More Female Insanity

Anyone who has Hotmail knows that on the left hand side of your screen there's a bunch of links to recent fluff pieces on MSN. I tend to click on these pretty frequently because it's not work. Today I came across an article from the "Dating and Relationships" section of MSN about what to do if your man checks out other women. In it I discovered that part of the reason why women are crazy is because it is encouraged by the vast media conspiracy through the art of misinformation.

Here are a couple of lying paragraphs with my comments and corrections in parentheses (for the full article, click here):

Can you live with it?
Some feel that if you trust your mate, appreciating another’s beauty shouldn’t be a problem. (Because some people are rational.) “Trust is really important,” Lavinthal says. “If you know your man isn’t a cheater, then let him have a little fun by looking at other people. (Excuse me? "Let" him have his fun? I'm sorry, is he your boyfriend or your dog?) It comes down to the old ‘look but don't touch’ adage. As long as he keeps his hands to himself, I don’t see a problem. (Because as long as he keeps his hands to himself, there isn't one.) If this issue really bugs you, then it’s best to be honest and let your boyfriend know that his fascination with others is not appreciated or acceptable. If he continues to behave badly and it’s making you crazy, then it’s probably best to break up, (before he breaks up with your psycho ass first)” advises Lavinthal, adding with a laugh, “or if you really love him, invest in one of those cone-shaped plastic head things that dogs wear.” (Yes, because that isn't insulting at all. Apparently he is your dog. Tip: If you really love him, this joke won't seem funny to you.)


When you can’t stand his roving eye
If you’re not the kind who can make light of this situation, then heed this advice. Says Dr. Gilda, “Gawking is a put-down to the person in your presence. If a woman continues to stand for a guy doing it and hopes it will change, she’s in fantasyland. (Likewise, if a woman is annoying and whines about it all the time and hopes it will change, she's in fantasyland.)” So here’s her advice: Don’t confront him with “you” language, as in, “You are doing this,” “You are not a good boyfriend,” “You are embarrassing me...” Instead, communicate your feelings: “I feel insignificant when you flirt with other women in front of me.” This will allow for a conversation you can both learn and grow from, rather than a major screeching match. (This is not a "conversation". This is called a "guilt-trip" and it's not very nice.) Also, try to get your guy to think and talk about why he constantly needs to check out other women. (I'll just tell you. It's because other women keep walking by.) Perhaps this is a habit leftover from hanging out with his buddies or brothers during his high-school or college days. Maybe he’s insecure and is hoping to get some positive acknowledgment from the women he’s drooling over. (He's not looking for acknowledgement. He looking at her ass. That's it.) Whatever the case, if you both become more aware of his actions and their impact, you’ve got a great chance of getting past this and onto happier terrain... where he’s making total eye contact with you. (Want to know how to get him to make total eye contact with you? Next time he's checking out a girl, just say "Wow, those are some damn fine tits! I'd love to tap that ass." He'll turn around to look at you so fast he'll get whiplash. Problem solved!)

Pay attention now, because here's how it works: This is what guys do. It's a natural body function, like peeing. Would you ask your man not to pee anymore? No, because that's stupid. Also, he can't. A better thing to do is get a grip on yourself, grow some self esteem, realize that you're the only one he's fucking and get over it.

Besides which, that chick does have a great rack.

A Smashing Good Time

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

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

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

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

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

Yay for nothing!


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

I Have Nothing to Say

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

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

Discuss.

Enough About Cats, Let's Talk About Me

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

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

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

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

Amber and Heather Beat a Path to Fame and Fortune

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fear and Drinking in Las Vegas

Hi. I'm back. From Vegas.

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

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

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

Today is March 14th.

Happy Steak and Blow Job Day.

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

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

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

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

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

Take That, Bitch

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

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

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

Supermac and Ass

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Supermac my cheesy ass.

The Correct (IMO) Diagnosis Goes to Dr. MrSteve

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

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

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

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

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

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

I Think He's On To Me

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, we were wondering about that."

The Dumbest Joke Ever

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

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

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

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

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

And yet I can’t stop laughing.

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

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

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

I Expect A Lot From My Guests

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

I have no idea what that means.


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

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

Ill-annoying

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

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

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

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

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

I suspected they were mocking me.

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

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

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

"I don't have it."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fish was very kind and understanding.

Bartenderism: The Language of Gay

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

Chipotlame

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

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

...a bowl of shredded lettuce.

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

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

The Naked Standard

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

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

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

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

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



Say it ain't so. ;-)

Bathroom Mysteries

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hockey for Dummies

So last Tuesday night I went to my first ever Blackhawks game, which served as my first ever professional hockey game at all. The owner has season tickets, which he hands out like door prizes to all the people he likes that week, so I ended up watching my first ever professional hockey game from 7 rows back right behind the goal with the bartender, another bar employee (we will call him the body. Because the girls seem to enjoy his greatly ripped arms. I personally am not into such a build, but I thought "the body" was a nicer name than "the man-whore", if not quite as accurate.) and that guy's daughter.

The bartender and I got there well ahead of the body, which is to say we got there before the game started as opposed to halfway through the first period. We gathered some food and took it to our extremely awesome seats.

"Gene says nice sausage," said the bartender while looking at his phone. Apparently, my drinking buddy Gene Honda keeps binoculars up in his little PA announcer booth to spy on his friends in the not-so-cheap seats, and possibly scan the crowd for attractive women. He claims they are so he can see what's going on down on the ice, but when he texted us at the start of the third period, "Ice cream too!" I began to get suspicious.

