In America We Celebrate The Failure Of Others. USA! USA! USA!

H-Town: dude - manny ramirez suspended 50 games for testing positive for steroids!

me: BWAHAHAHAHAHA this is the best news I've heard in a week

H-Town: so much for that winning record of the dodgers!

me: this is perfect. he looks even more like a complete douche than his contract holdup bullcrap did

H-Town: 50 games! i just can't believe that

me: i wish it was the whole year.
i am such a horrible person. this makes me so happy

H-Town: that doesn't make you a horrible person

me: no you're right. it makes me a proud american

H-Town: exactly
schaudenfreude may be a german word, but americans can say it
maybe not spell it, but we can say it
speaking of that word, i KNEW that Ms. Calif would have something bad come out about her background
hello naked photos

me: YYYYEEESSSS! What a brilliant day. It makes me want to wrap myself in a flag and hug my freedom

H-Town: hahaha
(think neil diamond) - Nudie pics from far away - they're comin' to America
you think they're gone but they're here to stay....they're comin to America
everyone from 'round the world
they're gonna see your nudie pics
TODAY!
*tempo slows*
My country tis of theee (NUDIES)
sweet land of irony... (NUDIES)
your ass I see (NUDIES)
*rocks out*

me: lolz

Next You'll be Telling Me Sandy Cheeks is a Crack Smoking Pole Dancer.

I like to think that I am not an alarmist, particularly where it comes to kids. I think it must suck for them to not be able to go roller skating without a helmet, elbow and knee pads, I'm not worried that they're all trying to kill themselves by swallowing Duplo blocks and I don't think the world is going to end if they accidentally hear someone say "damn" on tv.

But this?

This is just wrong on so many levels. First of all, The King in and of himself is creepy as all fuck. He is the bizarre love child of Guy Fawkes and a child rapist - he gives ME nightmares and I am (ostensibly) a grown woman. Then there's the dancing hos....are you serious? Stuffing a shoebox down their pants is not fooling anyone, Burger King. We all know you are selling sex to little kids. Congratulations, you have somehow managed to sexualize a beloved, mentally challenged, burger-flipping Porifera. And you, Sir Mix-a-lot. I suppose you really did need the exposure - I actually thought you were dead. It's comforting to know that 17 years after your one hit wonder, you continue to have absolutely no standards*. "Booty is booty"? Yeah right. Crap is crap, but you don't see me running around turning kids meals into disturbing fetish porn, do you?


*It was NOT comforting to look that up and realize that song came out 17 years ago. Thanks for that too, douchebags.

Jenny and Amberance Can't Handle The Hard Stuff (Or Bad Music)

Mrs. Sizemore: vicodin is WEIRD
just a psa

me: um....?
oh, from your tooth

Mrs. Sizemore: yeah
i thought i would be tough and not take it
but that lasted about 4 hours and then i caved

me: yes, my old roommate jim was a big fan of that particular weirdness. mixed with copious amounts of beer and goldschlager

Mrs. Sizemore: oh yikes
i do not want to mix with anything

me: he has a bit of a death wish

Mrs. Sizemore: i keep getting waves of this strange, swimmy feeling
also, i keep crying

me: from the vicodin? i guess that would explain jim's penchant for emo, emo eyeliner

******later******

Mrs. Sizemore: blaaah
i officially do not like vicodin
why anyone would use this recreationally is astounding

me: reality is for people who can't handle drugs

Mrs. Sizemore: side effects?

me: of reality? walls staying still, only seeing one of something, inanimate objects do not talk and/or stare at you, no imaginary limbs growing out of your abdomen or flesh melting off your hands, etc.

Mrs. Sizemore: hmm
those are all correct
the side effects of the vicodin are not as pleasant
i am dizzy and hot
and also i keep wanting to cry

me: i would definitely stay away from the Fall Out Boy and My Chemical Romance CDs then

Wait, What?

Me: Dean Martin's voice melts my vagina.

The agent: Yeah, mine too.

Disparity

The agent: We could sing "The Luckiest". I'll have to transpose it down so that it's more in your range. We should write some harmonies for it. We'll be like Simon and Garfunkel! You can be Art...

Me: Yeah, I'll be Garfunkel and you'll be talented.

