The Anniversary Dinner Story

A couple weeks ago marked the first anniversary of my first date with the agent and because I am either an awesome girlfriend or friggin' psychotic (depending on how you look at it), to me this meant an elaborate surprise needed to be prepared entirely by me in the form of dinner. The menu:

Pear pistachio salad with raspberry walnut vinaigrette
Blue cheese crusted Fillet Mignon with port wine reduction sauce
Alaskan King Crab legs with garlic butter
Garlic mashed potatoes (strictly for the agent obviously)
Tiramisu

Preparations for this included, but were not limited to: buying a cast iron skillet, discussing and selecting a bottle of wine for dinner with a TOTAL STRANGER, shiny new black linens for the table, a dozen red roses, a long black evening gown which gives the illusion of my having breasts and the soon to be infamous making of the tiramisu.

The key to any good surprise is the ability to keep it a secret, so to that end, I told the agent that I had made dinner reservations somewhere and it was a huge secret he would not learn until I gave him directions. In the meantime, I waited until he left for work on Saturday and snuck over to his apartment to prepare. I cleaned the kitchen and set the table, prepped everything that could be prepped, and laid out everything I would need for cooking later. Then I got in my car and went home because a) the bartender needed the car to go to work later and b) my car being at the agents house would be very suspicious. Very. After that I hopped on a bus to head back over and finish getting ready.

In my head I was imagining a very specific scenario where the agent calls me when he was leaving work. "I'm on my way to pick you up!" he says (in my head), and I reply, "Actually I think you should just come home." Then he drives home in confusion and arrives to find the table elegantly set and candles lit and Vivaldi playing softly in the background and me all dressed up smiling and handing him a glass of delicious Portuguese wine. At this point he variously starts crying or declares me the greatest woman who ever lived or immediately takes off his pants (fantasies vary).

This is what I was picturing right up until I got of the bus and walked toward his backdoor... which is when I saw his car parked behind the house. I tried to convince myself that it wasn't really his car, just some other car of the exact make, model and color that happened to be parked in his spot.

"Why are you home?" I shouted when he answered the door in his underwear. The one thing I hadn't counted on was my ability to tell a believable lie. The agent was so excited about the fancy restaurant that we weren't going to that he decided to come home early to change and get cleaned up. He managed to arrive in the 45 minutes that I was gone and figured it out when he saw the table all set.

The best laid plans....

Anyway. Dinner was fine and the agent was suitably impressed and everybody wins! and then it was time for dessert, which I was excited about not so much to eat the dessert but to tell the story of it. And that story is next.

The Grand Announcement - For Real This Time Version

With as much fanfare as I can muster having gotten only a few hours sleep, I am proud to (finally) present Episode 1 of Dumbassity. You can download it here or subscribe to it here.

A brief warning: Unless your boss is Larry Flint or you are a porn foley, there is absolutely no way this podcast is even remotely safe for work. It is also not safe for children, the sexually repressed or the vast majority of my family. I'd like to reiterate that last part: if you are related to me but are not part of my generation or named Rick, my advice is to skip this podcast and put on a nice quiet Michael W. Smith record instead.

For everyone else, please realize that a) this is our first podcast b) we lost a solid 20 minutes of BRILLIANT material because we weren't actually recording and c) MrSteve and I are on a learning curve with the new editing software we've each acquired. We will get funnier with time. I swear. We welcome comments and suggestions (provided they are not "This is the WORST fucking podcast I have ever heard in my life! You should all jump off a bridge and end your miserable existence."). You can make them here.

Thank You Captain Obvious, For Clarifying That

Joe Morgan on Sunday Night Baseball: The slower the pitch, the longer the batter has to recognize what it is.
Me: This just in: the ball is round and the bats are wooden.

Where is Wendy the Snapple Lady When You Need Her?

Dr. Pepper Snapple Group Inc. began trading on the New York Stock Exchange today. Shares of the third largest soft drink manufacturer in the U.S. which was recently spun-off from Cadbury Plc. opened lower than expected, showing that investors are reluctant to invest in a company that makes and markets Diet Cherry Vanilla Dr. Pepper, despite the fact that normal Diet Dr. Pepper really does taste more like regular Dr. Pepper.

