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.
Thursday, December 15, 2005
Wednesday, December 14, 2005
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."
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."
Monday, December 12, 2005
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
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
Thursday, December 08, 2005
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"
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.
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.
Monday, December 05, 2005
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.
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.
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."
"Chris is so dumb that when he's reading a book he's not sure when he's supposed to turn the page."
Wednesday, November 30, 2005
Amberance Conquers Fear and Nature (A Little)
I'm a little bit of a spazz about Christmas as evidenced by:
Which is why two cookie sheets away from being done baking them yesterday, I did something I have rarely done in the course of my life - I killed a spider. All by myself.
I know; I can tell you don't believe me. Here's what happened: I'm going along happily making cookies and I'm on the phone with Fish, when I walk into my kitchen and see a spider milling around on the backsplash of my kitchen sink. In my recollection he was about a centimeter end to end, so in reality he was probably near microscopic and only barely visible to the naked eye. And it's a good thing too, any bigger and my cute little still warm cookies would have been left for dead. But dammit, I worked HARD on those cookies and I wasn't in the mood to let one of those evil demons coughed up from Hell to steal them.
He was headed right for the cookies, by way of climbing over my Mr. Clean Magic Eraser. I had to act fast so I grabbed the other end of the Eraser (with the fingernails of my index finger and thumb) and quick as I could threw it in the sink. He jumped off the sponge just as I turned the water on him full blast. He rolled into a little ball, but I'm no dummy and I wasn't about to fall for that "playing dead" trick just so he could unroll and JUMP RIGHT ON ME. I splashed water on him screaming "GET IN THERE! GET IN THE DRAIN! GET DOWN THERE YOU LITTLE FUCKER!" until he floated downstream and into the drain. And then I ran scalding hot water in the sink for the next 35 minutes. "They're tenacious," I explained to Fish, who sat patiently through yet another spider episode over the phone. "I don't want him grabbing onto the side of the drain pipe and hanging on so he can crawl out and get me later. I know his ways."
So yeah, I killed a spider, and I was reasonably calm about it (outwardly, though my heart was desperately trying to escape from my chest the whole time and for a good hour afterward). And I was only mildly shaking while staring fixedly at the sink drain while I washed the cookie sheets later. And the only nightmare I had that night was that I was a character on 7th Heaven. And I saved the cookies. From the spider, if not from me.
Ah, the power of Christmas spirit.
- owning 9 Christmas trees
- making my own bows for said trees, as well as my own wreath
- borrowing JoE's truck to bring my Christmas decorations to Chicago and still not getting them all here, despite bringing three boxes with me when I first moved and three more back over Thanksgiving
- washing two loads of laundry consisting only of Christmas related apparel at The Liz this weekend
- owning right around 30 Christmas music CDs (and thinking that this is not NEARLY enough)
- walking around my office all week wearing a santa hat with the Ohio State logo on the front
- multiplying my recipe for cherry thumbprint Christmas cookies by six so I would have "enough" cookies
Which is why two cookie sheets away from being done baking them yesterday, I did something I have rarely done in the course of my life - I killed a spider. All by myself.
I know; I can tell you don't believe me. Here's what happened: I'm going along happily making cookies and I'm on the phone with Fish, when I walk into my kitchen and see a spider milling around on the backsplash of my kitchen sink. In my recollection he was about a centimeter end to end, so in reality he was probably near microscopic and only barely visible to the naked eye. And it's a good thing too, any bigger and my cute little still warm cookies would have been left for dead. But dammit, I worked HARD on those cookies and I wasn't in the mood to let one of those evil demons coughed up from Hell to steal them.
He was headed right for the cookies, by way of climbing over my Mr. Clean Magic Eraser. I had to act fast so I grabbed the other end of the Eraser (with the fingernails of my index finger and thumb) and quick as I could threw it in the sink. He jumped off the sponge just as I turned the water on him full blast. He rolled into a little ball, but I'm no dummy and I wasn't about to fall for that "playing dead" trick just so he could unroll and JUMP RIGHT ON ME. I splashed water on him screaming "GET IN THERE! GET IN THE DRAIN! GET DOWN THERE YOU LITTLE FUCKER!" until he floated downstream and into the drain. And then I ran scalding hot water in the sink for the next 35 minutes. "They're tenacious," I explained to Fish, who sat patiently through yet another spider episode over the phone. "I don't want him grabbing onto the side of the drain pipe and hanging on so he can crawl out and get me later. I know his ways."
So yeah, I killed a spider, and I was reasonably calm about it (outwardly, though my heart was desperately trying to escape from my chest the whole time and for a good hour afterward). And I was only mildly shaking while staring fixedly at the sink drain while I washed the cookie sheets later. And the only nightmare I had that night was that I was a character on 7th Heaven. And I saved the cookies. From the spider, if not from me.
Ah, the power of Christmas spirit.
Monday, November 28, 2005
Family Legacy
The one year anniversary of this blog came and went without my making a big deal out of it at all. Don't get me wrong, I meant to - I just was busy and forgot. But I've been doing this bloggy thing for a while now, and one blog has grown into three, and now apparently it's begun to rub off onto my family.
My brother has started a blog. It's primarily a sports blog thus far - an online soapbox for his opinions on various teams and sports, which are many and vehement. So far my favorite part of it is his friend Brooke's first comment...about how hilarious my blog is. No just kidding, that's not my favorite part*. But anyway, go check it out if you're a crazy sports person, especially a crazy sports person from Ohio.
* I lied, it is my favorite part.
My brother has started a blog. It's primarily a sports blog thus far - an online soapbox for his opinions on various teams and sports, which are many and vehement. So far my favorite part of it is his friend Brooke's first comment...about how hilarious my blog is. No just kidding, that's not my favorite part*. But anyway, go check it out if you're a crazy sports person, especially a crazy sports person from Ohio.
* I lied, it is my favorite part.
Thursday, November 24, 2005
The Most Wonderful Time of the Year
I've never been able to understand those people who dread the holidays. They all have the same reason - their families are mess up somehow and they hated the tension or outright fighting that occurred when everyone got together for their mandatory merry-making. It was never like that in my family; everyone looked forward to spending time together. In fact Christmas lasts for three whole days in my family, during which we do totally Norman Rockwell things like sit down and watch a movie as a family or sit around the dining room table playing a board game or collectively building a jigsaw puzzle.
But for two years running now, the holidays have kicked off with some event that makes me dread the coming months.
I logged on this evening to try and post a MySpace comment for a newly minted 22 year old I am friends with (however, MySpace is being a bitch tonight, so Heather, I hope you're having fun in Virginia), and I came across a very long comment on Bizzybiz from my uncle to a post I wrote over a year ago. I would never even have seen it if I didn't have all my comments e-mailed to me. The comment was made to a long-winded angry treatise I wrote about a conversation I had with my aunt last year.
I'm not really sure how to address this. I wrote the post in anger over a year ago. It's not really how I feel now, and truthfully not even how I felt the following week. I actually feel like it's been a really good year as far as my aunt and I are concerned. The few times we talked were pleasant, I was always pleased to get her e-mails, and was looking forward to going on vacation with them next May. But my aunt and uncle are in a different place. They feel as though this was yesterday, because for them it was.
It wasn't my intention to hurt my aunt - I wrote it and got it out of my system. That's what a journal is for. I actually love my aunt (and my uncle) very much. For the record here's a little background on my aunt:
My aunt came into this family long before I did when she married my mother's brother. Since that time, she has done more to see to the welfare of this family than any "blood" relative I can think of, most especially me. I am very adept at shirking any family responsibility which could potentially be emotionally taxing for me. She raised two amazing sons who are both brilliant and well-adjusted, and who both outperform me entirely in intelligence and maturity.
However, she is also relentless in her quest to help out. She means well, but it's not an approach that has ever worked well with my personality.
For much of my memory I have had the feeling that I am a major disappointment to my family. I've consistently failed at every turn to live up to what my family wanted for me. This always becomes strikingly apparent after those types of conversations with my aunt. To her credit, it's because she's generally the only one who is ever upfront with me about what she thinks. Nevertheless, it always has the effect of making me extremely uncomfortable. I can't think of anything more painful. And sometimes I feel like I could drown in the guilt I have for dreading picking up the phone for fear of having to have one of those conversations. But it is what it is.
My uncle ended his comment with a kind of "ball is in your court" message. For sure, I have been an exceptionally lousy niece; I can't deny that. But I also know I can't pretend to be someone I'm not. I've tried it, and it was totally transparent to everyone. Part of my move to Chicago in fact was for me to stop doing that. And part of that is just what my uncle said, the don't get close to me signs are there. I am happiest when I work through my problems alone.
My uncle questioned whether it was worth the exhausting effort to continue to try. I'm not sure, but i think it was meant as a challenge: would I try to be more accessible, or will it always be a one way street? With sad but brutal honesty I think the answer is no. You're not going to find anything in me that will justify your efforts. I'm never going to be the niece or daughter that lives her life and makes decisions you can be proud of. I think our value systems stand in too much contrast for that.
It's a bizarre feeling to adore your family and at the same time know that you'll never fit in with them the way you or any of them wishes you would.
I spoke to Fish and to the bartender before Halloween and told them that I didn't feel like going home to Cleveland for Christmas this year. It just seemed like it would be depressing: half the family missing, no Boxing Day and a rudimentary Christmas Eve to accommodate what I understand is some major kitchen remodeling. (Also, because I'm totally insane, I feel guilty about leaving Kristen alone on her birthday, as if she even knows when her birthday is.) I think now that I was right about that instinct, and it looks like most likely I'll be Christmasing in Chicago this year.
I'm not even sure of what my original point was here. I'm quite sure this post can't do anything except make the situation worse. But it's my journal so I get to determine the content. Anyway, I'm sorry I hurt everyone's feelings; it seems to be something I excel at.
Everybody enjoy your families this Thanksgiving. Eat lots of turkey and get fat so I don't feel like the only one.
I now return you to your regularly scheduled jocular fare.
But for two years running now, the holidays have kicked off with some event that makes me dread the coming months.
I logged on this evening to try and post a MySpace comment for a newly minted 22 year old I am friends with (however, MySpace is being a bitch tonight, so Heather, I hope you're having fun in Virginia), and I came across a very long comment on Bizzybiz from my uncle to a post I wrote over a year ago. I would never even have seen it if I didn't have all my comments e-mailed to me. The comment was made to a long-winded angry treatise I wrote about a conversation I had with my aunt last year.
I'm not really sure how to address this. I wrote the post in anger over a year ago. It's not really how I feel now, and truthfully not even how I felt the following week. I actually feel like it's been a really good year as far as my aunt and I are concerned. The few times we talked were pleasant, I was always pleased to get her e-mails, and was looking forward to going on vacation with them next May. But my aunt and uncle are in a different place. They feel as though this was yesterday, because for them it was.
It wasn't my intention to hurt my aunt - I wrote it and got it out of my system. That's what a journal is for. I actually love my aunt (and my uncle) very much. For the record here's a little background on my aunt:
My aunt came into this family long before I did when she married my mother's brother. Since that time, she has done more to see to the welfare of this family than any "blood" relative I can think of, most especially me. I am very adept at shirking any family responsibility which could potentially be emotionally taxing for me. She raised two amazing sons who are both brilliant and well-adjusted, and who both outperform me entirely in intelligence and maturity.
However, she is also relentless in her quest to help out. She means well, but it's not an approach that has ever worked well with my personality.
For much of my memory I have had the feeling that I am a major disappointment to my family. I've consistently failed at every turn to live up to what my family wanted for me. This always becomes strikingly apparent after those types of conversations with my aunt. To her credit, it's because she's generally the only one who is ever upfront with me about what she thinks. Nevertheless, it always has the effect of making me extremely uncomfortable. I can't think of anything more painful. And sometimes I feel like I could drown in the guilt I have for dreading picking up the phone for fear of having to have one of those conversations. But it is what it is.
My uncle ended his comment with a kind of "ball is in your court" message. For sure, I have been an exceptionally lousy niece; I can't deny that. But I also know I can't pretend to be someone I'm not. I've tried it, and it was totally transparent to everyone. Part of my move to Chicago in fact was for me to stop doing that. And part of that is just what my uncle said, the don't get close to me signs are there. I am happiest when I work through my problems alone.
My uncle questioned whether it was worth the exhausting effort to continue to try. I'm not sure, but i think it was meant as a challenge: would I try to be more accessible, or will it always be a one way street? With sad but brutal honesty I think the answer is no. You're not going to find anything in me that will justify your efforts. I'm never going to be the niece or daughter that lives her life and makes decisions you can be proud of. I think our value systems stand in too much contrast for that.
It's a bizarre feeling to adore your family and at the same time know that you'll never fit in with them the way you or any of them wishes you would.
I spoke to Fish and to the bartender before Halloween and told them that I didn't feel like going home to Cleveland for Christmas this year. It just seemed like it would be depressing: half the family missing, no Boxing Day and a rudimentary Christmas Eve to accommodate what I understand is some major kitchen remodeling. (Also, because I'm totally insane, I feel guilty about leaving Kristen alone on her birthday, as if she even knows when her birthday is.) I think now that I was right about that instinct, and it looks like most likely I'll be Christmasing in Chicago this year.
I'm not even sure of what my original point was here. I'm quite sure this post can't do anything except make the situation worse. But it's my journal so I get to determine the content. Anyway, I'm sorry I hurt everyone's feelings; it seems to be something I excel at.
Everybody enjoy your families this Thanksgiving. Eat lots of turkey and get fat so I don't feel like the only one.
I now return you to your regularly scheduled jocular fare.
Monday, November 21, 2005
We Are Competely Sane and Rational Adults
VelociHeather: want to hear something horrifying?
PGS DenMILF: um, yes?
VelociHeather: seriously, brace yourself, it involves your least favorite creature
PGS DenMILF: OH GOD WHAT HAPPENED?
VelociHeather: a spider just ran across my desk and almost touched me
VelociHeather: a good-sized one, too
PGS DenMILF: AGH!
VelociHeather: my hand, SO CLOSE
VelociHeather: he was yellow and big
PGS DenMILF: holy crap
VelociHeather: well, not huge, but big enough
VelociHeather: so I yell and my boss freaks out about it too
VelociHeather: then another guy comes over....
VelociHeather: PICKS IT UP AND SQUISHES IT WITH HIS BARE HANDS
PGS DenMILF: AAAAAAAAA
VelociHeather: i died
PGS DenMILF: that's horrible, what is he thinking?
VelociHeather: he had just wanted to put it in our garbage can without killing it
VelociHeather: but thankfully he squished it on the way
PGS DenMILF: oh man, i'm checking my whole desk for spiders now
VelociHeather: seriously, i'm convinced there are legions of them waiting for me
VelociHeather: all inside my drawers and files
PGS DenMILF: what the hell? put it in the garbage can alive? it's just going to come back out again
VelociHeather: no shit
VelociHeather: did he think it would say, "oh damn, I don't have my climbing gear, i'm trapped!"
VelociHeather: but again, thankfully, he accidentally squished it on the way to the can
PGS DenMILF: sweet. what's with the touching though? bare handed. it's creeping me out
VelociHeather: no kidding
VelociHeather: i was ready to grab my shoes and smash it to bits
VelociHeather: it was hiding under my keyboard for a second
VelociHeather: BEWARE!
PGS DenMILF: all gaps are suspect now. i'm surrounded, i know it
VelociHeather: you must cover your desk with Raid
VelociHeather: a thick mist of raid, that is the only way
PGS DenMILF: and on me as well
VelociHeather: oh yes
PGS DenMILF: um, yes?
