I was doing some emergency grocery shopping and I came across a new product: Kraft Supermac and Cheese. In Fairly Odd Parents and Spiderman shapes.
Supermac and Cheese is being billed by Kraft as a healthier alternative to their regular Mac and Cheese. It's got more calcium, more whole grains, and more vitamins and minerals. The box was colorful and promised me that kids love it, and since I'm maybe not so good with the healthy eating thing, I decided to buy a box and check it out for myself.
I decided to make it the other night. I was a little afraid that the pasta would be that whole grain brown color and taste like healthy, which is a flavor that I hate. While the water was boiling I opened the box and shook out a Timmy and a wand (shut up, I love that cartoon). They looked pretty normal so I ate one and found that it tasted just like regular pasta! I was happy.
I finished making my meal (because now that my mac and cheese has more vitamins and minerals, it now counts as a complete meal) and sat down on the couch with Kristen to watch Gilmore Girls. I put the first bite of cheesy goodness in my mouth.
Then my face scrunched up just like in those old "bitter beer face" commercials.
"Ass," I said out loud. "This tastes like ass."
Kristen stared at me blankly, partly because she likes the taste of her ass just fine judging by how much she licks it, and partly because she's a cat and blank stares are what they do.
Let me ask you all a question: what the hell ever happened to truth in advertising? Because Kraft has named their new product "Supermac and Cheese" and this implies to me that the "mac" part of the equasion is what has been made super. This is a big fat ass-tasting lie. They made the cheese super, and by super I mean awful. "Supermac and Cheese" is straight up bullshit. If they were telling the truth they'd have called it "Mac and Supercheese" which would have given me some warning that they'd fucked with my cheese so I would have been more prepared for the sweaty feet mixed with unwashed balls flavor they've created. Even Kristen hated it. I let her lick my spoon since clearly I wouldn't be needing it. She took two licks and walked away from me, and as I said before, this is an animal who thinks her ass is effing gourmet. There is no way kids are going to like this stuff.
Supermac my cheesy ass.
Monday, February 27, 2006
Thursday, February 16, 2006
The Correct (IMO) Diagnosis Goes to Dr. MrSteve
I've done something horrible to my wrist. And before you make any snide comments, it's the other wrist. This has been going on for over two weeks. It hurts from my hand to halfway up my arm, and I have no idea what I did.
I have had three different diagnoses from three different people I know who are not doctors. The bartender immediately decided it was some type of pinched nerve in my hand, and recommended wrapping a rubberband around my fingers and then flexing them as some type of resistance exercise. "It's an old bass player trick," he said. Which I'm sure probably works great if you play bass, but I don't and after several hours of this, I decided that my pain resembled "more" rather than "less", so I think, maybe, he's full of crap.
MrSteve thought so too, and labeled this malady Carpal Tunnel Syndrome, based on his background of Typing on the Computer A Lot. He has told me to switch to using my mouse left handed for a week, and insists the pain will go away or at least lessen. So I've been mousing left handed all week which is annoying, and also difficult as the mouse I have is contoured to fit the right hand. Also, the pain is not going away.
Cap, who is an athlete and briefly toyed with the idea of majoring in physical therapy, feels that I have some type of tendonitis, which is what I originally believed the problem was. He recommended ice packs and Ibuprofin, which have helped slightly.
Cap's theory seemed to best fit my pain and also his therapy was the only one that seemed to have any effect at all, so I was prepared to deal with this as a tendon issue, until I went rooting around on the internet yesterday looking for details on Carpal Tunnel Syndrome, mostly to explain to Steve why I didn't have it (sorry, Steve). The problem is I am now pretty sure he was right. It seems one of the main symptoms of Carpal Tunnel is tingling or numbness in your hands and forearms when you are trying to sleep. Which is something I've been having problems with for months. I thought I was just sleeping on my arms weird. Wikipedia, who has never lied to me that I'm aware of, says many people with CTS think exactly the same thing. Also, Cap's therapy is working because it's one of the main treatments for temporary relief of CTS. And MrSteve's therapy is NOT working because despite not mousing, I am still typing constantly (such as right now), in a hand position that is ergonomically poor, and therefore, NOT resting my wrist.
I've decided that my upcoming Vegas vacation is no longer a nice break from work, but a medical necessity.