Mr. Pibb declined to comment for this story.

The View From The Cheap Seats Is Good

A mainstay of televised baseball is the gratuitous crowd shot which, more often than not, is of some busty blond in a tiny tank top or a general assortment of really hot chicks. Of course these are not the only fans in attendance, but a fat guy eating a brat just is not good television. The bartender summed this up succinctly:

"You want to see the nipples! I'm sorry, but that's baseball."

Amberance Gives Accurate Descriptions

Gene: I'm not familiar with The Devil's Rain.
Me: Oh, dude, it is terrible, but the cast is ridiculous. It's got Ernest Borgnine, Tom Skerritt...
MrSteve: Joan Prather, Ida Lupino...
Me: William Shatner, and also a very young...um...who is the scientologist that isn't Tom Cruise?
MrSteve: John Travolta?
Me: That's the one.

The Grand Announcement - Premature Version

Did you guys see that in the comments? Pronto yelled at me! Yelling frightens me and makes me nervous, so here is the reason for the lack of posting:

I, along with Melle and MrSteve, have started a podcast. You can't listen to it because we're not done editing, and you can't visit the website because it has nothing on it. You CAN however know that it is called Dumbassity and that it is the reason why there has been no posting here. Also I am quite with the busy at work here for a few more weeks. My ability to multi-task is small and my creativity is finite.

I'll post a much better and informative announcement here when there is an actual website/file, and I will post better blog posts the moment I get a life.

Lunchbox Full of Crazy

In the course of one 5 minute conversation with BrownsFan I said:

• I had $1.68 to spend on lunch and didn't know what to get. (I actually had another $40 but that is bar money and not lunch money.)
• I need lunch today, as opposed to other days when I don't eat any lunch, because on Thursdays I go grocery shopping before I go to Tai's and the last three weeks in a row I grabbed a box of croutons (despite no plans for a salad of any kind) and proceeded to EAT THE ENTIRE BOX before going to the bar. Today I was eating lunch in an attempt to avoid this.
• I couldn't go to a little grocery store around the corner because I hadn't been there before and I needed a "guide" the first time so I could learn the "proper procedure". Therefore I had no choice but to get some Doritos from Walgreen's.
• Despite the fact that I drink enough milk to warrant a cow of my own, I don't like it in my cereal.
• I hate Oreos.

Kitty Kitty, Here

Did this happen two blocks away from my apartment? Yes. Yes it did.

I No Has Gud Flavor?

Me: I'm hungry. But I get to eat a pineapple ring when I get home, so that will be good.

BrownsFan: Oh yeah, that will be good.

Me: Oh! You know what? I have pickles at home! I can have...

BrownsFan: No. Do not eat pickles with a pineapple ring.

Me: Why not? They're sweet pickles.

BrownsFan: DO NOT eat pickles with pineapple. Don't do it. Do not do it.

Me: But they're both sweet...

BrownsFan: No.

Me: OK, what if I eat the pineapple ring and then waited 10 minutes and then ate the pickles?

BrownsFan: (considering) What are you going to drink in between?

Me: Milk.

BrownsFan and Co-worker make wretching noises and run away from me.

Me: What?

The Glorious Interweb

It happens to be that I have a very good reason why I haven't blogged in two weeks. It is because I have been spending my time working on a super secret project (or super annoying, sick of hearing me talk about it project if you happen to work with me or are my friend on Facebook or are Gene Honda) and I can't blog about it until it's finished. At which time there will be a grand unveiling n' shit. But currently I do not have the time or creativity for original blog content.

Fear not, my friends from a series of tubes!* For the World Wide Net is vast, and has much fabulous content which I shall tell you about starting.....now.