Ready For Prime Time

Last night after several hours of wrestling with my kitten in an attempt to get her to stop sucking on my neck and kneading my trachea so I could sleep (and breathe), I finally fell asleep only to be reawakened 30 minutes later at 2 a.m. The bartender was home 2 hours early and was talking under his breath, at first appearances to himself. Moments later I realized he was actually talking to a second, as yet unidentified person. I would have been touched that they were keeping their voices down to keep from waking me, were it not for the fact that they were simultaneously ripping packaging tape off of what sounded like an enormous cardboard box three feet from my bedroom door. A most hilarious fail.

Anyway, long story even longer, the mystery voice turned out to be the owner, and the mysterious box contained a 42 inch 1080p flat panel television. Inexplicably, this television turned out to be a completely random gift for me from the bartender.* He had apparently decided that I "needed" this to be able to watch football correctly. I am overwhelmed and completely bewildered. I am also certain that my roommate is awesome and possibly quite a bit more crazy than I thought.

*The huge cardboard box and giant Styrofoam blocks became a gift for Angela, who immediately commandeered them and built herself an enormous kitty fort taking up half the usable floor space in my living room.

Wisdom Of The Agent

Me (trying to open the door before it was unlocked): Oops. I was premature.

The agent: You're not mature at all.

Kitty At My Foot And I Want To Touch It

It's been a hectic week, and here is the reason:




The animal you don't see is a tortoiseshell kitten named Angela, who recently moved into the Chateau de Chubs (colloquially known as Amber's apartment). The reason you can't see her is that she is 12 weeks old and therefore not inclined to sit still for photography purposes at any time. I assure you she is cute in the my-eyeballs-are-melting-and-i'm going-to-vomit-pink-flowers-while-having-a-heart-attack sense of the word "cute".

Angie enjoys chasing anything that moves or looks like it could move, any basin meant to contain water (until she gets wet), attempting to suckle from my neck, standing on my face when I'm trying to sleep, trying to jump on the stove, walking on my laptop keyboard and combing my hair with her tiny paws.

The agent and the bartender are completely smitten with her. I have to be vigilant or one of them will certainly catnap her. And as for the rest of you, I'm not telling you where I live.

'Cause Amberance Is Your Lady

H-town: ok, my ipod is calling me super homo gay
it played that lady in red song, and now it's playing air supply

me: I tried to play some Air Supply for [the agent], I think he had to concentrate really hard not to punch me in the face

Smobke Smobke Smobke!

I have startlingly different thresholds for pain depending on where I am and who happens to be standing next to me. I realized this yesterday when I went to the dentist to have a few cavities taken care of.

My dentist, Dr. Joe, deemed me "an exemplary patient". This is because I did not complain, squirm, flinch, attempt to talk, require a break, get my tongue in the way, make horrible pained faces, kick my legs, pee my pants or ask for laughing gas during the entire two hours he was drilling, sucking, chipping at, filling, filing and sealing my teeth. I was a model of stoicism, virtually a practice mannequin (if dentists had any such thing) and I smiled and cheerfully waved goodbye as I left.

In contrast, I was the most high maintenance and annoying roommate in the history of the world once I got home 10 minutes later. I kept up a constant stream of whining from 6 pm until I went to bed at 11: "Wah, I can't feel my face, my lips don't work, I can't drink this milk, I spilled pop all over myself, I can't chew spaghetti, just give me a bowl of sauce, the sauce is spilling out of my face, ow! the numbness is wearing off, my face is throbbing, I want ice cream, I need aspirin, how will I ever get to sleep like this? boo hoo hoo, bitchmoanwhinecomplain......" I was every girl in Lincoln Park at once and a strong reminder to the bartender that having children is not all it's cracked up to be.

The moral of the story is it's better to be my dentist than my friend because you don't have to hear me whine and I'll give you all my money.

Please enjoy this far more amusing account of a trip to the dentist from Bill Cosby.

You Killed My Republic. Prepare To Die.

The bartender and I are pretending to visit our neighbors (we are actually visiting their awesome cats).

Me: I was just watching The Princess Bride. It's on Bravo. [The bartender] has never seen it before. He hates it.

Neighbor girl: Seriously?

The bartender: How is that movie supposed to be funny? It's so stupid.

The ex-marine: WHAT? ARE YOU A COMMUNIST?!?!?!?