I have had three different diagnoses from three different people I know who are not doctors. The bartender immediately decided it was some type of pinched nerve in my hand, and recommended wrapping a rubberband around my fingers and then flexing them as some type of resistance exercise. "It's an old bass player trick," he said. Which I'm sure probably works great if you play bass, but I don't and after several hours of this, I decided that my pain resembled "more" rather than "less", so I think, maybe, he's full of crap.
MrSteve thought so too, and labeled this malady Carpal Tunnel Syndrome, based on his background of Typing on the Computer A Lot. He has told me to switch to using my mouse left handed for a week, and insists the pain will go away or at least lessen. So I've been mousing left handed all week which is annoying, and also difficult as the mouse I have is contoured to fit the right hand. Also, the pain is not going away.
Cap, who is an athlete and briefly toyed with the idea of majoring in physical therapy, feels that I have some type of tendonitis, which is what I originally believed the problem was. He recommended ice packs and Ibuprofin, which have helped slightly.
Cap's theory seemed to best fit my pain and also his therapy was the only one that seemed to have any effect at all, so I was prepared to deal with this as a tendon issue, until I went rooting around on the internet yesterday looking for details on Carpal Tunnel Syndrome, mostly to explain to Steve why I didn't have it (sorry, Steve). The problem is I am now pretty sure he was right. It seems one of the main symptoms of Carpal Tunnel is tingling or numbness in your hands and forearms when you are trying to sleep. Which is something I've been having problems with for months. I thought I was just sleeping on my arms weird. Wikipedia, who has never lied to me that I'm aware of, says many people with CTS think exactly the same thing. Also, Cap's therapy is working because it's one of the main treatments for temporary relief of CTS. And MrSteve's therapy is NOT working because despite not mousing, I am still typing constantly (such as right now), in a hand position that is ergonomically poor, and therefore, NOT resting my wrist.
I've decided that my upcoming Vegas vacation is no longer a nice break from work, but a medical necessity.
I Think He's On To Me
Today my boss was handing out those awful, chalk tasting candy hearts he had left over from Valentine's Day. I friggin hate those things, they taste like ass plus baby powder. So, I don't eat them often.
I haven't had one in a really long time apparently, because the message written on it was one I'd never seen. It read "PAGE ME". Hello, what?
"Page me?" I asked my boss. "That's a new one. Where the hell did that come from?"
" I think it's a Gen-X thing," replied my 52 year old boss. "Or maybe it's Gen-Y. I'm not sure which. Are you in Gen-X or Gen-Y?"
I am 28. "Both, sort of. I'm the age that's right on the cusp. Which probably explains what's wrong with me."
"Yes, we were wondering about that."
I haven't had one in a really long time apparently, because the message written on it was one I'd never seen. It read "PAGE ME". Hello, what?
"Page me?" I asked my boss. "That's a new one. Where the hell did that come from?"
" I think it's a Gen-X thing," replied my 52 year old boss. "Or maybe it's Gen-Y. I'm not sure which. Are you in Gen-X or Gen-Y?"
I am 28. "Both, sort of. I'm the age that's right on the cusp. Which probably explains what's wrong with me."
"Yes, we were wondering about that."
Monday, February 13, 2006
The Dumbest Joke Ever
Thursday night was joke night at Tai’s. I stood around with my group and we took turns telling jokes that ranged from silly (“Knock, knock.” “Who’s there?” “I eat mop.” *) to the insane (“If you are driving down the street backwards in a canoe with four flat tires, how many shingles does it take to paper the roof?”**). I myself got to tell the lawnmower joke as well as my favorite knock knock joke. Over the years I’ve learned to tell a pretty mean joke. When I was kid, not so much.
Kids have a weird sense of humor. Back when I was a little ape I would laugh at just about anything. Cap and I spent a lot of time with Kelly and Simmy growing up. For four really smart kids, we could be pretty stupid. For instance, when our parents would get together, we’d hang out playing all day, and every time we’d decide we should have a sleepover. But instead of just going and asking our parents for permission like sane people, we created a little scheme. We’d wait until we were told to get ready to go home, and then go tell our parents we couldn’t find our shoes. The reason we “couldn’t find” them was that we’d hid them somewhere. While the “search” was on, one of us would be sent downstairs to ask the parents if there could be a sleepover. Almost invariably we were told that if we’d asked earlier it would have been ok, but now it was too late for that. We never ever caught on that instead of hiding our shoes we should just ask earlier. For our part, the parents never caught on to the fact that we’d actually hidden the shoes to buy time. In the end the joke was on us though, because rather than use the extension to keep playing, we actually spent our time pretending to look for our shoes.