Speaking of hot women, there was one just behind us. The bartender saw her first (as he tends to do). He elbowed me in the ribs. "Turn around." I did, and saw an attractive brunette about my age sitting with a guy who was completely unattractive and much much older. You know the Beastie Boys' Sabotage video, where they're dressed up like a 70's cop show with really bad helmet hair and huge unruly mustaches? That is what this guy looked like.

"Hot," I said, "but what is she doing with that guy? Is that her dad? Tell me that's her dad."

The bartender shook his head. "Money," he concluded. "She's with him because he has money." He paused. "I wish I had money. I need to fuck her."

As it turned out, I needed him to fuck her too, or better yet get a blow job from her, because as it turns out she has the duel problems of being incredibly stupid and unable to stop herself from talking.

Look, I'll be honest with you. I don't really know much about hockey. It's not a sport I've ever really followed. I used to go to a lot of games in college, but that was mostly to support my friend Mike and to scream "YEAH! MAKE HIM YOUR BITCH!" whenever someone got slammed into the boards. My knowledge of hockey is limited to the bare basics. I am not a hockey genius in any way.

But next to the hot dummy I certainly looked like one. For starters, she decided that she had a thing for Mark Bell, number 28 on the Blackhawks. But she couldn't figure out his name, even with it written on the back of his jersey. She simply referred to him as her boyfriend. "Look, there's my boyfriend!" she squealed everytime his line came on the ice. "Why is he leaving? Come back boyfriend!" she would cry out everytime his line went off. I rolled my eyes at the bartender.

"Not very bright there, your girl."

He grinned. "Those are the best kind."

Later she apparently missed the action while staring at her "boyfriend". Play had stopped for a hooking penalty. When she noticed no one was skating except one guy crossing the ice by himself, she questioned her benefactor. "What happened? Did that guy do something bad? Is he going to the bad boy box?" Later she would shorten this to "the bad box", which was only slightly less idiotic. I turned to the bartender.

"[Bartender], will you do me a favor and please go put something in her mouth? She just called the penalty box a "bad boy" box."

She then got loudly got confused about hockey having three periods instead of four quarters. I began to beat my head against the bartender's shoulder. I could hear the four guys sitting directly in front of her start speculating as I had that the poor stiff she was with was her dad. After having to hear about her boyfriend and how hot he was for nearly an entire game, Bell completely missed a pass and then immediately fell down flat on his face. One of the guys stood up pointing and shouted triumphantly, "THAT'S your boyfriend!" Our entire section busted up laughing.

Ultimately, the Blackhawks lost to the Islanders in overtime, but overall my first pro hockey game was pretty cool. I'm totally going again.

Tag - I'm It

Heather, who is an evil little monkey, tagged me with a meme this morning. I've never been tagged before, which I've always kind of gloated over (haha, I don't have to think up any stupid crap!), but then late at night when I was all alone in my bed, I would cry huge Precious Moments tears, because if no one was tagging me, it obviously means no one is paying any attention to me and if they are they don't find me interesting enough to want to know more.

But today the streak has ended, and now I've been instructed to tell you all three things you probably don't know about me, or risk spending the rest of forever burning in the 7th circle of hell or filing Satan's toenails or something. This is not easy given the broad range of people who read this blog and the fact that the entire point of Bizzybiz is for me to stroke my ego by talking about myself. Material is scarce. But here goes:

1. When I was little I HATED going to school. I know, you'd never know it given what a gigantic nerd I am now, but in elementary school it was all I could do to drag myself there. So I was always looking for ways to get out of school. One surefire way to get sent home from school is to throw up in class. But since it never occurred to me to just make myself throw up, I needed some other source of vomit. So I would spend, like, hours in my mother's bathroom, going through her make up and lotions and whatnot, trying to mix up something that looked and smelled like vomit. I even experimented with adding cotton balls so my fake puke would have "chunks". This, of course, never ever worked and I never tried the "fake puke" ploy in class. But I did use up tons of my mom's Mary Kay.

2. I can't stand fast food hamburgers. Any of them. McDonald's, Burger King, Wendy's, White Castle, Arby's, Rally's - none of them. You would have to starve me for a month to get me to eat one, and even then I'd make sure there was absolutely nothing else available to eat. At "real" restaurants though, hamburgers are probably in my top three favorite things to order.

3. One year on Easter, I snuck downstairs in the middle of the night and found all the Easter eggs. The next day, Brandon and I went looking for them, but I already knew where all of them were. Because I was pretty quick on the uptake, I realized that if I ran around scooping up all the eggs, my parents would know what I did, so instead I walked around all morning pretending to look for eggs. I made sure Cap got the same number of eggs as me so I wouldn't look suspicious. Ultimately, I gained nothing since I didn't use my advantage for fear I'd get caught. Also it wasn't any fun because I had nothing to look for. So it sucked and I never did it again.

Hmm. That was fun. Maybe I should make a whole post out stupid things I did when I was a little kid. Who's in?

OK, now for the really fun part! I get to inflict this incredible burden on three bloggers of my choice! So Cap, Hot Heather and Brooke (ha! you thought you'd escape way down south, didn't ya?), get crackin on things some crap I don't know. Preferably things I can make fun of you for later.

Top Things I Didn't See at my Birthday Party at Tai's

1. Anyone going by the name of Dave, Hutch, Keri, TK, Pablo, or whose last name rhymes with "Schmongola". Though I hear Chris and Steve were in on Friday. Asswipes.

2. Gene Honda's reaction to my Chief Wahoo birthday cake. I was in the bathroom when he came in. When I saw him later I asked if he thought my cake was pretty. He said "What's left of it" and mimed smashing it with his fist.