VelociHeather: seriously, brace yourself, it involves your least favorite creature
PGS DenMILF: OH GOD WHAT HAPPENED?
VelociHeather: a spider just ran across my desk and almost touched me
VelociHeather: a good-sized one, too
PGS DenMILF: AGH!
VelociHeather: my hand, SO CLOSE
VelociHeather: he was yellow and big
PGS DenMILF: holy crap
VelociHeather: well, not huge, but big enough
VelociHeather: so I yell and my boss freaks out about it too
VelociHeather: then another guy comes over....
VelociHeather: PICKS IT UP AND SQUISHES IT WITH HIS BARE HANDS
PGS DenMILF: AAAAAAAAA
VelociHeather: i died
PGS DenMILF: that's horrible, what is he thinking?
VelociHeather: he had just wanted to put it in our garbage can without killing it
VelociHeather: but thankfully he squished it on the way
PGS DenMILF: oh man, i'm checking my whole desk for spiders now
VelociHeather: seriously, i'm convinced there are legions of them waiting for me
VelociHeather: all inside my drawers and files
PGS DenMILF: what the hell? put it in the garbage can alive? it's just going to come back out again
VelociHeather: no shit
VelociHeather: did he think it would say, "oh damn, I don't have my climbing gear, i'm trapped!"
VelociHeather: but again, thankfully, he accidentally squished it on the way to the can
PGS DenMILF: sweet. what's with the touching though? bare handed. it's creeping me out
VelociHeather: no kidding
VelociHeather: i was ready to grab my shoes and smash it to bits
VelociHeather: it was hiding under my keyboard for a second
VelociHeather: BEWARE!
PGS DenMILF: all gaps are suspect now. i'm surrounded, i know it
VelociHeather: you must cover your desk with Raid
VelociHeather: a thick mist of raid, that is the only way
PGS DenMILF: and on me as well
VelociHeather: oh yes
Harry Potter and the Theater of Annoying Gits
Apologies for the post title; every time I see a Harry Potter movie, I find myself saying things like "git" and "bloody" and "What's all this, then?" for a couple of days.
Fish and I went to Harry Potter last night at this dinner and a movie theater somewhere around or near Downer's Grove (I'm sure Fish can fill in the details). It was really cool, you sit down and there's a menu there, you order whatever you want, and they bring it to you right before the movie starts. You can even get fancy frozen drinks and everything! I was amazed by this concept because Cleveland is lame and has no such theater that I'm aware of. I am told that this is fairly normal here.
The movie was good. Very good. The mistake I made was not re-reading the book just before we went. I did this before I saw the Lord of the Rings movies and it helped tremendously in my not being annoying to sit and watch a movie with. But I didn't think to do it this time, and so the ever patient Fish was bombarded with whispered "I don't remember that part" and "What house is Cedric in?" type comments throughout. My bad, Fish, sorry. Hermione, by the way, is growing up to be smoking hot. ("She's 14!" Fish pointed out. It's ok, I can wait.) Also Voldemort as played by Ralph Fiennes is terrifying. I didn't know who Ralph Fiennes was, of course, because that's the kind of thing I don't know. I don't bother to learn names of the actors I like; I just refer to them as characters from other films they've done. "So, you know Cy Tolliver [from Deadwood]?" I said to Fish recently. "He's the one bad guy from Tombstone!" Fish was kind enough not to roll his eyes at me.
"Voldemort was great," said Fish in the car on the way home. "You couldn't even tell it was Ralph Fiennes."
"Um, ok, I don't know who that is."
"Yeah you do; he was in the English Patient."
"Oh," I said. Then, "OH! Yeah, I know who he is. Dude, he TOTALLY looked just like the English Patient!" Because he did, he was all pale and hairless and missing parts of his face that seemed important, such as most of his nose, and it looked very similar to a burn patient. So I was happy about that.
I was also happy about the people watching, which was very funny. "Mullet, 9 o'clock," said Fish, and I turned to look. Lo and behold there it was in all it's mullet glory. Oh and perfectly white by the way. So as not to appear to be staring at the mullet guy, I kept turning my head and found something even better.
"White corn rows, 8 o'clock," I told Fish. And they were good too, not just braids going straight back on his scalp; these were some complicated abstract designs zig zagging around this dude's head. I thought it very K-Fed of him.
What I was not happy about was the other movie patrons. I mean, I know I have a reputation for not liking people, but I try to give them the benefit of the doubt even though I usually fail miserably. Such as the parents of all these school age and not yet school age children who have brought them to a 7:00 p.m. showing of a two and a half hour movie on a school night. Some of these kids were no older than three, and falling asleep in their parents’ arms before the theater even opened for seating. And I wanted to think that it was a once in a while, very rare treat for these kids to be out on a school night and not get to bed until after 10:00 because Harry Potter is special. But in my heart I know that's just not true.
That wasn't even a big problem though, because I recall no crying or talking children (small children anyway) during the movie. What I do recall is some girl who sounded like she was at least high school age and possibly older, SHRIEKING at the top of her lungs at a point of the movie which was not scary, but which was very quiet. Haha, hilarious, you little douche. I clenched my jaw, as I do, and tried to concentrate. The best was yet to come.
What's more annoying than some assjanitor who forgets to turn off their cell phone in the theater and lets it ring three friggin times before they silence it? How about actually answering the phone and then having a FULL VOLUME conversation in the middle of the movie! I was almost too amazed to even be angry; it takes some serious self-centeredness or a complete lack of social awareness to pull that one off.
Overall, though, I'd rate the experience as a success and recommend that everyone go see Harry Potter right away.
Fish and I went to Harry Potter last night at this dinner and a movie theater somewhere around or near Downer's Grove (I'm sure Fish can fill in the details). It was really cool, you sit down and there's a menu there, you order whatever you want, and they bring it to you right before the movie starts. You can even get fancy frozen drinks and everything! I was amazed by this concept because Cleveland is lame and has no such theater that I'm aware of. I am told that this is fairly normal here.
The movie was good. Very good. The mistake I made was not re-reading the book just before we went. I did this before I saw the Lord of the Rings movies and it helped tremendously in my not being annoying to sit and watch a movie with. But I didn't think to do it this time, and so the ever patient Fish was bombarded with whispered "I don't remember that part" and "What house is Cedric in?" type comments throughout. My bad, Fish, sorry. Hermione, by the way, is growing up to be smoking hot. ("She's 14!" Fish pointed out. It's ok, I can wait.) Also Voldemort as played by Ralph Fiennes is terrifying. I didn't know who Ralph Fiennes was, of course, because that's the kind of thing I don't know. I don't bother to learn names of the actors I like; I just refer to them as characters from other films they've done. "So, you know Cy Tolliver [from Deadwood]?" I said to Fish recently. "He's the one bad guy from Tombstone!" Fish was kind enough not to roll his eyes at me.
"Voldemort was great," said Fish in the car on the way home. "You couldn't even tell it was Ralph Fiennes."
"Um, ok, I don't know who that is."
"Yeah you do; he was in the English Patient."
"Oh," I said. Then, "OH! Yeah, I know who he is. Dude, he TOTALLY looked just like the English Patient!" Because he did, he was all pale and hairless and missing parts of his face that seemed important, such as most of his nose, and it looked very similar to a burn patient. So I was happy about that.
I was also happy about the people watching, which was very funny. "Mullet, 9 o'clock," said Fish, and I turned to look. Lo and behold there it was in all it's mullet glory. Oh and perfectly white by the way. So as not to appear to be staring at the mullet guy, I kept turning my head and found something even better.
"White corn rows, 8 o'clock," I told Fish. And they were good too, not just braids going straight back on his scalp; these were some complicated abstract designs zig zagging around this dude's head. I thought it very K-Fed of him.
What I was not happy about was the other movie patrons. I mean, I know I have a reputation for not liking people, but I try to give them the benefit of the doubt even though I usually fail miserably. Such as the parents of all these school age and not yet school age children who have brought them to a 7:00 p.m. showing of a two and a half hour movie on a school night. Some of these kids were no older than three, and falling asleep in their parents’ arms before the theater even opened for seating. And I wanted to think that it was a once in a while, very rare treat for these kids to be out on a school night and not get to bed until after 10:00 because Harry Potter is special. But in my heart I know that's just not true.
That wasn't even a big problem though, because I recall no crying or talking children (small children anyway) during the movie. What I do recall is some girl who sounded like she was at least high school age and possibly older, SHRIEKING at the top of her lungs at a point of the movie which was not scary, but which was very quiet. Haha, hilarious, you little douche. I clenched my jaw, as I do, and tried to concentrate. The best was yet to come.
What's more annoying than some assjanitor who forgets to turn off their cell phone in the theater and lets it ring three friggin times before they silence it? How about actually answering the phone and then having a FULL VOLUME conversation in the middle of the movie! I was almost too amazed to even be angry; it takes some serious self-centeredness or a complete lack of social awareness to pull that one off.
Overall, though, I'd rate the experience as a success and recommend that everyone go see Harry Potter right away.
Friday, November 11, 2005
The Chipotle Charm
As a burgeoning fat girl, it is important to eat huge lunches filled with fat and empty calories. It was with this in mind that I ventured out today to get myself a good, old-fashioned Tortilla of Lard from Chipotle. It did not work out the way I planned.
"Chicken fajita burrito," I said to the Real Mexican! taking orders.
"No chicken," she replied. I frowned. No chicken? It is lunchtime. It seems there should be a constant supply of the most popular meat available at Chipotle being produced during the hours of 11 and 1:30, don't you think? Maybe I'm crazy, I don't know. I'm not in the fast food business. But I look around and saw no chicken in the tray, and no chicken on the grill. Apparently, 2.4 seconds I stood there confused was far too long, because Real Mexican felt the need to start making decisions for me. She warmed a tortilla, slapped some rice on it, and some fajita mix and some black beans. The thing is though, I know perfectly well I didn't say "I'll have beans instead" because I HATE beans. Passionately hate them.
"No, no beans," I said. Real Mexican gave me the look of death, threw out the bean burrito with a vengeance, and warmed a new tortilla. As she testily slapped the rice on, the next Real Mexican on the assembly line asked me, "So you want vegetarian then?"
"No," I said, because I didn't. I was under the impression that was what beans instead of chicken was, and we'd already established that was not something I was interested in. "Steak," I decided. Which was not at all what I wanted, but seemed to be the least objectionable alternative. RM2 proceeds to put steak on my tortilla with the rice and slide it down the line. "Um, can I get some of the fajita mix on it though?" Again, usually when you ask for a fajita burrito it means, you know, with the fajita stuff on it.
"You said no vegetables," admonished RM2.
"No, I said not vegetarian. I want the peppers on it." They must train them to do this or something, because I got the identical look of death that I had gotten from Real Mexican 1. She begrudgingly added about two peppers and one onion.
Assembly line person three added the extra sour cream and extra cheese, and assembly line person four rolled it, wrapped it in foil, and added some illegible hieroglyphics on the top.
I moved down to speak with Register Operator. "Steak fajita?" she asked. I nodded my affirmation. "That will be $8.05." I handed her a 20 thinking I change from chicken to steak and the price goes up two freaking dollars? What gives? I glanced at the menu. STEAK 5.95 reads the sign. Something is wrong.
RO hands me my change and I look at my receipt: steak fajita, 5.95. guacamole 1.35. Huh? Guacamole since when? I hate guacamole more than I hate beans. I also hate arguing with people, which I had already done - twice. I was tempted to eat the money and walk away. Problem is, I'm flat fucking broke, to the point where every cent counts. That's about 10 packs of Ramen noodles worth the overcharge. Also, I didn't even really want a steak burrito in the first place and was not quite ready to be overcharged for something I didn't want by a buck and a half. I swallowed hard. "I didn't have guacamole."
My third argument resulted in my third look of death from the charming Chipotle staff. She snatched the bag out of my hand and threw it at assembly person four. "She says she didn't get no guacamole. Check it and see." I waited nervously while four unwrapped the steak that I don't even want fajita burrito and checked to make sure I wasn't lying about the guacamole. Which of course I wasn't. She looked at Register Operator and shook her head no. RO sighed and took my receipt back from me to figure out what the hell she was going to do now, while assembly person four rolled my burrito back up, poking a GIANT hole in it in the process. RO addressed me. "Guacamole was $1.35. I give you back a dollar thirty-five, ok?"
Technically, this is not what she owes me, because she didn't back out the tax that I paid on the guacamole I never had in the first place. But at this point all I wanted to do was get the eff out of there and back to my office, so $1.35 was just peachy by me.
I went back to the office and sat down at my desk, warily eyeing my burrito. I was starving (fat girls are always starving). I unwrapped it and took an experimental bite.
Let me tell you something: steak burritos from Chipotle are fucking gross. Unbelieveably unpalatably gross. And since we had to do the burrito wrapping twice, there is nasty ass flavored steak juice tainting almost every single grain of rice in it. I am now out $6.50 and incalculable piece of mind for a lunch I'm not even going to eat.
I am now crying. I'm crying over a burrito. I have hit an all time low.
"Chicken fajita burrito," I said to the Real Mexican! taking orders.
"No chicken," she replied. I frowned. No chicken? It is lunchtime. It seems there should be a constant supply of the most popular meat available at Chipotle being produced during the hours of 11 and 1:30, don't you think? Maybe I'm crazy, I don't know. I'm not in the fast food business. But I look around and saw no chicken in the tray, and no chicken on the grill. Apparently, 2.4 seconds I stood there confused was far too long, because Real Mexican felt the need to start making decisions for me. She warmed a tortilla, slapped some rice on it, and some fajita mix and some black beans. The thing is though, I know perfectly well I didn't say "I'll have beans instead" because I HATE beans. Passionately hate them.
"No, no beans," I said. Real Mexican gave me the look of death, threw out the bean burrito with a vengeance, and warmed a new tortilla. As she testily slapped the rice on, the next Real Mexican on the assembly line asked me, "So you want vegetarian then?"
"No," I said, because I didn't. I was under the impression that was what beans instead of chicken was, and we'd already established that was not something I was interested in. "Steak," I decided. Which was not at all what I wanted, but seemed to be the least objectionable alternative. RM2 proceeds to put steak on my tortilla with the rice and slide it down the line. "Um, can I get some of the fajita mix on it though?" Again, usually when you ask for a fajita burrito it means, you know, with the fajita stuff on it.
"You said no vegetables," admonished RM2.
"No, I said not vegetarian. I want the peppers on it." They must train them to do this or something, because I got the identical look of death that I had gotten from Real Mexican 1. She begrudgingly added about two peppers and one onion.
Assembly line person three added the extra sour cream and extra cheese, and assembly line person four rolled it, wrapped it in foil, and added some illegible hieroglyphics on the top.
I moved down to speak with Register Operator. "Steak fajita?" she asked. I nodded my affirmation. "That will be $8.05." I handed her a 20 thinking I change from chicken to steak and the price goes up two freaking dollars? What gives? I glanced at the menu. STEAK 5.95 reads the sign. Something is wrong.
RO hands me my change and I look at my receipt: steak fajita, 5.95. guacamole 1.35. Huh? Guacamole since when? I hate guacamole more than I hate beans. I also hate arguing with people, which I had already done - twice. I was tempted to eat the money and walk away. Problem is, I'm flat fucking broke, to the point where every cent counts. That's about 10 packs of Ramen noodles worth the overcharge. Also, I didn't even really want a steak burrito in the first place and was not quite ready to be overcharged for something I didn't want by a buck and a half. I swallowed hard. "I didn't have guacamole."