Amberance: Always Trying to Help Others

Me: I still think we should have Mystery Girl on the show.

MrSteve: Why are you trying to make my life more difficult?

Me: I'm not! I'm trying to make your life more hilarious.

May The Cake Be With You

My birthday, of course, was fabulous because by default my birthday is simply a fabulous day. But it was also good because I made everyone pay attention to me and wear stupid party hats. Also because I could finally unveil the great cake. Behold, the Death Star Birthday Cake:


That's no moon.

I had originally planned to have a more exacting replica by icing it with fondant, until I realized that fondant sucks, as was perfectly summed up in this conversation with Mrs. Sizemore:

Mrs. Sizemore: hallo miss lady
how was your bday?

me: It was great. Except here's what I learned:
Fondant? I hate fondant.

Mrs. Sizemore: ooo
yeah
fondant is a bitch
and it does not taste good
it's like an ugly chick that doesn't put out

Of course, since I am me, I could not simply settle for one awesome Death Star cake with delicious delicious buttercream frosting. I had to flank it with images of an intergalactic war:


For the non-nerds: TIE fighters, Death Star, x-wing fighter.

Hokey religions and ancient weapons are no match for a good piping bag at your side, kid. The epic battle between good and evil is deliciously sugary and goes great with milk.

KHAAAAAANN! KHAAAAAAAN!!!

Which do you think is the greater tragedy: That we have lost the great Ricardo Montalban, or that this article does not even mention his greatest role ever?

My Birthday

I would be remiss if I didn't remind all my readers that Monday is my birthday. Particularly since I have been reminding all of my friends. Multiple times a day. Sometimes repeatedly in one conversation. My birthday. Monday. I'm still unclear as to why this major event is not a national holiday. My birthday, that is. Which is on Monday.

I have already begun the awesomeness (which will culminate on Monday in the form of my birthday) by:

• Buying myself the most freaking fantastic computer game ever created in the history of mankind (Shiv and Lemon does not qualify as it has never actually been created), which is called Crayon Physics Deluxe. I have been waiting and waiting and waiting for this game to finally come out and suddenly this week there it was. They must have known that my birthday is this coming Monday. Check it out. It is more addictive than Tetris and Sudoku combined, for serious.
• Planning out the most bitchin' birthday cake in the history of mankind. I don't want to ruin the surprise though, so check back some time after my birthday (Monday) for the sure to be stunning photographs of the most awesome cake of all time.

So, to recap: My birthday is Monday, and it will be glorious.

Amberance: Insufferable Know-It-All

Watching the Blackhawks game, in which someone has just been punched in the face

The agent: Oh my god! Look how much he's bleeding!
me: I'm sure it looks worse than it is. The face has a lot of capillaries, so it tends to bl-
The agent: Shut up, nerd.

I Don't Like His Scotch Either

MrSteve: Here, try my Absolut Citron martini with a lemon twist.
me: No way.
MrSteve: Just try it, it's lemony!
me: (sip, pause) This tastes like a Wet Nap.

The Perils of Dating

The agent: What's that Prince song? Little Pink Cadillac?
Me: (silent, horrified stare)
The agent: Wait, no. It's Little Red Corvette, right?
Me: Oh my god.

As You Wish

BrownsFan: Please change your password.

Me: I swear it has been done.

BrownsFan: You are a person of action. Lies do not become you.

Amberance: Bossy

There is a right way and a wrong way to string lights on a Christmas tree, which is why I don't ever let anyone else touch the lights for the trees except for my father, who taught me in the first place*. So, I was very confused on Sunday when putting up the agent's tree. I had four strings of neatly wrapped lights, and one string of inexplicably tangled completely disorganized lights. "I can't figure out how this happened," I told the agent. "Why would I have done this? And with just one string of lights?"

"Maybe I was trying to help you or something," he said, "and you made me stop because you thought I was doing it wrong."

I considered this. "Maybe, but I think even then I would have taken it away from you and bossily redid it the way I wanted it in the first place."

*This came about in high school when I decided that a 10 foot tree in the family room and an 8 foot tree in the living room was not nearly enough trees, and that we clearly needed another 8 foot tree in my bedroom, to which my father responded "Do it yourself. There's no way I'm putting lights on another damn tree."