3. Left over cake. Gene had two pieces. So did the bartender and several others.

4. Hot Heather's boobs/the bartender's dick. Though Heather and I did scurry off to the bathroom so she could take a picture of my ass. And I did get to squeeze her boobs (I vaguely recall we were counting to four for some reason and demonstrated this by feeling each other up.)

5. Help from the staff. I was cornered by some short guy and a Canadian. They sang happy birthday to me in Polish and French, respectively, and then the short guy quickly became annoying with his repetitive attempts to kiss me. Also, some other guy kept licking my legs. Yes, licking them. Rather than rescue me the owner told him, "You owe me 10 bucks for her."

Birthday Loot!

Happy Birthday to me! The gifts are rolling in! So far:

• Birthday cards so far from my step-grandma (thad be Harriet for the fam), my dad and stepmom (with mulah), and the bartender (with 4 CDs of punk rock music he burned for me and drew lopsided smiley faces on);
• One text message from Hot Heather;
• One IM message from Fish;
• e-mail wishes from Cap (who will see me at Tai's), Simmy (who sang happy birthday to me, or, well, typed it), Heather (who points out that I'm old), Kelly (who will call before happy hour), Timmy (who hopes I get all my birthday wishes plus two more!) and Catholic Dennis (who wants me to have a good one);
• A phone call from my dad yesterday. He left a message on my voicemail which was perhaps the most words he's ever said to me all at once in my entire life. It went on for almost a whole minute;
• A hilarious video (probably not work safe due to penis drawings) from Hot Heather. OK, this was maybe not a birthday present so much as a MySpace bulletin she posted yesterday, but I saw it today and laughed, and it's my birthday, so I've decided it's a present;
• Cupcakes from my boss. This was partly for my birthday and partly because he'll use any excuse to go to Tag's Bakery in Evanston;
• The guys who write my favorite web comic, Cyanide and Happiness. Apparently they have telepathic abilities and knew it was my birthday today, but also believe I am a boy. Here is today's comic:

Cyanide & Happiness @ Explosm.net

• Jimmy Kimmel and God conspired to get me the best present of all. Last night I had planned to decorate my birthday cake, but after dinner I suddenly got really tired and fell asleep on the couch with the TV on. It was God who made me fall asleep, you know. Had I decorated the cake as planned and then gone to bed I would have missed it. But as it was, I fell asleep on the couch. And then God awakened me just as Jimmy was introducing his second guest of the night: BEN STEIN;
• The aforementioned birthday cake. Chocolate with homemade frosting depicting Chief Wahoo of the Cleveland Indians. From me.

I am still waiting to hear from my idol Jennie Smash, and for the assless chaps. But overall, I've been raking it in so far.
Let's continue this thing by leaving comments that say nice things about me! Or by sending assless chaps.

MySpace is a Liar, but They Make Up for it with Pacman

MySpace e-mailed me to tell me I had a message from Kelly. Great! I thought. Hmm. No. Because I tried to log in to MySpace and was told the following: "Site will be down for maintenance from 2:15AM PST to around 5:00AM PST. January 10, 2006."

Well, very nice. Except it was about 2:15 PM Central when I attempted this, which would make it 12:15 PM Pacific. Maintenance should have been finished hours ago. ALL LIES!

However, they have made amends. They did this by placing a traditional Pacman game, complete with original arcade sounds, on the welcome screen just under the Big Fat Lie. So now I'm surreptiously playing Pacman.

On an unrelated note, hot chocolate is so much better when you make it with milk instead of water.

Amber's Birthday Wish List!

The owner (of Tai's) called me last night while I was on my way home from work. Our conversation went like this:

Me: Well hi there.
Owner: What's up, man? (he calls everyone "man'.)
Me: Nothing. Where you at?
Owner: I'm sitting on the beach. (fucker's in Hawaii.) Where are you?
Me: Fuck you. On the train.
Owner: That's sort of the same. (he's also a sarcastic little shit.)
Me: Kind of. Except I'm wearing a coat, and I bet you're not.
Owner: Nope. It's 83 degrees here. (asshole.)
Me: Asshole. Is this the point of your call? To remind me that you're in Hawaii and I'm not and be a dick about it?
Owner: Well, not entirely, but yeah, that's the main reason. (see?) Seriously, though, what are you doing Wednesday?
Me: Working. I'll be home by 6. Why?
Owner: I was thinking maybe Wednesday night I could pick you and your paint brush up and we could go out. (for paint.)
Me: That could work. I'll call you. I can't actually do any painting on Wednesday though, I have to work in the morning. But I'm off Friday AND Monday. I could paint then.
Owner: Oh don't worry, we'll be spending plenty of time together in the next couple weeks. (Tai's has been closed since the day after Christmas. The owner is remodeling the entire back room, which is the room we are discussing having me paint. The work has been going on while the owner is vacationing in Hawaii. They are scheduled to open up again on Wednesday night, though there is some doubt about the work being done by then, which makes me nervous.)
Me: Are you really going to be open by Thursday?
Owner: Oh, yeah. We have to be, it's your birthday! (Yay! He remembered! Probably because I've been threatening him about being open on my birthday since Halloween.)
Me: You remembered!
Owner: I've been telling the workers they have to speed it up, because it's very important that we're ready to open by your birthday. I won't have it another way. (ok, now he's just mocking me.)
Me: Alright, I can't tell how made up that is, but I'm going to choose to believe you because it's sweet of you.
Owner: Isn't it? (such a dick sometimes.)