My third argument resulted in my third look of death from the charming Chipotle staff. She snatched the bag out of my hand and threw it at assembly person four. "She says she didn't get no guacamole. Check it and see." I waited nervously while four unwrapped the steak that I don't even want fajita burrito and checked to make sure I wasn't lying about the guacamole. Which of course I wasn't. She looked at Register Operator and shook her head no. RO sighed and took my receipt back from me to figure out what the hell she was going to do now, while assembly person four rolled my burrito back up, poking a GIANT hole in it in the process. RO addressed me. "Guacamole was $1.35. I give you back a dollar thirty-five, ok?"
Technically, this is not what she owes me, because she didn't back out the tax that I paid on the guacamole I never had in the first place. But at this point all I wanted to do was get the eff out of there and back to my office, so $1.35 was just peachy by me.
I went back to the office and sat down at my desk, warily eyeing my burrito. I was starving (fat girls are always starving). I unwrapped it and took an experimental bite.
Let me tell you something: steak burritos from Chipotle are fucking gross. Unbelieveably unpalatably gross. And since we had to do the burrito wrapping twice, there is nasty ass flavored steak juice tainting almost every single grain of rice in it. I am now out $6.50 and incalculable piece of mind for a lunch I'm not even going to eat.
I am now crying. I'm crying over a burrito. I have hit an all time low.
Foody McFacestuff
I have no idea why I'm getting fat again. Seriously, none. I keep from taxing my body by resting constantly on my couch and on bar stools, I drink nutritious beverages such as hot chocolate and beer, and I eat well balanced meals for dinner, such as last night when I had crab rangoon, an egg roll, and two pieces of apple pie. What am I doing wrong?
Thursday, November 10, 2005
Burger Time
My friend Heather and I appear to be connected by some kind of cosmic thread, in that we tend to be doing to same kinds of things at the same time, unbeknownst to each other and also 700 miles apart. Like today, when I made my daily check of her blog, only to discover that last night she was playing the classic game Oregon Trail (which for the record I have never played) at the same time that I was being schooled in the intricacies of another classic 80’s video game, Burger Time.
I have a confession to make: I’ve never played Burger Time either. In fact, outside of Tetris, PacMan, and Super Mario 1, I haven’t played many video games at all. This is due both to an almost total lack of interest and the fact that I flat out fucking suck at it. But last night at the Liz the conversation somehow wound from Doom 3 back to Burger Time, and Chester and I goaded Fish into retrieving his Playstation 2 (is this right, Fish? Cuz you got kind of uppity when I referred to your Powerbook as an iBook, and I don’t know much about gaming systems, so I don’t want to get in trouble for referring to something the caliber of an Xbox by the name of something of the quality of ColecoVision by mistake) from his bedroom so we could play Burger Time on the big screen downstairs.
Did I say I’ve never played it? What I meant was I’ve never actually seen it before. And as I watched Chester run up and down ladders, building Whoppers, drinking coffee, and running from deranged hot dogs, I felt young again. And also extremely guilty. Because 1153 once tried to explain Burger Time to me and I called him a liar.
You have to understand, 1153 has four young children, so lying is part of his job as a parent. He’s a good story teller, mostly, but sometimes his tales get a little farfetched. Like the time Bigfoot was walking through his backyard and asked him for directions, or the time he saw the Loch Ness Monster swimming in Lake Erie. So when he told the kids and me about Burger Time, we were understandably skeptical.
“Burger Time! You never played it? It’s the best game ever! You’re a chef, and your job is you have to build these hamburgers. You have a bun, and then a burger, and a piece of lettuce, and them the top bun. On some levels there’s a slice of cheese. And you have to knock them down.”
“That sounds stupid.”
“No, it’s awesome! And while you’re doing that, eggs and hotdogs chase you around and try to kill you.”
“You lie. You’re making that up.”
“I’m totally serious! They chase you, but if you sprinkle pepper on them you can get away.”
“OK, now I KNOW you’re making it up.”
“No I mean it, I’m really serious this time I swear! On the higher levels you get chased by pickles instead of hotdogs.”
“Yeah, whatever.”
This is the conversation that was running through my head last night as I sat on the edge of the couch shouting “Go, Chester, go! Oh my God, look out for that hotdog! He’s COMING RIGHT FOR YOU, Chester, RUN! AAAAGGHH!” 1153, I’m sorry I called you a liar. I just didn’t know.
I have a confession to make: I’ve never played Burger Time either. In fact, outside of Tetris, PacMan, and Super Mario 1, I haven’t played many video games at all. This is due both to an almost total lack of interest and the fact that I flat out fucking suck at it. But last night at the Liz the conversation somehow wound from Doom 3 back to Burger Time, and Chester and I goaded Fish into retrieving his Playstation 2 (is this right, Fish? Cuz you got kind of uppity when I referred to your Powerbook as an iBook, and I don’t know much about gaming systems, so I don’t want to get in trouble for referring to something the caliber of an Xbox by the name of something of the quality of ColecoVision by mistake) from his bedroom so we could play Burger Time on the big screen downstairs.
Did I say I’ve never played it? What I meant was I’ve never actually seen it before. And as I watched Chester run up and down ladders, building Whoppers, drinking coffee, and running from deranged hot dogs, I felt young again. And also extremely guilty. Because 1153 once tried to explain Burger Time to me and I called him a liar.
You have to understand, 1153 has four young children, so lying is part of his job as a parent. He’s a good story teller, mostly, but sometimes his tales get a little farfetched. Like the time Bigfoot was walking through his backyard and asked him for directions, or the time he saw the Loch Ness Monster swimming in Lake Erie. So when he told the kids and me about Burger Time, we were understandably skeptical.
“Burger Time! You never played it? It’s the best game ever! You’re a chef, and your job is you have to build these hamburgers. You have a bun, and then a burger, and a piece of lettuce, and them the top bun. On some levels there’s a slice of cheese. And you have to knock them down.”
“That sounds stupid.”
“No, it’s awesome! And while you’re doing that, eggs and hotdogs chase you around and try to kill you.”
“You lie. You’re making that up.”
“I’m totally serious! They chase you, but if you sprinkle pepper on them you can get away.”
“OK, now I KNOW you’re making it up.”
“No I mean it, I’m really serious this time I swear! On the higher levels you get chased by pickles instead of hotdogs.”
“Yeah, whatever.”
This is the conversation that was running through my head last night as I sat on the edge of the couch shouting “Go, Chester, go! Oh my God, look out for that hotdog! He’s COMING RIGHT FOR YOU, Chester, RUN! AAAAGGHH!” 1153, I’m sorry I called you a liar. I just didn’t know.
Wednesday, November 09, 2005
*Gasp* Shocking!
Every day I'm amused by adult type people who have nothing better to do all day than find things to be appalled about. Witness this article from the Chicago Sun Times.
Ok, actually, I shouldn't make fun of this because I AM appalled. "'No one over the age of 25 knows what it means, but I guarantee you that 90 percent of college students know what it is,' Josh said. " You know what? Fuck you, Josh. I know what the shocker is, and I'm nearly 28. Fucking ageist little brat.
Ok, actually, I shouldn't make fun of this because I AM appalled. "'No one over the age of 25 knows what it means, but I guarantee you that 90 percent of college students know what it is,' Josh said. " You know what? Fuck you, Josh. I know what the shocker is, and I'm nearly 28. Fucking ageist little brat.
Monday, November 07, 2005
Captain Jack Sparrow Would Be Ashamed
Speedboats? Grenade Launchers? Ski masks? What the hell? That's not romantic at all! What happened to the tall ships, peg legs, eye patches, cannons, pointy hats? What happened to "Aye, mateys" and "Arr, ye scurvy dogs"?
Somalian pirates be warned: If you're not sailing a wooden ship with a skull and cross bones flag flying or dressed in appropriately stereotypical pirate costume, you will get nothing from me except for a swift kick in the nuts. Squa in the nuts, I tell you.
Somalian pirates be warned: If you're not sailing a wooden ship with a skull and cross bones flag flying or dressed in appropriately stereotypical pirate costume, you will get nothing from me except for a swift kick in the nuts. Squa in the nuts, I tell you.
Tuesday, November 01, 2005
Per Pronto's Request
Here's the new haircut. I'm in my "Trinity" outfit, and giving my patented "come hither" look (which is often misconstrued as my "I'm pissed at you" look). Appropriately, I am sitting in the Lovesac at The Liz.
Friday, October 28, 2005
Green Thumb
Here's yet another fine example of how I'm incompetent at life! I did laundry this weekend, and by Wednesday I decided that maybe I should hang my clean clothes up in my closet rather than wander naked and cold out into the living room to hunt through my laundry bag for something to wear every morning, and also because they weren't going to be clean for very long once Kristen realized a bag of clothes would make a great sleeping nest. So, hangers it would be.
"AAAAAGGHHRRRGGHH! FUCK!" I shouted from the bedroom.
"What? What happened?" Fish asked, as he came running in from the kitchen where he had been patiently and lovingly taking out my trash for me so I wouldn't have to traverse the spider infested back stairwell of my house to get outside.
"I sliced the fuck out of my thumb." And I had.
"How did that happen?"
Yes, how did that happen? Because it seems to me that hanging a skirt on a hanger with little clippy things should be pretty routine. But somehow while squeezing the clip open I managed to lose my grip on it, spin it around, and at some point slice a major gash in the side of my left thumb.
It's how I roll.
And I bled like a stuck pig I tell you. I dripped my way to the bathroom and cleaned it, then, when my used-to-be-a-lifeguard I-know-first-aid instincts kicked in I looked at it and determined that it was deep enough and long enough that it probably wouldn't hurt to have a stitch or two put in it. So of course I just put a bandaid on it real tight instead because scars are bad-ass.
All was well until the next day, when I took my bandaid off, planning to wash my hands and change the dressing. Which was a great idea really, except that I am sort of easily distracted, and hey I should give Kristen a treat and drink some pineapple juice and find a belt to wear and...I felt a searing pain as my non-bandaged wound was stabbed and ripped further by a belt buckle. I cursed my dumb ass, cleaned and dressed it again, put a belt and and went off to the bar.
Where I decided that I should not just drop, but squeeze my lime into the mouth of my Corona. With my left hand. So that the lime juice could drip down my thumb, under my bandaid and into my cut.
"AAAAAGGHHRRRGGHH! FUCK!" I shouted from the bedroom.
"What? What happened?" Fish asked, as he came running in from the kitchen where he had been patiently and lovingly taking out my trash for me so I wouldn't have to traverse the spider infested back stairwell of my house to get outside.
"I sliced the fuck out of my thumb." And I had.
"How did that happen?"
Yes, how did that happen? Because it seems to me that hanging a skirt on a hanger with little clippy things should be pretty routine. But somehow while squeezing the clip open I managed to lose my grip on it, spin it around, and at some point slice a major gash in the side of my left thumb.
It's how I roll.
And I bled like a stuck pig I tell you. I dripped my way to the bathroom and cleaned it, then, when my used-to-be-a-lifeguard I-know-first-aid instincts kicked in I looked at it and determined that it was deep enough and long enough that it probably wouldn't hurt to have a stitch or two put in it. So of course I just put a bandaid on it real tight instead because scars are bad-ass.
All was well until the next day, when I took my bandaid off, planning to wash my hands and change the dressing. Which was a great idea really, except that I am sort of easily distracted, and hey I should give Kristen a treat and drink some pineapple juice and find a belt to wear and...I felt a searing pain as my non-bandaged wound was stabbed and ripped further by a belt buckle. I cursed my dumb ass, cleaned and dressed it again, put a belt and and went off to the bar.
Where I decided that I should not just drop, but squeeze my lime into the mouth of my Corona. With my left hand. So that the lime juice could drip down my thumb, under my bandaid and into my cut.
Wednesday, October 26, 2005
Mitten Paws
I think I may have mentioned before my borderline obsessive love for my little cat. I think it's because of her magical powers. The magical powers of Mitten Paws. Mitten Paws can get me to do almost anything. A piece of chicken from my plate or a few extra treats? A quick flash of the mitten paws and she can have any food in the house. Drop what I'm doing and go over and pet her instead? If she comes by me and does that thing where she tentatively picks up one little mitten paw off the ground and holds it there looking at me, I'll stop CPR on a dying man to pet her. Magical powers in her mitten paws I tell you. Look, how can you resist?
Kristen says "Leave comments on Bizzybiz! Obey the mitten paws."
I am sitting here at work sobbing like an asshole right now. Why? Because I've discovered one thing that can't be fixed by the magical powers of Mitten Paws. I finally took Kristen for the Echocardiogram first suggested by the vet back in May (thanks Fishy!). I got the results back today: my precious angel is a very sick kitty. Her heart is working too hard and if we don't treat it, it will just get bigger and bigger until it kills her. There is no cure, only medication to slow the progress of the disease. Treating it means pilling her every single day for the rest of her life. Not treating it means one day, and one day soon, she will suddenly drop dead. When they told me that I thought "oh, sick for a couple days, then she dies." Um, no. Further research yielded this discovery: "Outward signs of HCM may include a barely noticeable increase in breathing rate, rear leg paralysis, or the sudden death of a cat that seemed healthy only moments earlier." Moments people, not days. My poor little angel.
I need to stop crying, I can't send out reports with globs of snot all over them. Just needed to take a moment and share my pain.
Kristen says "Leave comments on Bizzybiz! Obey the mitten paws."
I am sitting here at work sobbing like an asshole right now. Why? Because I've discovered one thing that can't be fixed by the magical powers of Mitten Paws. I finally took Kristen for the Echocardiogram first suggested by the vet back in May (thanks Fishy!). I got the results back today: my precious angel is a very sick kitty. Her heart is working too hard and if we don't treat it, it will just get bigger and bigger until it kills her. There is no cure, only medication to slow the progress of the disease. Treating it means pilling her every single day for the rest of her life. Not treating it means one day, and one day soon, she will suddenly drop dead. When they told me that I thought "oh, sick for a couple days, then she dies." Um, no. Further research yielded this discovery: "Outward signs of HCM may include a barely noticeable increase in breathing rate, rear leg paralysis, or the sudden death of a cat that seemed healthy only moments earlier." Moments people, not days. My poor little angel.
I need to stop crying, I can't send out reports with globs of snot all over them. Just needed to take a moment and share my pain.
Thursday, October 20, 2005
Ego Maniac
So to go with my new sexy haircut, I wore a short gray skirt, black blouse, black tall boots and my long black PVC jacket to work yesterday. You can't get your hair chopped off and then show up the next day dressed like a ragamuffin, you know. I was told I looked like Trinity from The Matrix, and Fish announced that I was officially out of his league. It has gone to my head. It has not, however, caused me to be any less of a dork, or any better at managing the simpler aspects of my life.
Fish: did you bake the pie?
pgsdenmilf: this morning
pgsdenmilf: i was funny
pgsdenmilf: i got up
pgsdenmilf: put the pie in the oven
pgsdenmilf: went back to bed
pgsdenmilf: got back up
pgsdenmilf: got in the shower
pgsdenmilf: pie is done!
pgsdenmilf: get out of the shower
pgsdenmilf: run naked and wet across the kitchen
pgsdenmilf: turn the oven off
pgsdenmilf: get back in the shower
fish: :-)
fish: you're silly
fish: but fucking hot
pgsdenmilf: so you've mentioned
pgsdenmilf: i will wear my trinity outfit to the bar tonight....and bring a pie. i will insist on being addressed as Incongruous.
pgsdenmilf: I will preside over my minions by standing near the mirrors so everyone can see the front and back of my head at the same time
fish: very good
pgsdenmilf: They will sing songs and tell tales of me long after my days are done: Incongruous, the Hot and Domestic
Fish: did you bake the pie?
pgsdenmilf: this morning
pgsdenmilf: i was funny
pgsdenmilf: i got up
pgsdenmilf: put the pie in the oven
pgsdenmilf: went back to bed
pgsdenmilf: got back up
pgsdenmilf: got in the shower
pgsdenmilf: pie is done!
pgsdenmilf: get out of the shower
pgsdenmilf: run naked and wet across the kitchen
pgsdenmilf: turn the oven off
pgsdenmilf: get back in the shower
fish: :-)
fish: you're silly
fish: but fucking hot
pgsdenmilf: so you've mentioned
pgsdenmilf: i will wear my trinity outfit to the bar tonight....and bring a pie. i will insist on being addressed as Incongruous.
pgsdenmilf: I will preside over my minions by standing near the mirrors so everyone can see the front and back of my head at the same time
fish: very good
pgsdenmilf: They will sing songs and tell tales of me long after my days are done: Incongruous, the Hot and Domestic
Wednesday, October 19, 2005
Melle Gives Good Head Hair
I cut my hair last night. Well, I didn't cut it; Melle did. And John too, sometimes. But we'll get to that.