For those who weren't in the know during the early-mid 90's, the most hilarious show ever to air on MTV was the brilliant sketch comedy show The State. It's been off the air lo these many years, but the bigger travesty is MTV's inexplicable refusal to release the show on DVD. So it was with great surprise and overwhelming joy that I stumbled across the first season of The State for sale at the iTunes Music Store. If you are a fan of The State and you have i Tunes, I highly recommend you shell out less than $10 and download the shows so you can finally explain to your friends who missed it the first time around just what the hell you're talking about when you yell out "I wanna dip my balls in it!"

In the short space of three months, my brother's girlfriend has managed to get her blog named one Chicago's best by the Tribune, be chosen as blogger of the week, also by the Tribune and perhaps most difficult, become my favorite blog on the web. Realize, she is in direct competition with Jennie Smash and The Sneeze for this title. She is The Reckless Chef, and she is extraordinarily gifted at creative cooking, photography, writing and setting herself on fire. From her recipe for Pineapple Upside-Down Pork:

"If you’re using a 13×9 pan and a standard can of pineapple rings, you should have exactly one left over. Eat it. It’s tasty."

For a good time, call The Fail Blog. At it's best it will get you caught not working at work because of all the laughing. At the very least it will make The Reckless Chef's ability to set herself aflame seem perfectly reasonable.


*The Internet is not a truck.

Tip #329 On How To Avoid Becoming The Crazy Cat Lady

Do not Google Image search "pile of kittens".

Viva Vibrator

You've all seen the Viagra commercials I assume? Bunch of middle-aged dudes sitting around with their guitars, jamming in someone's garage, singing a parody of "Viva Las Vegas"? In the newer one, they've doubled in number and moved into a recording studio, ostensibly to lay down tracks for "Viva Viagra". In all of them they are smiling smiles of great joyness. I ask you, who is the advertising genius who thought this up?

REAL MEN DON'T ACT LIKE THIS. And I don't mean that as in "No macho guy's guy would behave in such a manner", I mean it as in "Human males regardless of their relative masculinity or effeminateness don't sit around singing to each other about erectile dysfunction". It's just not something you discuss with an entire roomful of people. Nor is it something you write songs about. It is especially not something you record songs about. Regardless of the quality of instrumentation, no such song will ever be aired on Casey's Top 40, I promise.

And another thing, I would not sleep with any of those people. It's not because they need Viagra and it's not because of their age relative to mine. It is because sitting around merrily singing about Viagra makes them look like a bunch of goofball idiots, and goofball idiots are not attractive (think Tom Greene. See?). It's also likely to end any such budding musical career through cause and effect:

Sing asinine song about Viagra --->Look ridiculous--->Become completely unattractive--->No one will sleep with you--->No need for Viagra--->Nothing to sing about

Just a little feedback from someone in the secondary target group for this product.

Even Mr. Rogers Would Be Aggravated

The occupants of my six flat building are as follows: Nice couple with annoying dog, nice lady with cat, nice girls who take a lot of baths in the jacuzzi tub, nice couple with no dog, the bartender and me, and Crazy Next Door. It's a miracle, really, that I've managed to get this far into my lease without blogging about Crazy Next Door.

Crazy Next Door is a petite, probably alcoholic (based on the case of Old Style she hauls up three flights of stairs daily), apparently independently wealthy (based on the food she has delivered daily, also the fact that no one has ever seen her go to a job) woman who smells like a walking ashtray and vacillates between creepy and weird, mean and weird, and drunken psycho. In the summer she enjoys browning her already crispy leather skin on the back porch, to the bartender's horror. In the winter, she tends to favor passing out drunk while forgetting to let her animals inside. All year round she entertains a handful of questionable friends.

A while back I had ordered a shirt and a bracelet from the internets because they were on sale and I hate all my clothes. I tracked my shipment with my handy FedEx tracking number, and on March 5th my package was deemed delivered. Except when I got home there was nothing there. I called FedEx, who again told me I had it even though I didn't have it. FedEx did their best to look for it on their end but couldn't find it. A week passed. Deeming the package lost I filed a claim with FedEx and waited. This past Tuesday I came home from work to find a Macy's bag hanging on my doorknob. It contained the skirt and bracelet I had ordered, which were without their original packaging and now reeked of smoke. While I went around lamenting the incompetence of FedEx, here Crazy had stolen my package, opened it, kept it for THREE WEEKS and then attempted to anonymously return it without bothering to try to mask her scent. And most disturbing of all, no one in the building was surprised.