Anyway, the point of that story is that it seems likely Tai's will be open for my birthday as I'd hoped. Which means the first item on my birthday wish list has come true! In the event you've waited until the last minute to pick up a gift for my birthday (which, to recap, is Thursday), here is a list of things that would be appreciated:

1. A new roommate. Specifically the bartender, who has been planning a possible move into my storage room since early October, but so far has moved only a set of mixing bowls, some pots and pans, a few kitchen utensils and his golf clubs. If I can't get the whole roommate, I'd like to at least receive
2. His shower curtain. The first time I was ever at the bartender's place, the first thing I noticed was his shower curtain. It is made up entirely of 2 inch tall pictures of old Playboy covers. Oh, it is so very, very cool. He took it down months ago, since his current roommate couldn't seem to learn to keep the curtain closed so as to prevent mold. They are now using a plain black curtain instead. I know he still has the Playboy one. I vote it should be the next object he moves.
3. In addition to Tai's being open, I would like for all my Chicago friends to show up (Dave, I can't believe you. Your choices are my birthday party or a play and you chose the play? Is Keri in on this slap in the face as well? You guys are dead to me.) I'm baking a cake and everything.
4. Surrounded by my loving entourage, I would like for my birthday party to turn out better than last year.
5. Lots of blog comments. Especially from the two funniest bloggers I know: Heather and Jennie Smash. I have, like, the worst writer's crush on Jennie Smash. I mean, she is so cool she actually has cough syrup delivered. Mmm, cough syrupy Jennie Smash comments...
6. Giant dildos are, of course, always appreciated.
7. And I could use a digital camera, at least on loan, so my buddy Daniel can have a peek at my melons.
8. Ass-less chaps.

Addendum

MrSteve pointed out in the comments to my previous post that I left out an evening. Just for clarification, this was not due to a drunken blackout, but to the fact that you sometimes lose things when you haven't posted for two weeks. I've learned my lesson. So:
After the Thursday night drunken face sucking fest, I was kinda tired, so I spent most of Friday finishing up some Christmas shopping and napping. In the evening I got a call from MrSteve. "I was thinking about heading up to Tai's. Want to meet me up there?" My liver screamed NO! but my mouth said yes, so off I mosied to go meet Steve.
A word about MrSteve: MrSteve is such on here because that's how he labeled himself when he started leaving comments. In real life he's just "Steve". MrSteve is also a real person. He appears when "Steve" is mixed with "too much alcohol". I like Steve; he's smart and funny and way more cynical than me, which is an accomplishment. But I also like MrSteve, because man, that dude is nuts.
Steve had been at a party previous to showing up at Tai's, and at that party, Steve had been drinking wine. And then scotch. He continued with the hard liquor at the bar, and so it was that MrSteve came to be in the hizz-ouse.
Shortly after my arrival, there arrived another batch of girls and then the Honda. Apparently Steve had been a busy little socialite, because every girl in there had shown up after a phone call from Steve. "Wow, it's like you have your own harem," I told him.
"Not quite a harem, but I am responsible for all these girls being here."
"See? All the girls love you!"
Drunk Steve looked around and then, satisfied with his accomplishment, announced "HA! And my friends think I have no friends."
Which made no sense, and so I said, "That makes no sense."
A long pause while he combed through his last sentence for possible errors. And then he burst into side-splitting, almost maniacal laughter. MrSteve had arrived.
A midget in a cowboy hat had also arrived. (This is why I love Tai's. You can't make up stuff better than this.) He was very outgoing and friendly, playing the jukebox and dancing - he may have shot some pool too I think, but my memory of him is a tad hazy because I was doing that thing where you're staring at someone while trying not to look at them. I'm horrible, I know. The one thing I do remember about him was that he was a dancing freak. He danced with just about every girl in the place. The best was when he danced with a former regular whom I'll call Tall Cool Woman. She's over 6 feet tall, the midget came up to about her knee cap, AND she had the privilege of wearing his cowboy hat whilst they cut a rug.

While MrSteve was off entertaining Honda and the womenfolk, I found myself in a conversation with a complete jackass who simply would not go away. Our conversation went like this (but longer):
jackassguy: Do you hate men?
me: What???
jag: I mean, are you into men, or do you hate men?
me: Well, I don't really like to generalize...
jag: I'm Brian.
me: OK. Hi.
jag: Hi.
me: (trying to find something else to look at so he'll go away)
jag: I'm really shy.
me: Yeah, you seem it.
jag: No I am. I'm shy. I'm Brian.
me: I think you mentioned that.
jag: Where's your boyfriend?
me: Boyfriend? I don't have one.
jag: Why don't you have a boyfriend? Are you not into guys?
me: I believe we covered this already.
jag: Huh?
me: I already answered that.
jag: Oh. I'm shy.
me: Right.
jag:I'm Brian.
me: I know, I heard.
jag: Really? Where's your boyfriend?
me: You know what Brian? I'm kind of getting tired of this conversation.
jag: Why isn't your boyfriend fucking the shit out of you right now?
me: Uh...
jag: Do you like guys? Or are you just not into guys?
me: Dude, I really think you should find someone else to talk to. Seriously.
jag: I can't; I'm shy. Why don't you like guys?
me: Brian! Listen to me. I am done talking to you now. Please go away. This conversation is annoying.
FINALLY he went away. The bartender was leaning against the counter with his arms crossed watching this entire exchange and laughing at me. I glared at him. "Uh huh, laugh it up. Thanks for saving me, asshole. You're a dick."
"BWHAHAHA, that was fuckin FUNNY! Hey, and while you were talking to that guy, you didn't notice, but the midget was standing next to you staring at you. He was waiting to hit on you. But that guy talked so long he gave up. That was so fucking funny!"
In the interim, MrSteve had returned from wherever he was. He had his coat on and was almost out of scotch. Also he had the expression of a homicidal maniac on his face. "They tell me MrSteve is about."
"Yes, I can see that."
"How can you tell?"
"well, you're all squinty. And you're gesturing a lot."
"I'm emphatic."
"Yes."
"You can tell I'm loaded because I squint and I'm emphatic."
"Right. MrSteve: squinty and emphatic."
"Am I making monster faces?"
"Yes."
He laughed spastically and finished off his drink. "I think I'm going now before I get myself into trouble." I told him I thought that was a good idea, hugged and kissed him goodbye and he walked away (emphatically).
I figured with Steve gone, there was no point in hanging around, so I finished my beer, used the latrine and said my goodbyes. I got home around 3:00 am, went to bed and fell right to sleep.
At 3:30 my phone rudely announces that I've received a text message. Lo and behold, it's from Steve. "You left without saying goodbye." This confuses me, because he'd made a huge deal out of saying goodbye, so I text back, "I thought you left." "No. Leaving now. I would not have left without saying goodbye." What a spazz, I think to myself. "You DID say goodbye. That's why I thought you left." "I did? I don't remember that. I'm drunk!"
Ah, the squinty and emphatic MrSteve.