I've been dying to chop all my hair off for the better part of a year now. I hadn't actually done it because 1) I have no money 2) I moved and didn't have a hairstylist here and 3) I'm lazy as hell. But a couple of weeks ago I looked in the mirror and saw a frizzy mass of blondish/reddish frizzy junk and decided I could stand it no longer. I still didn't have a place to get it cut though. Lucky for me, the Beer Gods have noticed my devotion (I frequently pour out libations to them, you see) (as in down my throat) and decided to take pity on my poor head and show me a sign. I know it was the Beer Gods because the sign showed up on my way to the bar, in the shape of a purple horseshoe surrounded by the words Urban Lift. A hair salon 20 steps from Tai's? Clearly someone was trying to tell me something.
So at work I decided to look it up on the internet to see if they had a website. They did, in fact, and on that website was my second sign that this was the place to go: they have a blog. (This sign came from the Internet Gods, not the Beer Gods. Obviously Fish was praying for me.) I thought to myself, "Hey! I also have a blog! Clearly these people are really cool. (and therefore my hair will be cool)." I called up and made an appointment.
The third sign was when I walked in yesterday and saw Melle. She had on a jean skirt with purple lace nylons and some mauve-ish colored boots, the cutest glasses in the entire universe and way wicked cool hair. I was obviously in the right place.
I had had some trouble trying to explain to my parents about how short I wanted my hair. "How short? Like shoulder length?"
"No, that's long. I'm cutting it short."
"Like a bob?"
"No! I mean short, like as in actually short! Lesbian short."
My stepmother looked concerned and my father cracked up. Neither one had to ask me what "lesbian short" looked like though.
I did not have to resort to tired stereotypes when I said "short" to Melle. She and the other stylist, John, stood beside me, picking at my head, looking at magazines, asking me questions, pretend cutting, and debating about what would be the ultimate coolest way they could coif my head. Eventually they came to a consensus and Melle whisked me off to wash my hair (always the best part, and since I was getting color too I got to do it twice!).
Melle and John, by the way, are both entirely hilarious. Melle was nervous about cutting so much hair off. For one thing, they had decided on a cut she hadn't had much chance to practice yet. For another thing she had had a bad experience. Apparently when she was in beauty school some girl with waist length hair came in and said "Make me look like Halle Berry." So Melle put her hair in a ponytail and then chopped the whole thing off. Halle burst into hysterical sobs. Melle panicked and also burst into hysterical sobs. It scarred her for life. Consequently, when she had sorted out my hair into sections and grabbed the first piece, she stood holding it with the razor against it while asking me no less than 5 times if I was ready. So cute.
My hair, by the way, is not exactly "lesbian short". The back and sides are spiked out, maybe an inch and a half long, and the front tapers down from the end of my spikes to my chin. I promise pictures are forthcoming, but for now, please enjoy this very rough approximation of what I'm talking about on the head of Blink-182's Tom DeLonge.
After she sliced about 11 inches of hair off and I didn't scream or try to stab her, Melle relaxed, and we both enjoyed a very long but seriously entertaining story about when John's mom decided she ought to go to the gay bar with him and git on down on the dance floor (John apparently stopped her from getting on the stage). In between story time and Melle's happy slicing, John would come over and peek at my head, take Melle's razor, and do some cutting of his own. We also took in some Snoop Dogg (John: How can you go wrong with Snoop?) and some punk rock (Melle: No one will like this song but me. Me: This song is awesome!).
We colored it after we cut it (and by "we" I mean Melle and John, I just sat there trying not to laugh too hard and screw up Melle) because we cut off about 3/4 of my hair, so why bother coloring all of that? Melle mixed up for me a super dark brunette color with caramel and yellow-blond highlights, one of which looked like mashed up tangerine in the bowl (I wish I didn't work in a professional office so that I could actually have tangerine colored hair from time to time). John came and peeked at it while Melle was washing my hair and did a happy leprechaun dance from the sheer joy it induced.
Finally, I grabbed my camera and asked Melle to take some pictures, thinking I would stand there and smile while she snapped a few off. I don't know why I thought that, given the whirlwind of entertainment I had just born witness to. Melle decided to take action shots: a "come hither" look, and a Charlie's Angels, coming around the corner shot, complete with finger "gun". At some point I also insisted that she come drink with me at Tai's, because, um, she's way rad.
I am seriously in love with this place. I might even just ditch Tai's and start hanging out at the salon on Thursday nights, which is completely dorky, but you see, so am I. Oh, and my hair? I am one sexy bitch right now. Thanks, Melle!
I've been dying to chop all my hair off for the better part of a year now. I hadn't actually done it because 1) I have no money 2) I moved and didn't have a hairstylist here and 3) I'm lazy as hell. But a couple of weeks ago I looked in the mirror and saw a frizzy mass of blondish/reddish frizzy junk and decided I could stand it no longer. I still didn't have a place to get it cut though. Lucky for me, the Beer Gods have noticed my devotion (I frequently pour out libations to them, you see) (as in down my throat) and decided to take pity on my poor head and show me a sign. I know it was the Beer Gods because the sign showed up on my way to the bar, in the shape of a purple horseshoe surrounded by the words Urban Lift. A hair salon 20 steps from Tai's? Clearly someone was trying to tell me something.
So at work I decided to look it up on the internet to see if they had a website. They did, in fact, and on that website was my second sign that this was the place to go: they have a blog. (This sign came from the Internet Gods, not the Beer Gods. Obviously Fish was praying for me.) I thought to myself, "Hey! I also have a blog! Clearly these people are really cool. (and therefore my hair will be cool)." I called up and made an appointment.
The third sign was when I walked in yesterday and saw Melle. She had on a jean skirt with purple lace nylons and some mauve-ish colored boots, the cutest glasses in the entire universe and way wicked cool hair. I was obviously in the right place.
I had had some trouble trying to explain to my parents about how short I wanted my hair. "How short? Like shoulder length?"
"No, that's long. I'm cutting it short."
"Like a bob?"
"No! I mean short, like as in actually short! Lesbian short."
My stepmother looked concerned and my father cracked up. Neither one had to ask me what "lesbian short" looked like though.
I did not have to resort to tired stereotypes when I said "short" to Melle. She and the other stylist, John, stood beside me, picking at my head, looking at magazines, asking me questions, pretend cutting, and debating about what would be the ultimate coolest way they could coif my head. Eventually they came to a consensus and Melle whisked me off to wash my hair (always the best part, and since I was getting color too I got to do it twice!).
Melle and John, by the way, are both entirely hilarious. Melle was nervous about cutting so much hair off. For one thing, they had decided on a cut she hadn't had much chance to practice yet. For another thing she had had a bad experience. Apparently when she was in beauty school some girl with waist length hair came in and said "Make me look like Halle Berry." So Melle put her hair in a ponytail and then chopped the whole thing off. Halle burst into hysterical sobs. Melle panicked and also burst into hysterical sobs. It scarred her for life. Consequently, when she had sorted out my hair into sections and grabbed the first piece, she stood holding it with the razor against it while asking me no less than 5 times if I was ready. So cute.
My hair, by the way, is not exactly "lesbian short". The back and sides are spiked out, maybe an inch and a half long, and the front tapers down from the end of my spikes to my chin. I promise pictures are forthcoming, but for now, please enjoy this very rough approximation of what I'm talking about on the head of Blink-182's Tom DeLonge.
After she sliced about 11 inches of hair off and I didn't scream or try to stab her, Melle relaxed, and we both enjoyed a very long but seriously entertaining story about when John's mom decided she ought to go to the gay bar with him and git on down on the dance floor (John apparently stopped her from getting on the stage). In between story time and Melle's happy slicing, John would come over and peek at my head, take Melle's razor, and do some cutting of his own. We also took in some Snoop Dogg (John: How can you go wrong with Snoop?) and some punk rock (Melle: No one will like this song but me. Me: This song is awesome!).
We colored it after we cut it (and by "we" I mean Melle and John, I just sat there trying not to laugh too hard and screw up Melle) because we cut off about 3/4 of my hair, so why bother coloring all of that? Melle mixed up for me a super dark brunette color with caramel and yellow-blond highlights, one of which looked like mashed up tangerine in the bowl (I wish I didn't work in a professional office so that I could actually have tangerine colored hair from time to time). John came and peeked at it while Melle was washing my hair and did a happy leprechaun dance from the sheer joy it induced.
Finally, I grabbed my camera and asked Melle to take some pictures, thinking I would stand there and smile while she snapped a few off. I don't know why I thought that, given the whirlwind of entertainment I had just born witness to. Melle decided to take action shots: a "come hither" look, and a Charlie's Angels, coming around the corner shot, complete with finger "gun". At some point I also insisted that she come drink with me at Tai's, because, um, she's way rad.
I am seriously in love with this place. I might even just ditch Tai's and start hanging out at the salon on Thursday nights, which is completely dorky, but you see, so am I. Oh, and my hair? I am one sexy bitch right now. Thanks, Melle!
Monday, October 17, 2005
You Can't Go Home Again
There's a weird thing that happens after you move out of your parents house: it's not your house anymore.
This may seem completely obvious to most of you, but for me it's a shock every time I walk into my parents house. It doesn't help that they moved last year and it's not even the same HOUSE I grew up in. Some things that I noticed when I was staying at my dad's this weekend to illustrate my point:
1. In all the long years I've been making pies with my dad, I've never had to go on a scavenger hunt in the kitchen to do it. "Where's the flour?" I had to ask him. Because I didn't know. I didn't even know where to begin. This was quickly followed by "Where's the mixing bowls?", "Where's the measuring spoons?", "Where's the rolling pin?", "Where are the pie pans?" and "Where's the plastic wrap?" I only knew where the forks were because of a previous trip. And also, what the hell are these glasses? I've never seen these things before in my life.
2. There's nothing to eat in the house. I mean, there's things to eat, but they aren't the things that WE ate. When we were a family and everyone lived there. For starters there is no milk. None. These are the people (or person, I guess my stepmom wasn't there yet) who had me drink a glass of milk every single time I sat down for a meal. The only time I was offered a beverage that was not milk was when we had pizza, at which time we were granted the great privilege of having actual Coca-Cola with our meal. We had one pint of Coke in the house at any given time, compared to at least two gallons of milk. Now there is no milk. Come to thing of it, there's no Coke either. What exactly do these people drink? All I see is a bottle of wine. Are they having this with their breakfast? I just don't know.
Also I can't find anything to snack on. My memory insists that there was once a perpetual box of Snyders of Hanover sourdough pretzels in the house. Also there were some type of home made baked goods available in the cookie jar or on top of the fridge at all times. I looked in the pantry. Ingredients for actual meal type items and a container of almonds smiled back at me. It's not that I'm expecting everyone to cater to my needs just because I showed up; I'm more than happy to go to the store and get my own junk food. It's just that, I mean, what do these people eat all day? I'm confused.
3. You cannot, CANNOT masturbate at your parents house after you've moved out. Like at all. Nevermind that you spent the entirety of your formative years trying to start a friction fire under your blankets feet away from your parents bedroom. When you and your stuff reside somewhere else, even thinking about masturbating at your parents house seems dirty and totally weird. I was almost ready to go get a hotel room.
This may seem completely obvious to most of you, but for me it's a shock every time I walk into my parents house. It doesn't help that they moved last year and it's not even the same HOUSE I grew up in. Some things that I noticed when I was staying at my dad's this weekend to illustrate my point:
1. In all the long years I've been making pies with my dad, I've never had to go on a scavenger hunt in the kitchen to do it. "Where's the flour?" I had to ask him. Because I didn't know. I didn't even know where to begin. This was quickly followed by "Where's the mixing bowls?", "Where's the measuring spoons?", "Where's the rolling pin?", "Where are the pie pans?" and "Where's the plastic wrap?" I only knew where the forks were because of a previous trip. And also, what the hell are these glasses? I've never seen these things before in my life.
2. There's nothing to eat in the house. I mean, there's things to eat, but they aren't the things that WE ate. When we were a family and everyone lived there. For starters there is no milk. None. These are the people (or person, I guess my stepmom wasn't there yet) who had me drink a glass of milk every single time I sat down for a meal. The only time I was offered a beverage that was not milk was when we had pizza, at which time we were granted the great privilege of having actual Coca-Cola with our meal. We had one pint of Coke in the house at any given time, compared to at least two gallons of milk. Now there is no milk. Come to thing of it, there's no Coke either. What exactly do these people drink? All I see is a bottle of wine. Are they having this with their breakfast? I just don't know.
Also I can't find anything to snack on. My memory insists that there was once a perpetual box of Snyders of Hanover sourdough pretzels in the house. Also there were some type of home made baked goods available in the cookie jar or on top of the fridge at all times. I looked in the pantry. Ingredients for actual meal type items and a container of almonds smiled back at me. It's not that I'm expecting everyone to cater to my needs just because I showed up; I'm more than happy to go to the store and get my own junk food. It's just that, I mean, what do these people eat all day? I'm confused.
3. You cannot, CANNOT masturbate at your parents house after you've moved out. Like at all. Nevermind that you spent the entirety of your formative years trying to start a friction fire under your blankets feet away from your parents bedroom. When you and your stuff reside somewhere else, even thinking about masturbating at your parents house seems dirty and totally weird. I was almost ready to go get a hotel room.
Monday, October 10, 2005
Sociology 101
Here's a fun little sociology experiment to try:
First, move to a new city. Move, but remember to keep your professional and collegiate sports affiliations firmly rooted way back in the city where you were born and raised. For example, just hypothetically, imagine that you've moved from Cleveland to Chicago, but have chosen to remain a Browns fan.
Next, wait around for an athletic competition during which your "traditional" home team spars with your "new" home team. In our purely hypothetical example, the Browns would be playing the Bears.
On the date of this contest, venture out to some public place where you can watch the game. Be certain that this venue has many fans of the "new" home team and that they serve alcoholic beverages. For our example, let's chose a place at random: say, Buffalo Wild Wings in Woodridge. (hypothetically, you are visiting your friends in Lisle for the weekend and therefore have to find a place to watch the game in the suburbs, which explains why you are in Woodridge.)
Make sure also that you are 1) alone and 2) dressed in something silly. Perhaps some black pajama pants covered in jack-o-lanterns that you bought for $2 on clearance at Old Navy several years ago, and a black sweatshirt with a Latin phrase on it that roughly translates to "Always wear underwear".
Now, visibly and audibly cheer for your "traditional" home team. Carefully observe the reactions of the other (some slightly drunken) football fans surrounding you as you cheer, out loud, against their team. Be sure to note any change in their behavior if POSSIBLY your team starts to really pull away with the game during the last three minutes of play, or, hypothetically, scores two touchdowns in 38 seconds.
