wouldn't that be an awesome video game? Your character slashes people in battle, pretty bad alone, but then he squeezes some lemon juice in the open wound? I mean, that's just brutal. Did you ever get some lemon juice in a cut? That shit hurts! Why simply cut your enemy when you also pour citric acid in the wound? Man , I am so brilliant.

I run this great discovery by Fish and Thugglife. Their identical reaction being to stare fixedly at me and blink. But no matter, I'm on a roll now.

The patented move in the game is this spin move, see. You spin around so that you lead with your slasher hand, cutting your enemy, and then the spin carries you through for the follow through with the lemon squeeze. I twirled around the store in demonstration* of the beauty of this move. "and I even know what I'm going to call it," I announced. "It's great. I'm going to call it Shiv & Lemon."

"That is never going to sell," announced Fish in his Retail Voice of Authority. "Never. You're better off with your original idea." The original idea he was referring to was my first attempt at video game concept generation, a game I tentatively titled "Kill Things and Take Pictures". The inspiration of this was my horror at a story Fish told me. Apparently, back when he was the Ubernerd, he once was playing Everquest and killed the same frog over and over again for 12 and a half hours. That's real time folks. His motivation? It had a pretty earring, and Fish wanted his character to have the pretty earring, and to get it he had to sit there for over 12 hours repeatedly killing a frog. And, living in reality (or rather next door) as I do, I found that to be...a tad excessive. As in, when I want an earring I got to the store and buy one. I don't massacre tiny reptiles just so I can look pretty. But apparently, in Everquest, that is what you do. And it seemed, I don't know, fruity? that boys were bludgeoning things to death for charms and body glitter. So I was trying to think up another reward system for all that brutality. And what I came up with is, every character has a little camera, and when you maul something to death, you get to take a picture. Then you can show it off online to all your other reality challenged fantasy gaming friends and prove what a manly stud you are. At the time Fish insisted that that was the dumbest gaming idea ever, but now he had cast his previous disdain onto Shiv & Lemon.

"No," I insisted, "You don't understand. It will have a cult following. It will be bought by people like me just because they think the title is funny. I mean, c'mon, Shiv & Lemon! And what will happen then is, they will like the game so much, they will tell others, and they will like it, and tell more people, and suddenly it will be flying off the shelves. You won't be able to keep them in stock. AND THEN, after Shiv & Lemon is such a big hit, then I will release Kill Things and Take Pictures. I'll get James Earl Jones to voice the commercials. Like this (in my best girl-trying-to-sound-like James-Earl-Jones-voice), 'From the makers of Shiv & Lemon (long dramatic pause) comes Kill Things (shorter, but equally dramatic pause) and Take Pictures'. Oh, this is so going to rock."

"No, it's really not. No one is going to buy that, I'm telling you. No one." Fish, obviously just jealous that I thought of it first, continued to try raining on my parade, with Thugglife Chris standing behind him nodding in hardcore agreement.

They refused to understand, and also refused to let me go get a second opinion at Best Buy. I refused to shut up about it, and also refused to stop running around the store like an ADHD toddler.

Shiv & Lemon people. I am telling you. It's genius.

*Yes there were customers in the store. Yes, I asked them if they thought Shiv & Lemon was the greatest idea ever. Yes, they left quickly without buying anything.

Back With A Vengeance

Let me preface this post by saying that my boss is really a lovely person. He is very sweet and very thoughtful, kind, mostly cheerful, loves his partner and absolutely adores his dogs. He asks after my kitty, brings me chocolate for no reason and remembers to call his mother.

On the other side of that particular fence, you have the fact that the guy is a complete spastic. Everything in the world is a major crisis. He flits around the office in a panic all day long, frets over tiny details, hems and haws, gets underfoot, and makes a general nuisance of himself.

He was just out of town for three weeks, two of which he was out of the country, and moreover off the continent. Today is his first day back in the office.

I am going to kill him.

I don't mean that I am going to just hurt him. I mean that I am going to push him right out yonder 28th floor window, with nary so much as an umbrella to break his fall. I had gotten so used to being able to get things done, uninterrupted, being able to concentrate, and now....now it is gone. So, so gone.

So far today he has:

-Forwarded me 27 e-mails that he received while he was out, with a note attached to each: "Did you get this?" ...right above the original header containing my e-mail address.
-Brought an old copy of Baron's to my desk to look up something wasn't even in it in the first place, and left it here.
-Spent over 2 hours trying to figure out the answer to a question I answered for a client three weeks ago. Despite my telling him it had been handled, he resolved the problem, got the same answer I did, and copied me on the e-mail he sent to the client.
-Actually asked me if I was positive that EuroPacific Growth was an American Fund (apologies to those of you who don't work in this industry. Let me assure you, my readers who do are currently smacking their foreheads incredulously.)
- Came back to see if perchance he'd left the Baron's over here, looked in it for 10 minutes, and left it here again.
-Came to ask me if a client's June 30th statement came to me in the mail last Friday, that day being mere hours after the markets closed on the month of June (i.e. NO).
-Called because he thought he needed a password to open an e-mail attachment, then actually tried clicking on it after he called me, and found out he didn't need a password after all.
-Called to ask me to e-mail him something so that he could then e-mail the same thing to someone else...and copy me on it.
-Called back after I e-mailed it to him to say nevermind, just tell him where to find it on the network.

I'm going to get some lunch right now before he does one more completely irritating thing.