A Long December

K, sorry. I suck at posting as of late. First I had nothing going on to write about, then I had too much going on to have time to write, and now...well now I'm just being fucking lazy. Cryp took a break from feeding his monkeys long enough to leave me a comment, so I figured the least I could do was get off my ass and catch everyone up (for the record, darling, my new buzzy works GREAT *wink*).

It seems I got off track right around Christmas week. This is because I spent most of it inside the warm and comforting embrace of the Tais Til 4 establishment and you all know how that goes. Normally, as you know, I would only imbibe at said establishment on Thursday night, but Christmas week does not qualify as normal circumstances. We kicked off the week on Monday night with a little party called, depending on who you ask, A Very Bosco Christmas (named for the moderately ancient, exceptionally caustic, and frequently alcoholed Japanese bartender who happens to open that night) or Honda's Holiday Cocktail Hour (named for the slightly less ancient, equally caustic, hysterical-when-alcoholed Japanese local talent who happens to voice everything from the PA system for the world champion Chicago White Sox to my late night dreams when I fall asleep watching public television). It was very cold out that night and I was tired and tried to get out of it, but the bartender and MrSteve shamed me into going. I was glad I did or I would have missed the evening's most hysterical feature: The Sue Johanson Grab Bag.

Sue Johanson, for those who don't watch the Oxygen Network at midnight, is the host of the show Talk Sex with Sue Johanson. She is about 179 years old and very in your face with the sex advice, which is both funny and disturbing being that she's 179 years old. Sue had nothing actually to do with the bag; it was just a bunch of novelty sex shop items Honda had picked up from somewhere (his sock drawer? It's hard to say). For the girls, there was an assortment of little vibrators and penis tipped pens. The vibrators required various sized batteries, none of which were provided, though for some reason, Bosco had a selection of appropriately sized batteries to hand out to the masses. There were two gifts for the boys. TeacherBoy received a pack of nudie playing cards ("LESBIAN nudie playing cards!" specified the bartender when I asked what was going on on the other end of the bar. (Which was actually not true, they were girl on girl nudie cards, and if you don't know the difference you obviously need to watch more porn.)). And MrSteve was completely unimpressed with his grab bag prize, a pocket pussy. Unimpressed and unamused. So much so that the guy who ended up with it was, um, me. I named her Sexy Sadie and with the help of Hot Heather, I am currently testing to see what objects she can handle having shoved up in there (results to be posted soon).

Tuesday night was the Tai's staff Christmas party, and while I'm not technically on the staff, I do have a tendency to paint walls in there and collect empty glasses or clean up spills on the pool table if I'm in late on a weekend, so the owner graciously invited me. We had dinner at Graziano's, which was fantastic, and exchanged presents in the gift swap (I received a t-shirt from The Alley from the bartender which reads "Fuck Christmas" and depicts a drunk Santa screwing a reindeer, who in turn is happily puffing a fat cigar). We then went bar hopping. Bar hopping with the owner is a dangerous thing, because he is an evil man bent on getting everyone blitzed beyond the point of reasonableness. We started at Augie's which was DECKED THE FUCK OUT for Christmas. My jaw hit the floor when I walked in. Huge displays of snowmen and reindeer lit up in the windows, a train running in circles along the ceiling, and behind the bar a Christmas village with literally 80 buildings running the entire length of the counter in front of the bottles. I half expected them to have found a way to make real snow fall from the ceiling. I hardly drank anything there because I couldn't get my mouth closed long enough to swallow my beer. From there we went to Lange's which was much quieter and barely Christmased up at all, but due to the lack of crowd my stealth failed me and the owner ended up tequila shotting me half to death. After a brief trip to Tai's I headed briefly for home, until a call from the bartender caused me to get back out of bed to haul his drunk ass home from Nick's Uptown.

Wednesday night I took a break.

Thursday night at Tai's was still on, and so I headed up there for the usual. Unfortunately, it was not the usual. Cap headed up early and shortly after his entrance there arrived a drunk. "Shots all around, and then I'm leaving!" announced the random drunk. "I'm on my home and trying to hit every bar on the way and buy everyone a shot. I'm fucking Santa Claus!" Later on Hot Heather showed up, and there was much rejoicing. Not so much from her coming in, because she does that, but because of our decision to make out like porn stars while the world looked on. This also earned us some more shots. Before I knew it, the lights were on, the staff was restocking the bar and Heather was rocking on her feet moaning about dropping her phone in the toilet and she has to go home. She was in no condition to go home, so instead I took her to my place and tucked her in on the couch. Around 11 the next morning the office called wondering where I was. Um.