If anyone decides to try this experiment, I'd be very interested in hearing your results.
First, move to a new city. Move, but remember to keep your professional and collegiate sports affiliations firmly rooted way back in the city where you were born and raised. For example, just hypothetically, imagine that you've moved from Cleveland to Chicago, but have chosen to remain a Browns fan.
Next, wait around for an athletic competition during which your "traditional" home team spars with your "new" home team. In our purely hypothetical example, the Browns would be playing the Bears.
On the date of this contest, venture out to some public place where you can watch the game. Be certain that this venue has many fans of the "new" home team and that they serve alcoholic beverages. For our example, let's chose a place at random: say, Buffalo Wild Wings in Woodridge. (hypothetically, you are visiting your friends in Lisle for the weekend and therefore have to find a place to watch the game in the suburbs, which explains why you are in Woodridge.)
Make sure also that you are 1) alone and 2) dressed in something silly. Perhaps some black pajama pants covered in jack-o-lanterns that you bought for $2 on clearance at Old Navy several years ago, and a black sweatshirt with a Latin phrase on it that roughly translates to "Always wear underwear".
Now, visibly and audibly cheer for your "traditional" home team. Carefully observe the reactions of the other (some slightly drunken) football fans surrounding you as you cheer, out loud, against their team. Be sure to note any change in their behavior if POSSIBLY your team starts to really pull away with the game during the last three minutes of play, or, hypothetically, scores two touchdowns in 38 seconds.
If anyone decides to try this experiment, I'd be very interested in hearing your results.
Nothing For Me, Thanks.
People who know me in real life know that I am not one for the fast food option. It's not a health thing, ala Supersize Me or anything like that; I just think almost all of it tastes like dog shit. If I were stranded on a desert island with nothing but one McDonald's and one Burger King from which to order, I would find a way to digest sand.
The only traditional fast food restaurant thing that I am ever inclined to eat is the sausage burrito on the McDonald's breakfast menu. For those not in the know, it's an assortment of imitation eggs, tiny little balls of sausage, micro bits of red and green pepper and some american cheese all rolled up in a (usually stale) tortilla wrap. It is bland and mostly tastes like ass with cheese on it, but in the interest of convenience I have trained myself to stomach it, and ever so occasionally, I wake up to find myself actually wanting one. Like, on purpose.
Well, until Saturday.
Saturday morning I awoke to the sound of Fish's alarm clock blaring at 7 a.m. You know in the movie Dumb and Dumber when they're driving around in the van and the one idiot says to the other, "You want to hear the most annoying sound in the world?" and then lets out a nasally screech that goes on for about 20 seconds? Yeah, well he was wrong, that is not the most annoying sound in the world - Fish's alarm clock is. That shit would kill someone with a heart condition flat out dead every morning. But anyway, we got up at 7 a.m. because I am out of crazy drugs and I had an early appointment to go find a new doctor here in my new city to give me some more crazy drugs before I drive everyone around me to be just as mad as I am.
So we get up and get ready to face the day and find that we are miraculously 15 minutes ahead of schedule. And finding that the only orange juice in the fridge has a sell by date from 7 weeks ago, I turned to Fish and said "We have time to go to McDonald's before you drop me off!" because suddenly in my head I am tasting a sausage burrito with all it's gooey cheese and imitation egg goodness swimming around in my mouth with tiny sausage balls and it would go perfect with the reconstituted but not expired orange juice they sell there. We decide in line that I will get the sausage burrito meal, because orange juice (or coffee, if you prefer) comes with it, and then I'd get not one but two burritos AND Fish gets a free hash brown out of the deal. As they handed us our bag of goodies, I may have actually bounced up and down in my seat and clapped.
I pulled burrito number one out of the bag and began to unwrap it, and it was then that I noticed something I had never seen before. The sausage burrito wrapping is usually held together by a little round sticker describing ways I could be Lovin' It, and that sticker was there, but there was also, right on top of it, another sticker. This sticker was square and read as follows "MUST USE BY 11:27 AM 10/8/05".
Ok, what just happened here? My burrito, my last, tenuous connection to the world of fast food dining, has an expiration sticker on it. And not just any expiration sticker. It reads "MUST USE BY". Not Please Sell By, or Best if Eaten Before. MUST USE BY. In big capital block letters.
Why? What's going to happen if I don't eat it by 11:27 a.m.? Will I be arrested by the burrito police? Does it disappear into the vast reaches of outer space? Does it self destruct by blowing up in my face all Chief Quimby/Inspector Gadget-like? Or, and at the time it seemed like the most likely scenario, does it kill me instantly on swallowing? I sat staring at the sticker, perplexed. "It seems to me," said Fish, when I pointed out the offending sticker (which by now I had determined had an identical twin stuck to my other burrito, but no other siblings attached to either Fish's hash brown or my orange juice) "that it seems like that stuff would have so many preservatives in it that it should never expire. It should have a shelf life indefinitely, like a twinkie or something."
"Apparently though, it does not," I replied. I was concerned. The more I thought about it, the more I managed to convince myself that some dumb asshole had let a perfectly good sausage burrito sit out on their kitchen counter for about 9 hours collecting germs, and then ate it, got some kind of Salmonella Surprise, and tried to sue McDonald's for almost killing them, and that somehow this event had slipped under the news media's radar so that I didn't hear about it, and now to avoid future law suits they were putting disclaimer stickers on there to disassociate themselves from any type of responsibility for e. coli that may or may not crawl onto your burrito with fake eggs after you've left it sitting out for three days and then eaten it and died.
Which isn't really McDonald's fault at all (and in fact, probably has nothing to do with the sticker), but still, after that I started to notice the increasing ass flavor of my burrito and the cheese wasn't so cheesy anymore and I ended up throwing half of it away, because, um, ew. As it's now been two full days and it's still grossing me out, I think that my last tie to the fast food nation may have been permanently severed.
The only traditional fast food restaurant thing that I am ever inclined to eat is the sausage burrito on the McDonald's breakfast menu. For those not in the know, it's an assortment of imitation eggs, tiny little balls of sausage, micro bits of red and green pepper and some american cheese all rolled up in a (usually stale) tortilla wrap. It is bland and mostly tastes like ass with cheese on it, but in the interest of convenience I have trained myself to stomach it, and ever so occasionally, I wake up to find myself actually wanting one. Like, on purpose.
Well, until Saturday.
Saturday morning I awoke to the sound of Fish's alarm clock blaring at 7 a.m. You know in the movie Dumb and Dumber when they're driving around in the van and the one idiot says to the other, "You want to hear the most annoying sound in the world?" and then lets out a nasally screech that goes on for about 20 seconds? Yeah, well he was wrong, that is not the most annoying sound in the world - Fish's alarm clock is. That shit would kill someone with a heart condition flat out dead every morning. But anyway, we got up at 7 a.m. because I am out of crazy drugs and I had an early appointment to go find a new doctor here in my new city to give me some more crazy drugs before I drive everyone around me to be just as mad as I am.
So we get up and get ready to face the day and find that we are miraculously 15 minutes ahead of schedule. And finding that the only orange juice in the fridge has a sell by date from 7 weeks ago, I turned to Fish and said "We have time to go to McDonald's before you drop me off!" because suddenly in my head I am tasting a sausage burrito with all it's gooey cheese and imitation egg goodness swimming around in my mouth with tiny sausage balls and it would go perfect with the reconstituted but not expired orange juice they sell there. We decide in line that I will get the sausage burrito meal, because orange juice (or coffee, if you prefer) comes with it, and then I'd get not one but two burritos AND Fish gets a free hash brown out of the deal. As they handed us our bag of goodies, I may have actually bounced up and down in my seat and clapped.
I pulled burrito number one out of the bag and began to unwrap it, and it was then that I noticed something I had never seen before. The sausage burrito wrapping is usually held together by a little round sticker describing ways I could be Lovin' It, and that sticker was there, but there was also, right on top of it, another sticker. This sticker was square and read as follows "MUST USE BY 11:27 AM 10/8/05".
Ok, what just happened here? My burrito, my last, tenuous connection to the world of fast food dining, has an expiration sticker on it. And not just any expiration sticker. It reads "MUST USE BY". Not Please Sell By, or Best if Eaten Before. MUST USE BY. In big capital block letters.
Why? What's going to happen if I don't eat it by 11:27 a.m.? Will I be arrested by the burrito police? Does it disappear into the vast reaches of outer space? Does it self destruct by blowing up in my face all Chief Quimby/Inspector Gadget-like? Or, and at the time it seemed like the most likely scenario, does it kill me instantly on swallowing? I sat staring at the sticker, perplexed. "It seems to me," said Fish, when I pointed out the offending sticker (which by now I had determined had an identical twin stuck to my other burrito, but no other siblings attached to either Fish's hash brown or my orange juice) "that it seems like that stuff would have so many preservatives in it that it should never expire. It should have a shelf life indefinitely, like a twinkie or something."
"Apparently though, it does not," I replied. I was concerned. The more I thought about it, the more I managed to convince myself that some dumb asshole had let a perfectly good sausage burrito sit out on their kitchen counter for about 9 hours collecting germs, and then ate it, got some kind of Salmonella Surprise, and tried to sue McDonald's for almost killing them, and that somehow this event had slipped under the news media's radar so that I didn't hear about it, and now to avoid future law suits they were putting disclaimer stickers on there to disassociate themselves from any type of responsibility for e. coli that may or may not crawl onto your burrito with fake eggs after you've left it sitting out for three days and then eaten it and died.
Which isn't really McDonald's fault at all (and in fact, probably has nothing to do with the sticker), but still, after that I started to notice the increasing ass flavor of my burrito and the cheese wasn't so cheesy anymore and I ended up throwing half of it away, because, um, ew. As it's now been two full days and it's still grossing me out, I think that my last tie to the fast food nation may have been permanently severed.
Friday, October 07, 2005
More From the Triple Threat
Transcript from a message that the Triple Threat left on my voicemail earlier this summer:
Morgan: [Family name], it’s Morgan. I’m just calling to say that you suck.
Minnick(in the background): Ask her if she’s ever…
Morgan: Have you ever seen such a thing as
Minnick(in the background): pierced balls?
Morgan: If you had balls would you
Minnick (sounding closer): pierce them?
(Norris laughs in the background)
Morgan: Are your balls
Minnick: Pierced?
Morgan: Please call us.
Minnick: What, of all the genitalia that you’re aware of, and you have seen a lot of genitalia, have you ever seen pierced
Morgan: Balls? Call us. Ok, bye.
Morgan: [Family name], it’s Morgan. I’m just calling to say that you suck.
Minnick(in the background): Ask her if she’s ever…
Morgan: Have you ever seen such a thing as
Minnick(in the background): pierced balls?
Morgan: If you had balls would you
Minnick (sounding closer): pierce them?
(Norris laughs in the background)
Morgan: Are your balls
Minnick: Pierced?
Morgan: Please call us.
Minnick: What, of all the genitalia that you’re aware of, and you have seen a lot of genitalia, have you ever seen pierced
Morgan: Balls? Call us. Ok, bye.
Tag Teamed
Today I had one of those exhausting phone calls with the Triple Threat. The Triple Threat is a group of people I used to work with at the Big O, right before I left to go work at the number factory. In case you didn't pick up on it, there are three of them.
Norris is a character we've seen on Bizzybiz before, as he is the individual responsible for setting me up with 1153. He likes to fish and drink beer. He doesn't really like people a whole lot, and got married at Lake Tahoe specifically to prevent most of his family and acquaintances from attending. His wife is lovely, though when asked he will tell you she is fat and doesn't speak English, and that he only married her so she could stay in the country. Norris adds he likes to have a good time at any time (unlike me).
Morgan and Minnick are new to the blog. Morgan is one of my closest girlfriends. She is a big fan of discount stores (specifically Marc's for you Cleveland readers), beer, weird festivals, volunteering, Halloween, and anything that can in any way be construed as a "deal". She is not a big fan of rude sales clerks or of her husband. She is also good at letting her mouth lead her brain, such as the time during a product design brainstorming meeting with several big company execs when she announced one way to connect two pipes together would be to have a ring attached to one that could be rolled down over the other, "you know, like a condom."
Minnick is an engineer turned some kind of marketing/sales guru. Minnick has a tendency to come off as somewhat of a caustic prick from time to time (the views and opinions expressed in this sentence are gleaned from conversations with other people and do not necessarily reflect those of the Bizzybiz Blog or it's author). This has led to at least one instance of using the phrase "There's a fine line between confidence and cockiness" in a performance review when describing himself.
The Triple Threat works their magic by ganging up on people. They make phone calls in tandem, and they all talk at once, bombarding you with reasons why they are right and you are wrong in an attempt to confuse you. Much of the time their argument is completely ridiculous and they know it, which is somewhat the point: to see how outlandish of a thing they can get you to go along with. Today's call involved a group vacation.
"Pack your bags, we'll pick you up at the airport in Norfolk."
"Oh God. What are you guys talking about now?"
"Our vacation. Next weekend. Kill Devil Hills in the Outer Banks."
"Right. Because I can afford that."
"No listen. Your lodging and meals are paid for. You just have to pick up the airfare."
"With what? I'm broke, I can't afford it."
"Wait, don't you have a job? Are you still working part time?"
"I was never working part time. I've been full time since I started."
"Oh so you're fine then. Great we'll pick you up in Norfolk Thursday night."
"You guys, seriously, I can't afford it."
"Ok, fine. We'll split it then. We'll pick up your airfare, and then we'll meet you in Norfolk and pick you up. We're getting this sweet minivan, we'll be drinking."
"You know I'm going to Cleveland next weekend right? With Fish? To make pies with my dad?"
"Your dad is making pies with Fish?"
"No, I am making pies with my dad. Fish is coming home with me."
"Well, they can go too. They have to buy their own plane tickets though, we're only buying yours."
"You guys. Seriously. I can't go."
"Are you engaged?"
"What? No."
"Pregnant? Are you pregnant? Because you need to get that abortion in before the new court takes over you know."
"I'm not pregnant."
"Well then you can fly. So we'll see you there. It's going to be sweet, we'll party..."
"Listen. I can't go. I'm going to Cleveland. Actually I'm kind of mad, I wanted to have lunch with you guys. I was going to come to the O."
"We won't be there. We'll be in North Carolina."
"Yes, I KNOW that. And I'll be in Cleveland, making pies with my dad."
"OK, here's what we'll do. We're actually saving you money." (that was Morgan talking, she'd found one of her "deals".) "Wednesday night, we'll fly you to Cleveland. It's $29. You'll be leaving from Midway. Wednesday night you'll make pies with your dad, and Thursday morning we'll get in the van and drive down. Stay the weekend. Then you can choose what day you want to go back. We'll get you a ticket direct from Norfolk to Chicago for any day you want."
"Great. Can you make it so I only miss one day of work? Because that's all I can miss."
"Um, no. You have to miss at least 2 and a half days."
"Well then I can't do it."
"Amber! You are turning down a free vacation!"
"With regret, yes."
"When you're 88, you're going to look back on this and say 'That was a huge mistake. I should have gone on vacation way back then'. And you're going to be miserable."
"Norris, I am never going to be 88 years old, and even if I was, by that time I'd have so many regrets this wouldn't even be a blip on the screen."
"If you don't live to be 88 you won't have as many regrets so when you are this might be the only thing. Think about that." (See what I mean? That doesn't even make sense.)
"I can't take that much time off in October. It doesn't work that way. If you were going in November, or even December..."
"Amber, this is Mike talking now. Listen, there is this thing called 'weather'. And the weather makes it cold in November and December. So we are going now."