No one was surprised, of course, because previous to this she had:

• left a bag of dog shit at couple with annoying dog's back door. The shit was from her dog not theirs;
• gotten caught by the building engineer throwing her garbage into the yard from her third floor porch;
• deliberately or accidentally poured a bottle of whiskey out on the porch, which ran down to the two proches below it and cause our entire backyard to smell like Maker's Mark for a week;
• yelled at couple with no dog when one of HER friends wandered into THEIR apartment because they'd forgotten to lock the door;
• accused the agent and me of spying on her when I opened the door so he could leave and she happened to be standing in the hallway;
• etc. etc.

I look forward to wearing my new clothes once they've been fumigated and disinfected.

Amberance Is Not A Nice Person

Greenpeace volunteer soliciting people on the street: It will only take 60 seconds to help save the trees.
Me (without breaking stride): I hate trees.

Tiny Tiny Update

Ladies and germs, it is my pleasure to introduce you to Jonah, my new tiny tiny (stuffed) whale:

This is, I think, the closest I will ever get to my dream of a real tiny tiny whale. As you can see, he fits perfectly in my hand, and he even has his tail turned up just the way I like it. I do wonder why Ty, Inc. didn't find it important to sew a dorsal fin on him, but I suppose since he won't actually be doing any swimming he'll be fine without it. I am filled with near-joy.

It's the Little Things In Life...

Sea World is fucking with me.

You know how I said I will suddenly declare that I want something I can't have, either because it's not at all practical or (more likely) doesn't exist? Yeah. Well. I am driving the agent crazy, but it is not my fault this time.

Sea World has this new commercial out (which I can't seem to find anywhere on the intertubes otherwise I would link to it so you could see exactly what I'm talking about) in which, I've concluded, they are deliberately fucking with me. What it does is to play around with reality, like you see dolphins swimming through the loops of a roller coaster and the sizes of things are all out of proportion and what not. It's the disproportion thing that's doing it to me. Right about the middle of the commercial, there is a shot of a little girl. She holding out her hand palm up in front of her and sitting on her hand is a tiny, tiny killer whale. As if this is not cute enough, the whale then proceeds to cheerfully lift its little tail up in the air behind it to the delight of the little girl (and more importantly me) before the commercial moves on to the next shot.

I WANT ONE.

And I have not shut up about it since I first saw it. It's a huge conundrum. I can't have one because they don't exist, but it is obvious that I can't live without one. At first I wanted a whole menagerie of tiny tiny animals. "Animals are so much cuter in miniature," I told the agent. "If they existed, I would get a tiny tiny elephant, the size of a medium dog and it would follow me around the house and make little trumpet sounds with its trunk when I came home...oh! And also a tiny tiny rhino, like a cat sized rhino. Yeah, a cat sized rhino would be a perfect rhino. But I would love my tiny tiny whale the best."

I elaborated on my plans for the whale. "See, cause they're mammals you know. And they breathe air. So as long as I kept him wet I could take him out of his tank and carry him around. We could watch tv together, or I could carry him into the kitchen and feed him...what do whales eat? Tiny tiny fish I guess. I could feed him tiny tiny fish and ooo you know what else? If they made miniature seals I could feed him those too! Killer whales love to eat seals. Who is that guy that the whale ate in the bible? Jonah. That's what I would name him. Jonah." I frequently demonstrate how his little tail would flip up when I held him in my hand.

Last night, right in the middle of Die Hard, I turned to the agent with a pressing question. "Do you think, if I did have a tiny tiny whale, (here he rolled his eyes) I would be disappointed if he didn't do the tail thing?"


The agent says he dates me because I am always entertaining*. Hmm.


*Just think how much more entertaining I could be if I had a tiny tiny whale!

Meat and More Meat

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



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

Cookie Proofs

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

The whole thing seemed perfectly obvious to me.

The Cookie Follies

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

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

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

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