Since I wasn't going home for Christmas, the owner had invited me over Sunday for prime rib and football. I had also been invited to Hot Heather's place, but as I had promised to loan the bartender my car to visit his mom in Galena, I decided to walk to the owner's place.

Now it may come as a surprise to you, but I sort of have a thing for the bartender. You're stunned, I know. But the bartender has no interest whatsoever, and so I've been relegated to eternal friend status for all eternity. Despite this, I had kind of been hoping to get an invite out to Galena for the holiday. The owner knew this and took to dropping hints on my behalf, not because he's such a nice guy, but because he knows the bartender gets uncomfortable with the whole "what's with you and Amber?" thing and thought it would be hilarious. This seemed to not really work, and so by Christmas Eve I was resigned to football and prime rib (a huge sacrifice, I know). That night I called the bartender to wish him happy birthday and confirm the hour at which he'd be retrieving the car, and it was at that late date that he announced his MOM didn't want me sitting at home by myself on Christmas and had invited me to Christmas dinner at her house. And since I'm stupid, I went. I had a good time, his sister is always a riot and his mom makes a fine ham, but dude, you know?

After Galena we stopped over at the owner's place, where I did get to sample the scrumptious prime rib after all, and of course, down to Tai's for a drink.

So that pretty much catches you up to speed, other than a drunken New Years party at Gongolas where I sadly kissed no one at midnight and did not hook up, though I did work on keeping the kitchen reasonably straightened up and rescued a coffee table from drowning.

Viva 2006!

I Am Very Suave

Last night after work I went shopping at Cupid's Treasure. Cupid's Treasure, if you aren't from here and can't guess by the name, is a sex toy shop. Actually shop isn't even the right word, but we'll get to that.

I had multiple reasons to go there. First and foremost, I was on a mission to replace some of my vibrators that had broken because they were of poor quality*. Also, I was shopping for a birthday gift for a friend. Incidentally, I think everyone should have at least one friend where it is totally normal to buy them something from a sex store in a completely serious non-gag gift sort of way.

But I digress.

I had never been to Cupid's Treasure so I looked it up on Citysearch, which immediately filled me with trepidation. Not because I'd never been in a sex store before, I mean, come on, it's me, but it just gave me the impression that these people were really serious and I feared I would look silly and not be anywhere near their league. Also I was a tad nervous going there by myself. It's counter intuitive to feel better buying masturbatory materials with someone else you know there watching you I realize, but you all know of my fear of talking to people thing and God forbid I need to ask a question of someone whose league I am clearly not in.

Cupid's Treasure is in Boystown, and I'm rarely out that far east, so rather than roll the dice on trying to find a parking space, I just parked by Brandon's and walked. Halfway there I started to feel this was maybe a mistake. Or rather the mistake was in asking my stepmother for a bright red dress coat for winter which makes me completely stand out against all the other people dressed in logical neutral winter tones. LOOK AT ME, my coat seemed to scream, LOOK AT THE GIRL IN THE RED COAT GOING SHOPPING FOR SEX TOYS! Also I decided that wearing a red coat made me a target for muggers for some reason, and I was sore afraid.

At least until I turned on Halstead, because there I was greeted with the ginormous rainbow fallacies lining the streets that signify one has arrived in Boystown. This made me feel better because everyone knows that all gay people are really friendly and nice and so could not possibly be purse snatchers or the like.

"Cupid's Treasure" blinked up at me in red neon lights from across the street and I was instantly nervous again. I had two fears: 1) that the people outside the shop would think I was a sick disgusting pervert for going in and 2) that the people inside the store were going to think I was a completely naive little prude. But I had already come this far so I sacked it up and went inside.

Holy crap. I have never seen such an arsenal of plastic penis in all my life. It's not a shop so much as an emporium. Clevelanders, Ambiance and the like are total amateur hour compared to this place. It's humongus. As are some of the dildos I saw, several of which were literally as big around as a football. I really didn't get that because it seemed like it would be much cheaper to just go and buy a football. There is also a whole room, a really big room, stacked floor to ceiling with porn. I wasn't in the market for porn yesterday so I skipped that room, but I'll be back. Oh yes, I will be back. It could also double as a Halloween store because they had costumes for just about any type of person you might want to fuck. It caused me to decide that one thing I really needs is stockings and really, how have I survived without them? So I'll be back for those too.

The two things I was looking for I found with surprising ease, considering how much crap there was to sort through. It was almost as if I was drawn to exactly what I needed by some unseen sexual force. So I didn't have to ask for any store assistance, thankfully, and also I had tons of time to just wander around and take it all in. They have, like, everything there. I found myself thinking "ooh, I'll have to come back for that" and "interesting, but I'm really quite confident that I will never need nipple clamps". I was like kid in a candy store, or an adult in a sex toy store, which is in fact what I was.

Tearing myself away from my browsing, I went to pay for my items where the cashier guy stood looking completely bored, as if he had built up some kind of plastic penis tolerance or something. And I was totally cool handing him my stuff and paying for it. I was even cool when he opened one thing to put batteries in it and make sure it worked, and the sound of the vibrations on the countertop was loud enough to fill the entire store. He packed all my things in a discreetly unmarked black plastic bag and sent me on my way. I was cool right up until I turned back at the door and announced, "I love it in here!", but thankfully he just said that was wonderful and I should come back soon.