"Well, I can't go."
"Amber, if you don't go we're going to boycott you. Forever. I can't believe you are doing this. You are ruining the whole plan."
"Yes, Norris, and someday when you're 88 you'll look back and say 'What a bitch Amber is, she ruined all my vacations for the whole rest of my life'."
"I'm already saying that."
"Listen, I will go in the winter. I will go in the spring. But I already have plans and I can't take that kind of time off work anyway."
"OK, so we'll book your flight then and e-mail you the itinerary."
The above example is maybe a quarter of the total conversation, which as I write this, has spilled over into an e-mail conversation during which Norris has sent me the link to the condo website three separate times, Minnick pointed out that they'd be eating at some specific restaurant I've never heard of, and Morgan wanted to know how I have time to blog at work, but can't take off for vacation. (She has a point. I'm going back to work right now.)
I like these people, but they exhaust me.
Norris is a character we've seen on Bizzybiz before, as he is the individual responsible for setting me up with 1153. He likes to fish and drink beer. He doesn't really like people a whole lot, and got married at Lake Tahoe specifically to prevent most of his family and acquaintances from attending. His wife is lovely, though when asked he will tell you she is fat and doesn't speak English, and that he only married her so she could stay in the country. Norris adds he likes to have a good time at any time (unlike me).
Morgan and Minnick are new to the blog. Morgan is one of my closest girlfriends. She is a big fan of discount stores (specifically Marc's for you Cleveland readers), beer, weird festivals, volunteering, Halloween, and anything that can in any way be construed as a "deal". She is not a big fan of rude sales clerks or of her husband. She is also good at letting her mouth lead her brain, such as the time during a product design brainstorming meeting with several big company execs when she announced one way to connect two pipes together would be to have a ring attached to one that could be rolled down over the other, "you know, like a condom."
Minnick is an engineer turned some kind of marketing/sales guru. Minnick has a tendency to come off as somewhat of a caustic prick from time to time (the views and opinions expressed in this sentence are gleaned from conversations with other people and do not necessarily reflect those of the Bizzybiz Blog or it's author). This has led to at least one instance of using the phrase "There's a fine line between confidence and cockiness" in a performance review when describing himself.
The Triple Threat works their magic by ganging up on people. They make phone calls in tandem, and they all talk at once, bombarding you with reasons why they are right and you are wrong in an attempt to confuse you. Much of the time their argument is completely ridiculous and they know it, which is somewhat the point: to see how outlandish of a thing they can get you to go along with. Today's call involved a group vacation.
"Pack your bags, we'll pick you up at the airport in Norfolk."
"Oh God. What are you guys talking about now?"
"Our vacation. Next weekend. Kill Devil Hills in the Outer Banks."
"Right. Because I can afford that."
"No listen. Your lodging and meals are paid for. You just have to pick up the airfare."
"With what? I'm broke, I can't afford it."
"Wait, don't you have a job? Are you still working part time?"
"I was never working part time. I've been full time since I started."
"Oh so you're fine then. Great we'll pick you up in Norfolk Thursday night."
"You guys, seriously, I can't afford it."
"Ok, fine. We'll split it then. We'll pick up your airfare, and then we'll meet you in Norfolk and pick you up. We're getting this sweet minivan, we'll be drinking."
"You know I'm going to Cleveland next weekend right? With Fish? To make pies with my dad?"
"Your dad is making pies with Fish?"
"No, I am making pies with my dad. Fish is coming home with me."
"Well, they can go too. They have to buy their own plane tickets though, we're only buying yours."
"You guys. Seriously. I can't go."
"Are you engaged?"
"What? No."
"Pregnant? Are you pregnant? Because you need to get that abortion in before the new court takes over you know."
"I'm not pregnant."
"Well then you can fly. So we'll see you there. It's going to be sweet, we'll party..."
"Listen. I can't go. I'm going to Cleveland. Actually I'm kind of mad, I wanted to have lunch with you guys. I was going to come to the O."
"We won't be there. We'll be in North Carolina."
"Yes, I KNOW that. And I'll be in Cleveland, making pies with my dad."
"OK, here's what we'll do. We're actually saving you money." (that was Morgan talking, she'd found one of her "deals".) "Wednesday night, we'll fly you to Cleveland. It's $29. You'll be leaving from Midway. Wednesday night you'll make pies with your dad, and Thursday morning we'll get in the van and drive down. Stay the weekend. Then you can choose what day you want to go back. We'll get you a ticket direct from Norfolk to Chicago for any day you want."
"Great. Can you make it so I only miss one day of work? Because that's all I can miss."
"Um, no. You have to miss at least 2 and a half days."
"Well then I can't do it."
"Amber! You are turning down a free vacation!"
"With regret, yes."
"When you're 88, you're going to look back on this and say 'That was a huge mistake. I should have gone on vacation way back then'. And you're going to be miserable."
"Norris, I am never going to be 88 years old, and even if I was, by that time I'd have so many regrets this wouldn't even be a blip on the screen."
"If you don't live to be 88 you won't have as many regrets so when you are this might be the only thing. Think about that." (See what I mean? That doesn't even make sense.)
"I can't take that much time off in October. It doesn't work that way. If you were going in November, or even December..."
"Amber, this is Mike talking now. Listen, there is this thing called 'weather'. And the weather makes it cold in November and December. So we are going now."
"Well, I can't go."
"Amber, if you don't go we're going to boycott you. Forever. I can't believe you are doing this. You are ruining the whole plan."
"Yes, Norris, and someday when you're 88 you'll look back and say 'What a bitch Amber is, she ruined all my vacations for the whole rest of my life'."
"I'm already saying that."
"Listen, I will go in the winter. I will go in the spring. But I already have plans and I can't take that kind of time off work anyway."
"OK, so we'll book your flight then and e-mail you the itinerary."
The above example is maybe a quarter of the total conversation, which as I write this, has spilled over into an e-mail conversation during which Norris has sent me the link to the condo website three separate times, Minnick pointed out that they'd be eating at some specific restaurant I've never heard of, and Morgan wanted to know how I have time to blog at work, but can't take off for vacation. (She has a point. I'm going back to work right now.)
I like these people, but they exhaust me.
Thursday, October 06, 2005
I'll Have a Golf Trip, but Hold the Golf
Ah, the Tai's crowd. Ah, Galena. Ah, the Tai's crowd drunk in Galena.
A good time was had by all, witnesseth my notes:
My two closest buddies on the trip, the bartender and Chris G., were golfing together and therefore sharing a cart, and my drunk cart driving buddy from the last trip didn't make it to this one, so instead I ended up a passenger in the "shot cart" with BigRon. The shot cart, of course, is the cart loaded with Jagermeister and Ketel One and a case of Red Bull that you drive around the course offering shots to people and getting them very drunk (this is not to be confused with the "beer bong cart", which drives around the golf course with a whole lot of beer and a beer bong offering beer to people and getting them very drunk). One thing I've noticed about being in the shot cart is that everyone you come across has an expectation that you, also, will be doing a shot. This got to be tricky as I had been left in charge of making sure Chris G. made it back to the hotel safely since he was planning to drink heavily (helped along by his good pal in the shot cart of course). I ended up talking BigRon into splitting most of the shots with me. And by "splitting" I mean I breathed the fumes first, and then he drank the shot.
The other adventure BigRon and I encountered was the Sisterhood of the Traveling Contact Lens. Another of our drive-around-in-cart-not-golfing friends had something in her eye and took out her contact lens while we were out on the course. The wind was angry that day my friends. So angry that it blew her contact lens right off the tip of her finger. So the three of us all got into the "someone lost a contact" pose: hunched over, peering at the ground, trying not to move your feet lest you step on it. And somehow, BigRon actually found it laying in the grass. Don't ask me how he saw that, because I don't know. But it prompted C and me to shout "Ron is GOOD!" to everyone who passed by for the next 10 minutes. Until...
C had her contact lens in her mouth to keep it wet until we could get back to the clubhouse and she could have another go at putting it back in her eye. BigRon wasn't really ready to go to the clubhouse yet though, so he came up with the idea that he and I stand up and form a wind blocking wall while C sat in front of us and put her contact in. Did I mention the fury of the wind that day? The wind was pissed, and to punish us for our audacity, it blew C's contact out of her hands again. And this time, even BigRon's eagle eye couldn't recover it. Prompting C and I to modify our battle cry: "Ron is GOOD! But only the first time."
Other hilarity ensued later. Such as the two-year-old son of another tripster. He was sitting at the bar in the clubhouse and the bartender went over to talk to him. "Hey wee-man! Whatcha drinking, orange juice?" The kid pointed to his drink and shouted "SCREWDRIVER!" His dad insists that screwdriver is his favorite tool. Yeah.
Also, while I did get Chris G. back to the hotel safely the first time, we still ended up losing him later. He had gone to the boat to gamble with many of the others while a few of us stayed at the hotel eating and drinking and a few others hit the strip club. I couldn't go, I was babysitting the babydrunk. People were returning from the boat in small groups all night long...everyone except Chris G. No one knew his whereabouts. "did you see Chris when you left?" we asked, oh, everyone. "No," they told us, or "He was still at a table last time I saw him." Around 3:30 a.m. Chris strolled out onto the patio.
"How did you get here Chris?"
"Oh, I got a ride."
"From who? Everyone else came back hours ago!"
"Yeah, I know. The pit boss drove me home." No joke, the PIT BOSS drove him home.
I also collected a whole catalog of bartenderisms, including but not limited to:
"I mean, that guy's sex life even bothers me!"
"Vodka at 4 a.m. is a bad idea. Why didn't you stop me?"
"I am so tired. I must have yawned 70 times today. Well, maybe not 70, but at least 38."
There were more, I just didn't have any paper to write them all down.
*UPDATE*
I forgot this part until I was at the bar last night. I headed back to the room around 4 a.m. The bartender showed up around 5 and went to bed. Right about 7:30 I woke up to some kind of crinkling, crunching sound. "What the hell are you doing?" I mumbled to the bartender, who was standing with his back to me next to the sink (i.e. not in his bed).
"I'm having a sausage sandwich and some chips! You want anything?"
"What? No. Dude? It's like 7:30 in the morning."
He turned around and grinned at me, popped the rest of his sandwich in his mouth, got back in bed and fell right back to sleep as if it had never happened.
Can't wait for the next trip.
A good time was had by all, witnesseth my notes:
My two closest buddies on the trip, the bartender and Chris G., were golfing together and therefore sharing a cart, and my drunk cart driving buddy from the last trip didn't make it to this one, so instead I ended up a passenger in the "shot cart" with BigRon. The shot cart, of course, is the cart loaded with Jagermeister and Ketel One and a case of Red Bull that you drive around the course offering shots to people and getting them very drunk (this is not to be confused with the "beer bong cart", which drives around the golf course with a whole lot of beer and a beer bong offering beer to people and getting them very drunk). One thing I've noticed about being in the shot cart is that everyone you come across has an expectation that you, also, will be doing a shot. This got to be tricky as I had been left in charge of making sure Chris G. made it back to the hotel safely since he was planning to drink heavily (helped along by his good pal in the shot cart of course). I ended up talking BigRon into splitting most of the shots with me. And by "splitting" I mean I breathed the fumes first, and then he drank the shot.
The other adventure BigRon and I encountered was the Sisterhood of the Traveling Contact Lens. Another of our drive-around-in-cart-not-golfing friends had something in her eye and took out her contact lens while we were out on the course. The wind was angry that day my friends. So angry that it blew her contact lens right off the tip of her finger. So the three of us all got into the "someone lost a contact" pose: hunched over, peering at the ground, trying not to move your feet lest you step on it. And somehow, BigRon actually found it laying in the grass. Don't ask me how he saw that, because I don't know. But it prompted C and me to shout "Ron is GOOD!" to everyone who passed by for the next 10 minutes. Until...
C had her contact lens in her mouth to keep it wet until we could get back to the clubhouse and she could have another go at putting it back in her eye. BigRon wasn't really ready to go to the clubhouse yet though, so he came up with the idea that he and I stand up and form a wind blocking wall while C sat in front of us and put her contact in. Did I mention the fury of the wind that day? The wind was pissed, and to punish us for our audacity, it blew C's contact out of her hands again. And this time, even BigRon's eagle eye couldn't recover it. Prompting C and I to modify our battle cry: "Ron is GOOD! But only the first time."
Other hilarity ensued later. Such as the two-year-old son of another tripster. He was sitting at the bar in the clubhouse and the bartender went over to talk to him. "Hey wee-man! Whatcha drinking, orange juice?" The kid pointed to his drink and shouted "SCREWDRIVER!" His dad insists that screwdriver is his favorite tool. Yeah.
Also, while I did get Chris G. back to the hotel safely the first time, we still ended up losing him later. He had gone to the boat to gamble with many of the others while a few of us stayed at the hotel eating and drinking and a few others hit the strip club. I couldn't go, I was babysitting the babydrunk. People were returning from the boat in small groups all night long...everyone except Chris G. No one knew his whereabouts. "did you see Chris when you left?" we asked, oh, everyone. "No," they told us, or "He was still at a table last time I saw him." Around 3:30 a.m. Chris strolled out onto the patio.
"How did you get here Chris?"
"Oh, I got a ride."
"From who? Everyone else came back hours ago!"
"Yeah, I know. The pit boss drove me home." No joke, the PIT BOSS drove him home.
I also collected a whole catalog of bartenderisms, including but not limited to:
"I mean, that guy's sex life even bothers me!"
"Vodka at 4 a.m. is a bad idea. Why didn't you stop me?"
"I am so tired. I must have yawned 70 times today. Well, maybe not 70, but at least 38."
There were more, I just didn't have any paper to write them all down.
*UPDATE*
I forgot this part until I was at the bar last night. I headed back to the room around 4 a.m. The bartender showed up around 5 and went to bed. Right about 7:30 I woke up to some kind of crinkling, crunching sound. "What the hell are you doing?" I mumbled to the bartender, who was standing with his back to me next to the sink (i.e. not in his bed).
"I'm having a sausage sandwich and some chips! You want anything?"
"What? No. Dude? It's like 7:30 in the morning."
He turned around and grinned at me, popped the rest of his sandwich in his mouth, got back in bed and fell right back to sleep as if it had never happened.
Can't wait for the next trip.
Tuesday, October 04, 2005
The Klutz Reprise
No new bruises to report, only some dry, crusted hot chocolate that I somehow managed to splash on my sweater and in my hair this morning.
Friday, September 30, 2005
BruisyBruise
Here's the thing: I'm kind of a klutz. OK, maybe not kind of; I am a klutz.
Once, when I still worked at the number factory, I was walking down the hallway toward my office with Mary and our VP of Operations following in my wake. Now I had walked down this hallway many hundreds of times in my day; after all, my office lived there. So walking down that particular hallway should have been pretty routine. But alas, nothing is routine if it involves both me and any kind of motor skills or coordination. So when I got to the bend in the hallway (which had ALWAYS been there), I managed to completely miss the yards of open space to my immediate right and plant my face square into the wall. Mary, the world’s most patient best friend, is accustomed to seeing these types of walking fuck ups from me, but Operations didn't spend nearly as much time observing my inability to navigate minor obstacles, and was surprised.
"Did she just run right into the wall?" Operations asked of Patient Mary.
"Yup." Mary checked her wristwatch. "She's about due."
These close encounters with inanimate objects happen far more frequently than even I can imagine. So frequently, in fact, that I very rarely remember them at all. How do I know that these events occur if I can't remember them? Well, by the evidence they leave behind, of course. Because I am always covered in bruises. Always. I always tease whoever I'm currently dating and/or pseudo-dating that people are going to think they beat me because of the purple welts perpetually visible all over my body. (Fish doesn’t beat me by the way. And I don’t beat him either. He fell.)