So yeah, totally painless and I was very mature almost the whole time. I was even kind of sad that my bag didn't scream Cupid's Treasures because suddenly I wanted everyone I passed to know how mature and confident in my sexuality I am. I then immediately suppressed that thought because what if some muggers came and stole my new penises? I then began to wonder if maybe I have some type of anxiety disorder I should see a professional about.

*because I might have gotten into the habit of clenching the cord in my fist, and I may have done that so frequently that I frayed the wires inside.

Post Decoupage

There really is nothing going on in my life right now that is big enough to write an entire post about. Instead, I give you some small pieces of story, which I will glue together in this post and then cover them with a clear lacquer. Please read in a well ventilated room.

My dad makes the best stuffing in the whole entire world, and I know this because I've eaten stuffing made by about four other people and his was the best. Also because my dad is the best at everything. But anyway, I decided it would be really fun and not at all taxing in any way to host a dinner party at my house for the Liz crowd, at which I decided to serve my dad's stuffing. I requested the recipe. The problem with this technique is that there IS no recipe, much like there is no recipe for almost anything he makes. He's one of those natural cooks where everything he does turns out fabulous, and everyone proclaims his awesomeness but secretly hates him for it. So the answer to my question went something like, "Well, you know, bread cubes, some onions and celery, saute those in butter, get some italian sausage, put that in there, chicken broth, pepper, parsley, sage, rosemary, thyme, just like the song (I'm not even kidding you, he said that), couple eggs, you might need some more water. Needs to bake about an hour." Which is not so much a recipe as it is a list of ingredients, and so I was left on my own to figure out proportions of things, which I did mostly by sight as I know what the stuffing is supposed to look like. At any rate it seemed to work, and it got rave reviews and I'm going to make stuffing all the time now.

Speaking of the holiday dinner, I am so Fabulous at throwing parties that Martha Stewart should be watching MY show for ideas. This is mainly because I am insanely anal and make endless lists, and also a schedule for the entire day which actually began with the entry "Wake up". I had tasteful holiday plates, and cloth napkins with festive napkin rings, and an actual TABLECLOTH. All my flatware matched and so did my wine glasses, in which I served actual wine just like a real grown up. Candles and festive lights were our only illumination and Frank Sinatra softly crooned holiday classics from some unseen location while we chewed. All the food came out at the right time and was delicious including, it seems, the mashed potatoes. I was a little troubled about the potatoes because I think they are vile and so I've never actually made them before. And my arm almost fell right off too, from the actual mashing of them, because I kept seeing little tiny chunks and had no idea whether or not that was normal so I was trying to destroy every last one. When I was finished I had no idea if they were going to be awesome or ass because even if they are awesome they're going to taste like ass to me and knowing this I sure as hell wasn't about to sample them for no good reason. People asked for seconds, and thirds, and then they took the whole bowl home with them, so I'm assuming that's good. Though I still haven't gotten an answer about the chunks.

When people send you mixed nuts for the holidays, and the mix happens to include peanuts, everything in the bag will taste like a peanut.

Today I was at Walgreens getting a bag of Doritos for lunch and saw maybe the stupidest thing ever. They have these really ugly-ass black and grey stockings that scream "CHICAGO WHITE SOX WORLD SERIES CHAMPIONS 2005" on the side. You'd think that's the stupid part but you'd be wrong. Because stuck to each of these hideous oversized socks is a big round yellow sticker which reads, I kid you not, "$14.99 or $14.99 each". I can only assume these stickers were issued by the Department of Redundancy Department.

Melle is at it again, and this time she cut off even more of my hair and turned a good chunk of what remained a bright red-purple plumlike color. I am way extremely hot right now, enough to even overlook that extra layer around my waist, because da-ymn. Also, when I found the bartender wandering down Addison, attempting to walk from the Addison blue line stop to his car at Tai's three and a half miles away in 25 degree weather with a giant suitcase and no hat (uphill both ways) and I stopped to give him a ride, he looked at my hair and said, "Your hair looks nice," which if he's speaking directly to you means "I would totally fuck you right now" because he's one who's sparse with the compliments. Or maybe he was just grateful for the ride, it's hard to tell.

I've been having incredible spider luck lately and it's kind of scaring me because I think they're trying to lull me into a false sense of security before the big assault. But while cleaning for the holiday dinner, out of nowhere there's this GIANT SPIDER crawling around on my wall. I'm known for exaggerating the size of my eternal tormenters but in this case I don't even have to because this asshole was the size of a daddy long legs. And in a big fat hurry. I had just closed the front door when I saw him running along at a frightening clip on the adjacent wall. I screamed and stood paralyzed, as per usual. When he got to the door, though, he stopped on the molding and looked around, not with malice, but in confusion. Then it hit me and I somehow mustered up the courage to re-open the door. Through the crack of which he promptly crawled out as if he were late for his own wedding or something. I don't know if maybe he was doing recon or if he just wasn't a fan of ceramic pine trees or stockings hung by the chimney with care. Either way, he left and I was grateful.

Here is why my cousin Rick is funny: He e-mailed me to ask how things were in Chicago, so I wrote back that they were fine, I liked my apartment and my neighborhood and I had become a regular at Tai's. He answered me, "I'm glad to hear that you are a regular. I was afraid when you moved to Chicago you'd become a large."

Amberance in 2016!

PGS DenMILF: heather and i have decided to run for president
PGS DenMILF: on the "everquest is stupid" platform
PGS DenMILF: we figure it will be a landslide victory
PGS DenMILF: because everyone who opposes us will be too busy playing everquest to vote
Fish: seems sound enough
PGS DenMILF: now all i have to do is turn 35

More IM Fun with Amber and Heather

For today's random topic, we chose the film "Sin City" and discussed why I couldn't watch it past the first 20 minutes:

PGS DenMILF: it's like [the bartender] picturing himself in his buddies sex stories
VelociHeather: ah
VelociHeather: you pictured yourself in it
PGS DenMILF: all i can think of is what it must be like for someone to cut off my hand and make me watch them eat it
PGS DenMILF: and then i want to throw up
VelociHeather: gross
PGS DenMILF: if i'm ever captured by the enemy and thrown in prison they'll get much further fucking with my head than they will with running electricity through my genitalia
VelociHeather: and voila - there's the quote of the day
VelociHeather: hello next blog post
PGS DenMILF: you're my muse
VelociHeather: I try
VelociHeather: i still have a really old hand-scrawled note I wrote myself back in college
VelociHeather: it was a quote from you I wrote down on a post-it
VelociHeather: "Some people think i'm sarcastic, but really i'm just a bitch"

Ask A Silly Question...

Among his other responsibilities, Catholic Dennis runs a football pool at the number factory. When I first started playing, he walked around with little half sheets of paper and scored them by hand, but now he's all high tech and we make our selections on the internet. I've played off and on since I started working there. So far this year I've missed about half the season, though I did win one of the weeks I played. The past two weeks I didn't get around to it, so when he sent out the link today, it was accompanied by another e-mail asking, politely, where I've been lately. After I answered him, I got another e-mail that read "Boy did I open myself up to that one! Note to self: never ask open ended questions to Amber." I can't imagine why:

I know, I’m sorry!!!!!!! I missed the window Thanksgiving week due to traveling, then I forgot to ask Jeff for his real-gambler-with-two-fantasy-teams insight last week. Actually, none of that is true; I was kidnapped the day after Thanksgiving and forced to join the circus, until the powers that be in the MINI Cooper cult noticed I hadn’t been “motoring” and mounted a rescue mission led by Marky Mark Wahlberg and Ed Norton. On the way back we robbed a sauerkraut factory, then gave everything away to a band of homeless gypsy orphans (we were feeling the Christmas spirit, you see). When we got back, Ed signed my copy of American History X and Mark tried several times to give me a copy of Planet of the Apes, which I declined. Then we all went to see Blue Man Group, but it was sold out so we went bowling instead. So I didn’t really have time to make my picks, but I will this week, Scout’s honor.

How Did I Not Know This?

I take my guy-like tendencies very seriously. My ability to intelligently discuss sports, use crass language and ogle a nice pair of tits on par with the boys fills me with pride. So when I come across a guy thing that I don't know about, I get really surprised and sort of angry with myself.

My Sunday morning call from the bartender contained one of these things. He was telling a story about a couple who are regulars at the bar. They are not a particularly attractive couple, but they are nice, and usually pretty quiet, especially the girl. Not so that night.

"[She] was so drunk. Usually she's so quiet, you know? But she was all drunk and screaming stuff. Like, 'I'm so fucking horny! I needed to get fucked! People think I'm all reserved, but really I just like to get FUCKED. REALLY. HARD.' It was fucked up."

"You're fucking kidding me. She never talks like that!"

"I know. She was all crazy. So then I said to [him] 'I better cut you off from that whiskey, bro, or you're going to be in trouble later.' And then [she's] like 'No, it's cool; if he's too drunk I'll just make him eat my pussy all night.' Haha, isn't that gross? I told the other guys and they were all saying I always say the grossest things to them. It's awesome. I bet I hold the top five grossest things [the owner's] ever heard!"

"Yeah, that is pretty gross, but then again, it's [him] that's eating her out, and he's no picnic either, so it's not that gross because at least they kind of match."

"No, you don't get it. They were all picturing that they were the one eating her out."

"Shut up. Seriously? Why?"

"That's what all guys do. When someone tells you about a chick they're fucking, you don't picture your buddy fucking them, you picture yourself."

"You're fucking kidding me. I always picture that stuff in third person, like I'm standing there watching it."

"Nope, guys picture themselves. It's just how we are."

"Wow. No wonder. You're right then, that is pretty fucking gross."

OK. Guys. Help me out here. Is this accurate? Everyone does this? And why didn't anybody ever tell me? I feel so female right now. It's bothering me. I need to go rip ass on a crowded train and then tell all my friends about it or something to get this girlie taste out of my mouth.

Um...

Usually I don't end up getting any spam e-mail at work because it gets filtered out before it gets to me. And when it does get to me, it is usually still filtered into a junk e-mail folder. Today though, one got through. And it was weird:

with his teeth, and set him free, exclaim You ridiculed the idea of my ever being able to help you, expecting to receive from me any repayment of your favor; I now you know that it is possible for even a Mouse to con benefits on a Lion. The Charcoal-Burner and the Fuller A CHARCOAL-BURNER carried on his trade in his own house. One day he met a friend, a Fuller, and entreated him to come and live with him, saying that they should be far better neighbors and that their housekeeping expenses would be lessened. The Fuller replied, The arrangement is impossible as far as I am concerned, for whatever I should whiten, you would immediately blacken again with your charcoal.

I didn't cut the beginning off: that's just how it came. Is it all like this? Because if so I wish I got more spam. It's funny.

Morning Bartenderism

Discussing a friend of ours who is a bit of a flake:

"Chris is so dumb that when he's reading a book he's not sure when he's supposed to turn the page."