The current leader of the pack is a quarter sized contusion on the back of my right leg, just above the knee. It is so purple that it’s black, and it’s actually raised like some kind of relief map. Also, it throbs whenever I so much as change my pants. Obviously I backed into something with some serious force. You’d think I’d be able to remember a mishap that would cause that level of damage. But you’d be wrong. A total blank as to how it got there. I only noticed it because I ran a washcloth over it in the shower kind of roughly and was rewarded with a startling pain that almost made me fall forward and achieve a matching bruise in the middle of my forehead.
I love the advice I get from people when I show off my latest transient body art. “Eat more bananas,” people will tell me. “They have potassium.” Or “You need to start taking iron supplements.” Funny how no one ever suggests, “Maybe you should start paying more attention” or “Quit walking into things, you dumb ass.” Because really, giving my body the nutrients it needs to fight the bruising is treating the symptom rather than the problem, isn’t it?
Once, when I still worked at the number factory, I was walking down the hallway toward my office with Mary and our VP of Operations following in my wake. Now I had walked down this hallway many hundreds of times in my day; after all, my office lived there. So walking down that particular hallway should have been pretty routine. But alas, nothing is routine if it involves both me and any kind of motor skills or coordination. So when I got to the bend in the hallway (which had ALWAYS been there), I managed to completely miss the yards of open space to my immediate right and plant my face square into the wall. Mary, the world’s most patient best friend, is accustomed to seeing these types of walking fuck ups from me, but Operations didn't spend nearly as much time observing my inability to navigate minor obstacles, and was surprised.
"Did she just run right into the wall?" Operations asked of Patient Mary.
"Yup." Mary checked her wristwatch. "She's about due."
These close encounters with inanimate objects happen far more frequently than even I can imagine. So frequently, in fact, that I very rarely remember them at all. How do I know that these events occur if I can't remember them? Well, by the evidence they leave behind, of course. Because I am always covered in bruises. Always. I always tease whoever I'm currently dating and/or pseudo-dating that people are going to think they beat me because of the purple welts perpetually visible all over my body. (Fish doesn’t beat me by the way. And I don’t beat him either. He fell.)
The current leader of the pack is a quarter sized contusion on the back of my right leg, just above the knee. It is so purple that it’s black, and it’s actually raised like some kind of relief map. Also, it throbs whenever I so much as change my pants. Obviously I backed into something with some serious force. You’d think I’d be able to remember a mishap that would cause that level of damage. But you’d be wrong. A total blank as to how it got there. I only noticed it because I ran a washcloth over it in the shower kind of roughly and was rewarded with a startling pain that almost made me fall forward and achieve a matching bruise in the middle of my forehead.
I love the advice I get from people when I show off my latest transient body art. “Eat more bananas,” people will tell me. “They have potassium.” Or “You need to start taking iron supplements.” Funny how no one ever suggests, “Maybe you should start paying more attention” or “Quit walking into things, you dumb ass.” Because really, giving my body the nutrients it needs to fight the bruising is treating the symptom rather than the problem, isn’t it?
Bartenderism: Coaching Philosophy
While watching college football last night at the bar:
"I hate conservative coaches! If I were coaching, I'd be out there running down the sideline with scissors. That's how it's done."
"I hate conservative coaches! If I were coaching, I'd be out there running down the sideline with scissors. That's how it's done."
Thursday, September 29, 2005
The Right Way and the Wrong Way to Talk Smack
One of the more juvenile things that I love to do is to get in flame wars over the internet. Yes, I realize that this is very 7th grade of me but I DO NOT CARE. Because I think it's fun, and besides, I don't want to grow up, I'm a Toy'R'Us kid.
If you're going to talk smack on the internet, though (or really anywhere for that matter), there are some things you can do to avoid looking like a complete ass (or at least, slightly less of an ass than you already look like for engaging in this kind of behavior in the first place):
1. Attack the post, not the poster. Being outright mean to people just isn't nice. Also, responses like "Oh yeah? Well, you're ugly!" make you look really fucking stupid. (Thanks to Fish for articulating this point much more eloquently 3 months ago)
2. Be able to back up what you say. This doesn't mean be willing to punch someone in the face if they don't agree with you. It means that you need to have a solid argument before you start. For example, if you say "My cat is HUGE compared to yours" I shouldn't find that your cat is a quarter inch longer than mine when I measure them.
In case you are still unclear of the rules, I offer this example from MySpace bulletins posted today. The first, our "wrong way" example, is from Vicodin Jim, who fancies himself some sort of baseball fan:
Yeah!
My Friars took the NL West Division title.
What about the Cubs? Oh yeah. The Cubs suck. The Cubs suck a lot.
Padres baby, eat it Cubs fans.
While this is all true (the Padres DID win the NL West and the Cubs DO (sadly) suck), it implies in it's comparison that the Padres are a far better ballclub than the Cubs. As you will see from my well researched "right way" post, this implication is somewhat misleading:
Hmm, DO the Cubs suck?
Honestly, yes. Yes they do. They suck exactly two games more than the Padres suck.
As of this writing, the Cubs 4th place record is 77-81, while the Padres division clinching record is 79-79. It's not the Cubs fault that they don't play in the hands down worst division in all of baseball.
Speaking of a 79-79 record, when I do the math on that I come up with a division winner that is only a .500 ballclub. Wow, congratulations. That means all they have to do is win ALL FOUR of their remaining games in order to NOT earn the record for fewest wins for a division champion, set by the New York Mets way back in 1973.
Oh and what's this? Oh, they'll be playing the Cardinals in the first round of the playoffs? The St. Louis Cardinals with the best record in baseball, currently three games shy of having a 100 win season? Wow, I bet they're worried. *shiver*
That, my friends, is how it's done. Now if you'll excuse me, the bell is about to ring and I need to go to my locker and get my backpack.
If you're going to talk smack on the internet, though (or really anywhere for that matter), there are some things you can do to avoid looking like a complete ass (or at least, slightly less of an ass than you already look like for engaging in this kind of behavior in the first place):
1. Attack the post, not the poster. Being outright mean to people just isn't nice. Also, responses like "Oh yeah? Well, you're ugly!" make you look really fucking stupid. (Thanks to Fish for articulating this point much more eloquently 3 months ago)
2. Be able to back up what you say. This doesn't mean be willing to punch someone in the face if they don't agree with you. It means that you need to have a solid argument before you start. For example, if you say "My cat is HUGE compared to yours" I shouldn't find that your cat is a quarter inch longer than mine when I measure them.
In case you are still unclear of the rules, I offer this example from MySpace bulletins posted today. The first, our "wrong way" example, is from Vicodin Jim, who fancies himself some sort of baseball fan:
Yeah!
My Friars took the NL West Division title.
What about the Cubs? Oh yeah. The Cubs suck. The Cubs suck a lot.
Padres baby, eat it Cubs fans.
While this is all true (the Padres DID win the NL West and the Cubs DO (sadly) suck), it implies in it's comparison that the Padres are a far better ballclub than the Cubs. As you will see from my well researched "right way" post, this implication is somewhat misleading:
Hmm, DO the Cubs suck?
Honestly, yes. Yes they do. They suck exactly two games more than the Padres suck.
As of this writing, the Cubs 4th place record is 77-81, while the Padres division clinching record is 79-79. It's not the Cubs fault that they don't play in the hands down worst division in all of baseball.
Speaking of a 79-79 record, when I do the math on that I come up with a division winner that is only a .500 ballclub. Wow, congratulations. That means all they have to do is win ALL FOUR of their remaining games in order to NOT earn the record for fewest wins for a division champion, set by the New York Mets way back in 1973.
Oh and what's this? Oh, they'll be playing the Cardinals in the first round of the playoffs? The St. Louis Cardinals with the best record in baseball, currently three games shy of having a 100 win season? Wow, I bet they're worried. *shiver*
That, my friends, is how it's done. Now if you'll excuse me, the bell is about to ring and I need to go to my locker and get my backpack.
Introducing Fred
Friends, there is someone I'd like you all to meet. Everyone say hi to Fred.
Did I mention that Fish is the bestest guy EVER? He showed up at my house last night with Ghostbusters II, Stripes, pizza money and Fred. Because he rules like that.
First of all can I say Apple's packaging rocks hard core? Because it does. That photo on the front of the box is life size. I know because Fred is sitting directly on top of the picture on his box now. Also I got iPod and iTunes software, a USB cable, ear buds, two sets of ear bud covers, instructions, warranty information, apple stickers and a little dock adapter for a regular dock (sold separately). Fred himself was wrapped in a plastic wrapper that advised me not to steal music. Oh and that Fish guy? Had Fred engraved for me: 'To My Ish: Let The Pending Cease"*. Aww.
When we unwrapped him, we found that Fred was powerful hungry, so we fed him a bunch of songs. Fish, being that he's one of "those", runs around town with an iBook (which I have nicknamed "The Breather" because of that LED light that dims and brightens rhythmically and freaks me right the fuck out), so when we plugged Fred into it, the Breather automatically formatted Fred for Mac. This was ok until I plugged him in at work today and he was wiped clean and reformatted for Windows. I'll be able to put the songs back next time I see Fish, but in the short term, it means I don't get to rock the N.E.R.D. or Jay-Z/Linkin Park remixes on my way home tonight. It also means I have to be careful about how much I play him this weekend on Golf Trip 2 since I won't have a USB port to plug him into for go juice.
I love Fred.
*Yes, we do realize that this makes no sense. We know this girl who is dumb, but thinks she's smart. She tries to prove this by using words that are just slightly too big for her. Such as pending. She grasps that it means you are waiting for something, but not what kind of waiting. So when she asked her ex if they could get back together and he didn't answer right away, she ended up sending him a message telling him she needed an answer which read "I can't take the pending". It's hilarious because she talks/writes like that all the time. Fish calls it "Faux Eloquence". I call it priceless. Stay tuned for more faux eloquence as it occurs.
Did I mention that Fish is the bestest guy EVER? He showed up at my house last night with Ghostbusters II, Stripes, pizza money and Fred. Because he rules like that.
First of all can I say Apple's packaging rocks hard core? Because it does. That photo on the front of the box is life size. I know because Fred is sitting directly on top of the picture on his box now. Also I got iPod and iTunes software, a USB cable, ear buds, two sets of ear bud covers, instructions, warranty information, apple stickers and a little dock adapter for a regular dock (sold separately). Fred himself was wrapped in a plastic wrapper that advised me not to steal music. Oh and that Fish guy? Had Fred engraved for me: 'To My Ish: Let The Pending Cease"*. Aww.
When we unwrapped him, we found that Fred was powerful hungry, so we fed him a bunch of songs. Fish, being that he's one of "those", runs around town with an iBook (which I have nicknamed "The Breather" because of that LED light that dims and brightens rhythmically and freaks me right the fuck out), so when we plugged Fred into it, the Breather automatically formatted Fred for Mac. This was ok until I plugged him in at work today and he was wiped clean and reformatted for Windows. I'll be able to put the songs back next time I see Fish, but in the short term, it means I don't get to rock the N.E.R.D. or Jay-Z/Linkin Park remixes on my way home tonight. It also means I have to be careful about how much I play him this weekend on Golf Trip 2 since I won't have a USB port to plug him into for go juice.
I love Fred.
*Yes, we do realize that this makes no sense. We know this girl who is dumb, but thinks she's smart. She tries to prove this by using words that are just slightly too big for her. Such as pending. She grasps that it means you are waiting for something, but not what kind of waiting. So when she asked her ex if they could get back together and he didn't answer right away, she ended up sending him a message telling him she needed an answer which read "I can't take the pending". It's hilarious because she talks/writes like that all the time. Fish calls it "Faux Eloquence". I call it priceless. Stay tuned for more faux eloquence as it occurs.
Monday, September 26, 2005
My Friends Are Nerds
I have a ring with my birthstone in it. It was a gift from my cousin. It's my favorite ring. I wore it this weekend.
Laying in bed last night, I realized it was not on my finger. I called Fish.
Me: "Hey Fish? Can you look around your house and see if I left my garnet ring there?"
Fish: "You think you left your garnet ring here?"
Me: "Yes."
Fish: "A garnet ring from Final Fantasy 9?!?"
*Sigh*
Laying in bed last night, I realized it was not on my finger. I called Fish.
Me: "Hey Fish? Can you look around your house and see if I left my garnet ring there?"
Fish: "You think you left your garnet ring here?"
Me: "Yes."
Fish: "A garnet ring from Final Fantasy 9?!?"
*Sigh*
A Monday Poem
Annoyed
My boss
Drives me crazy
Comes to my desk
Looks around and says “excellent”
Then just walks away
What the fuck?
I’m confused
Asshat
My boss
Drives me crazy
Comes to my desk
Looks around and says “excellent”
Then just walks away
What the fuck?
I’m confused
Asshat
Weekend Football Wrap Up
Buckeyes 31 - Iowa 6
The Buckeye defense continues to impress me, sacking Drew Tate 5 times, and shutting down the run entirely (Iowa had 18 rushes for -9 yards).
Troy Smith completed 13 of 19 passes and didn't get intercepted at all. He had a little trouble holding onto the ball a couple of times, but overall I think he's looking better.
Wisconsin 23 - Michigan 14
Michigan losing is always a happy day for me. Michigan losing their Big Ten opener is even better. But most importantly, Michigan dropping from 14 all the way out of the rankings (for the first time since 1998) has me bouncing around the office doing a "Fuck yeah! In your face!" happy dance, complete with "rock on" fingers, exposed tongue and variations on the chicken dance.
Colts 13 - Browns 6
You'd think I'd be upset by the Browns loss, but you'd be wrong. The Browns were getting 13.5 in this game, and managed to only lose by 7. Since I had money on them, I consider this a victory. Go Browns.
Bengals 24 - Bears 7
Kyle Orton may be "The Answer", but with 5 interceptions on Sunday, I'm not entirely sure I understand the question.
In other news, what's up with the Bengals? I knew they were supposed to be better this year, but 3-0 and first place in the division? I simply was not prepared. And I know I shouldn't be rooting for them being that they're in the same division as my Browns, but really, if the Browns can't win it (and I assure you, they can't) I'd rather have it be my Ohio brethren than the Steelers or those fuck-sticks the Ravens (in last place right now by the way. Boo-yah.)
Amber's Monday Football Mood Is: GOOD
The Buckeye defense continues to impress me, sacking Drew Tate 5 times, and shutting down the run entirely (Iowa had 18 rushes for -9 yards).
Troy Smith completed 13 of 19 passes and didn't get intercepted at all. He had a little trouble holding onto the ball a couple of times, but overall I think he's looking better.
Wisconsin 23 - Michigan 14
Michigan losing is always a happy day for me. Michigan losing their Big Ten opener is even better. But most importantly, Michigan dropping from 14 all the way out of the rankings (for the first time since 1998) has me bouncing around the office doing a "Fuck yeah! In your face!" happy dance, complete with "rock on" fingers, exposed tongue and variations on the chicken dance.
Colts 13 - Browns 6
You'd think I'd be upset by the Browns loss, but you'd be wrong. The Browns were getting 13.5 in this game, and managed to only lose by 7. Since I had money on them, I consider this a victory. Go Browns.
Bengals 24 - Bears 7
Kyle Orton may be "The Answer", but with 5 interceptions on Sunday, I'm not entirely sure I understand the question.
In other news, what's up with the Bengals? I knew they were supposed to be better this year, but 3-0 and first place in the division? I simply was not prepared. And I know I shouldn't be rooting for them being that they're in the same division as my Browns, but really, if the Browns can't win it (and I assure you, they can't) I'd rather have it be my Ohio brethren than the Steelers or those fuck-sticks the Ravens (in last place right now by the way. Boo-yah.)
Amber's Monday Football Mood Is: GOOD
You Can Dress Me Up But You Can't Take Me Out
I believe I've mentioned before my debilitating fear of any stranger who asks me a question. Especially if it is their job. Wanna freak me out? Walk up to me in a store and say, "Can I help you?" as if you work there.
Alternatively, you can just be my waitress. Saturday evening, while waiting for the Glorious Fish Man to come home from a LAN party, Thugglife Chris and I decided to take in some Italian food. Out. At a restaurant. A restaurant I've only been to once before, which means I'm still somewhat ignorant of the ordering procedure. Being ignorant of the ordering procedure has the effect of making me nervous, public nervousness tends to cause me to act silly, and acting silly in a nice restaurant frequently causes me to look like an ASS. It is not helpful that Chris can't decide what to eat, and is asking me what different things are on the menu (since I obviously will know, being Italian and all) while I'm trying to construct a complete sentence around what I want to order.
"What's Gnocchi?"
"Huh? Gnocchi? Um, I don't know. I think it has cheese on it."
We manage to order some Cokes without incident, and Chris asks for more time to decide what he wants, causing me to sweat profusely at the thought of our waitress actually coming BACK to the table to talk to me AGAIN. When she does come back, Chris is still not ready and starts asking her about the chicken special.
"It's two pieces of chicken breast, lightly breaded and served with a white wine, lemon sauce and a side of pasta."
Nervous Amber, impatient to get the ordering ordeal over with, puts her hand to her mouth conspiratorially and whispers to Chris, "That sounds good!" - at full whispering volume.
The waitress thinks this is funny, and also whispers to Chris, "It is!" Great, now she's laughing at me.
So Chris orders the chicken and now it's my turn. "I'llhavethecheesestuffedraviolibecausethat'swhatIwant," I blurt. "and can I get a salad with that?"
"Yes, well, all of our entrees come with a salad." See what happens when you don't know the procedure? I'm mortified by not knowing about the "comes with a salad" rule. So my mouth starts running again.
"Really? It comes with a salad? Wow, that's AWESOME! It's like you guys knew I was coming!"
"Um. OK. And I'll bring you guys two more cokes." Because, you see, Chris drinks really fast, and I sucked mine down in one gulp trying to cure my cotton mouth. By the time she brings the (free with entree!) salads, I've sucked the second one down too.
"Wow. I should have just brought you guys a carafe. In fact, I think I will bring you guys a carafe."
"Heh heh, you said carafe." The waitress looked at me like I had three heads and walked away. Chris burst into hysterical laughter.
"Oh my God! What the fuck was that?"
"Listen. I told you. I'm scared of her. She makes me nervous. I just...I can't talk to strange people. It freaks me out."
"Right. So retail is probably not for you then, huh?"
In the meantime, we had eaten all the bread. Our waitress notices this when she shows up with our carafe. "Would you like some more bread?"
Chris, a veteran of restaurant ordering, answered with a simple but effective "No." I, on the other hand, in a frenzied panic (DO I want more bread? It's hard to say. How do I know? What if I don't want bread right now but I'm hungry for it later? What do I do?) manage to articulately spout, "Uuuhhh. Uuummm. Nnnnoo? No. I'm pretty sure I don't require any more bread."
The waitress smiled at Chris and made fun of me like I wasn't even there. " 'I don't require'...I like the way she talks." Great.
Most of the rest of dinner passed without incident, until I discovered that of my six GIANT raviolis, I was only able to consume three. But they were good and I wanted the rest for later. This however, would involve my having to ask for a box, not a small feat.
Her Scariness came over to check on us. "How was everything? Can I wrap that up for you?"
My brain: Yes. Say yes. Or even yes please. Just answer the question and shut up. She already thinks you're a moron.
My mouth: "That would be great, you see, because I want these little guys to come home with me and I want them to be my friends!"
Yeah. People, it is obvious there is no hope for me.
Alternatively, you can just be my waitress. Saturday evening, while waiting for the Glorious Fish Man to come home from a LAN party, Thugglife Chris and I decided to take in some Italian food. Out. At a restaurant. A restaurant I've only been to once before, which means I'm still somewhat ignorant of the ordering procedure. Being ignorant of the ordering procedure has the effect of making me nervous, public nervousness tends to cause me to act silly, and acting silly in a nice restaurant frequently causes me to look like an ASS. It is not helpful that Chris can't decide what to eat, and is asking me what different things are on the menu (since I obviously will know, being Italian and all) while I'm trying to construct a complete sentence around what I want to order.
"What's Gnocchi?"
"Huh? Gnocchi? Um, I don't know. I think it has cheese on it."
We manage to order some Cokes without incident, and Chris asks for more time to decide what he wants, causing me to sweat profusely at the thought of our waitress actually coming BACK to the table to talk to me AGAIN. When she does come back, Chris is still not ready and starts asking her about the chicken special.
"It's two pieces of chicken breast, lightly breaded and served with a white wine, lemon sauce and a side of pasta."
Nervous Amber, impatient to get the ordering ordeal over with, puts her hand to her mouth conspiratorially and whispers to Chris, "That sounds good!" - at full whispering volume.
The waitress thinks this is funny, and also whispers to Chris, "It is!" Great, now she's laughing at me.
So Chris orders the chicken and now it's my turn. "I'llhavethecheesestuffedraviolibecausethat'swhatIwant," I blurt. "and can I get a salad with that?"
"Yes, well, all of our entrees come with a salad." See what happens when you don't know the procedure? I'm mortified by not knowing about the "comes with a salad" rule. So my mouth starts running again.
"Really? It comes with a salad? Wow, that's AWESOME! It's like you guys knew I was coming!"
"Um. OK. And I'll bring you guys two more cokes." Because, you see, Chris drinks really fast, and I sucked mine down in one gulp trying to cure my cotton mouth. By the time she brings the (free with entree!) salads, I've sucked the second one down too.
"Wow. I should have just brought you guys a carafe. In fact, I think I will bring you guys a carafe."
"Heh heh, you said carafe." The waitress looked at me like I had three heads and walked away. Chris burst into hysterical laughter.
"Oh my God! What the fuck was that?"
"Listen. I told you. I'm scared of her. She makes me nervous. I just...I can't talk to strange people. It freaks me out."
"Right. So retail is probably not for you then, huh?"
In the meantime, we had eaten all the bread. Our waitress notices this when she shows up with our carafe. "Would you like some more bread?"
Chris, a veteran of restaurant ordering, answered with a simple but effective "No." I, on the other hand, in a frenzied panic (DO I want more bread? It's hard to say. How do I know? What if I don't want bread right now but I'm hungry for it later? What do I do?) manage to articulately spout, "Uuuhhh. Uuummm. Nnnnoo? No. I'm pretty sure I don't require any more bread."
The waitress smiled at Chris and made fun of me like I wasn't even there. " 'I don't require'...I like the way she talks." Great.
Most of the rest of dinner passed without incident, until I discovered that of my six GIANT raviolis, I was only able to consume three. But they were good and I wanted the rest for later. This however, would involve my having to ask for a box, not a small feat.
Her Scariness came over to check on us. "How was everything? Can I wrap that up for you?"
My brain: Yes. Say yes. Or even yes please. Just answer the question and shut up. She already thinks you're a moron.
My mouth: "That would be great, you see, because I want these little guys to come home with me and I want them to be my friends!"
Yeah. People, it is obvious there is no hope for me.
Monday, September 19, 2005
Weekend Visitation
I finally got to see my little one this weekend. I was really nervous about it, so Fish went along with me for support. Thank heaven he was there too; at first I couldn't find anything to say and Fish had to hold up the whole conversation for a while.
It was everything I could have hoped for. Finally getting to spend time with my little one, getting to hold him, listen to him, look on his beautiful face...it was a dream come true.
It got me thinking about the possibility of bringing him home with me to live. I talked to Fish about it and he says he's willing to help me do whatever it takes to get my little one and me together at last. I am so excited I can hardly contain myself. I may even have him in my custody by Christmas!
It was everything I could have hoped for. Finally getting to spend time with my little one, getting to hold him, listen to him, look on his beautiful face...it was a dream come true.
It got me thinking about the possibility of bringing him home with me to live. I talked to Fish about it and he says he's willing to help me do whatever it takes to get my little one and me together at last. I am so excited I can hardly contain myself. I may even have him in my custody by Christmas!
Thursday, September 15, 2005
Bartenderism: Fatter Than You
One thing that I love about people who have been drinking is their accidental honesty, which is when they tell you things about you they would never say to your face under the influence of sobriety.
Such as a couple of nights ago when the bartender rang me about his latest evening out. He had apparently been in a conversation with a girl who turned out later to be a hooker (well, I mean, she was a hooker the whole time I guess, he just didn't know she was a hooker when he started talking to her. Not that he doesn't talk to hookers all the time: he frequently comes home from Vegas with a whole variety pack of "So this hooker comes up to me and says..." stories. But I am rambling now and none of this is really the point. Carrying on:) He's having a conversation with this girl and her rarefied employment is brought up, whereupon he mentions that in Vegas he has conversed with many a hooker because they seem to enjoy talking with him. And her response is that no, they don't really want to talk to him, they are working. And he argues that in fact they specifically pointed out in the conversations that they were indeed not working and just looking for someone to talk to. And again she tells him that this is incorrect since all working girls are always working.
At which point, the bartender abruptly gets up and walks away from her, answering her cry of "Hey, where are you going?" with "You just said working girls are always working, and since you are one, and I would never pay you for sex because I don't find you at all attractive, I'm going to go talk to someone who actually wants to have a conversation with me."
When he got home he relayed this story to me in his deadly serious but always hilarious "I'm so insulted" voice.
"She wasn't even attractive, like at all. She was one of your ugly redheads* and she was fat. Well, not like Orca or anything, just, you know, big. And she was talking about how good she is a blow jobs, and you know how I am, I REALLY like blow jobs. But not from her. And definitely not if I have to PAY her."
"Mmm hmm. So 'not Orca'? I really don't know what that means exactly."
"It means she's fat but not super-fat, you know?"
"No. Like chunky? I don't know what you mean. Can I get a height to weight ratio?"
"She's 5'8". And probably, I would say, like 150 to 165."
At this point I perk up because, at risk of losing my audience who may be picturing me as a rail-thin demi-goddess, in real life I am 5'7" and 145 pounds. Which is not materially smaller than the redheaded prostitute he has just described. And while I find flaws all over my body and wish I could magically drop 10 pounds (and by magically I mean without exercising or changing any of my eating habits), I would hardly describe myself as fat. Also, being that I'm a girl, which we've previously established makes me crazy by nature, I in my infinite insanity decide to use this opening (and his ever so slight intoxication) to get him to admit that he thinks I'm fat. Just so I can wallow in it. Because it's what we do. And so I say, "So she's my size."
Bingo.
"Um, no, she's not really your size. Like for instance, her legs are fatter than yours. And her waist? It has rolls all the time, when she's sitting and standing. Not just when she's sitting. And her ass is the kind of ass that has no real, you know, form to it. Not like it's big but still has a shape. It has no shape. So I wouldn't say she's your size. She's a little bigger than you."
Right. Her legs are fatter than mine? Fatter than mine? And she has rolls all the time, not just when she's sitting. Presumably, as opposed to me, who only has rolls when I'm sitting? What's great is that the trap worked so perfectly I couldn't even get mad. Really, that was way too easy. Anyway, since I was so pleased with the success of my ruse, I decided not to do the typical girl thing and get all indignant on him, but to save the "are you calling me fat?" card to play during a later hand.
Man, I love alcohol.
*He was referencing the Amberance Redhead Theory: that there is no such thing as an average redhead. This is based on 27 years of observation, from which I have concluded that all redheads fall into one of two categories, drop dead gorgeous, or butt fucking ugly. If you are redhead and someone has said you are "ok" looking, it's a lie. They are either trying to protect your feelings, or trying to play it off that they don't want to tear your clothes off and make sweet sweet love to you for 6 days.
Such as a couple of nights ago when the bartender rang me about his latest evening out. He had apparently been in a conversation with a girl who turned out later to be a hooker (well, I mean, she was a hooker the whole time I guess, he just didn't know she was a hooker when he started talking to her. Not that he doesn't talk to hookers all the time: he frequently comes home from Vegas with a whole variety pack of "So this hooker comes up to me and says..." stories. But I am rambling now and none of this is really the point. Carrying on:) He's having a conversation with this girl and her rarefied employment is brought up, whereupon he mentions that in Vegas he has conversed with many a hooker because they seem to enjoy talking with him. And her response is that no, they don't really want to talk to him, they are working. And he argues that in fact they specifically pointed out in the conversations that they were indeed not working and just looking for someone to talk to. And again she tells him that this is incorrect since all working girls are always working.
At which point, the bartender abruptly gets up and walks away from her, answering her cry of "Hey, where are you going?" with "You just said working girls are always working, and since you are one, and I would never pay you for sex because I don't find you at all attractive, I'm going to go talk to someone who actually wants to have a conversation with me."
When he got home he relayed this story to me in his deadly serious but always hilarious "I'm so insulted" voice.
"She wasn't even attractive, like at all. She was one of your ugly redheads* and she was fat. Well, not like Orca or anything, just, you know, big. And she was talking about how good she is a blow jobs, and you know how I am, I REALLY like blow jobs. But not from her. And definitely not if I have to PAY her."
"Mmm hmm. So 'not Orca'? I really don't know what that means exactly."
"It means she's fat but not super-fat, you know?"
"No. Like chunky? I don't know what you mean. Can I get a height to weight ratio?"
"She's 5'8". And probably, I would say, like 150 to 165."
At this point I perk up because, at risk of losing my audience who may be picturing me as a rail-thin demi-goddess, in real life I am 5'7" and 145 pounds. Which is not materially smaller than the redheaded prostitute he has just described. And while I find flaws all over my body and wish I could magically drop 10 pounds (and by magically I mean without exercising or changing any of my eating habits), I would hardly describe myself as fat. Also, being that I'm a girl, which we've previously established makes me crazy by nature, I in my infinite insanity decide to use this opening (and his ever so slight intoxication) to get him to admit that he thinks I'm fat. Just so I can wallow in it. Because it's what we do. And so I say, "So she's my size."
Bingo.
"Um, no, she's not really your size. Like for instance, her legs are fatter than yours. And her waist? It has rolls all the time, when she's sitting and standing. Not just when she's sitting. And her ass is the kind of ass that has no real, you know, form to it. Not like it's big but still has a shape. It has no shape. So I wouldn't say she's your size. She's a little bigger than you."
Right. Her legs are fatter than mine? Fatter than mine? And she has rolls all the time, not just when she's sitting. Presumably, as opposed to me, who only has rolls when I'm sitting? What's great is that the trap worked so perfectly I couldn't even get mad. Really, that was way too easy. Anyway, since I was so pleased with the success of my ruse, I decided not to do the typical girl thing and get all indignant on him, but to save the "are you calling me fat?" card to play during a later hand.
Man, I love alcohol.
*He was referencing the Amberance Redhead Theory: that there is no such thing as an average redhead. This is based on 27 years of observation, from which I have concluded that all redheads fall into one of two categories, drop dead gorgeous, or butt fucking ugly. If you are redhead and someone has said you are "ok" looking, it's a lie. They are either trying to protect your feelings, or trying to play it off that they don't want to tear your clothes off and make sweet sweet love to you for 6 days.
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