But even dumber than that was our jokes. We told each other some of the dumbest jokes ever invented. The dumbest one also happened to be our favorite: The Green-Eyed Ghost. We told this joke over and over and it never seemed to get less funny:
There’s a green-eyes ghost sitting at the counter of the restaurant. A lady comes in and sits down. The green-eyed ghost looks at her and asks, “Are you afraid of ghosts?” The lady says no. Then the green-eyed ghost says, “Well, are you afraid of green-eyed ghosts?” The lady says no. The ghost says, “Well I’m a green-eyed ghost and I’m going to touch your thighs.”*** So the lady screams and runs away.
Another lady comes in and sits down on a chair next to the green-eyed ghost. The green-eyed ghost says, “Are you afraid of ghosts?” The lady says no. He says, “Are you afraid of green-eyed ghosts?” She says no. , “Well I’m a green-eyed ghost and I’m going to touch your thighs.” So THAT lady runs away.
Then this big, (pause for emphasis) FAT, (pause again) big fat lady comes in and sits down on TWO chairs next to the green-eyed ghost. The green-eyed ghost goes, “Are you afraid of ghosts?” The big fat lady says no. The green-eyed ghost says, “Are you afraid of green-eyed ghosts?” The big fat lady says no. The green-eyed ghost says, “Well I’m a green-eyed ghost and I’m going to touch your thighs.” And then the big fat lady says, “You ain’t gonna touch my thighs, or I’m gonna touch your FACE, man!”
At which point we would dissolve into hysterical laughter every single time. Kelly would usually end up being the teller because she did the best voices. But other than that, I have no idea why it was funny.
And yet I can’t stop laughing.
*Say it out loud: “I eat mop who?”
** None, because ice cream has no bones.
*** Yeah, I don’t know either.
Kids have a weird sense of humor. Back when I was a little ape I would laugh at just about anything. Cap and I spent a lot of time with Kelly and Simmy growing up. For four really smart kids, we could be pretty stupid. For instance, when our parents would get together, we’d hang out playing all day, and every time we’d decide we should have a sleepover. But instead of just going and asking our parents for permission like sane people, we created a little scheme. We’d wait until we were told to get ready to go home, and then go tell our parents we couldn’t find our shoes. The reason we “couldn’t find” them was that we’d hid them somewhere. While the “search” was on, one of us would be sent downstairs to ask the parents if there could be a sleepover. Almost invariably we were told that if we’d asked earlier it would have been ok, but now it was too late for that. We never ever caught on that instead of hiding our shoes we should just ask earlier. For our part, the parents never caught on to the fact that we’d actually hidden the shoes to buy time. In the end the joke was on us though, because rather than use the extension to keep playing, we actually spent our time pretending to look for our shoes.
But even dumber than that was our jokes. We told each other some of the dumbest jokes ever invented. The dumbest one also happened to be our favorite: The Green-Eyed Ghost. We told this joke over and over and it never seemed to get less funny:
There’s a green-eyes ghost sitting at the counter of the restaurant. A lady comes in and sits down. The green-eyed ghost looks at her and asks, “Are you afraid of ghosts?” The lady says no. Then the green-eyed ghost says, “Well, are you afraid of green-eyed ghosts?” The lady says no. The ghost says, “Well I’m a green-eyed ghost and I’m going to touch your thighs.”*** So the lady screams and runs away.
Another lady comes in and sits down on a chair next to the green-eyed ghost. The green-eyed ghost says, “Are you afraid of ghosts?” The lady says no. He says, “Are you afraid of green-eyed ghosts?” She says no. , “Well I’m a green-eyed ghost and I’m going to touch your thighs.” So THAT lady runs away.
Then this big, (pause for emphasis) FAT, (pause again) big fat lady comes in and sits down on TWO chairs next to the green-eyed ghost. The green-eyed ghost goes, “Are you afraid of ghosts?” The big fat lady says no. The green-eyed ghost says, “Are you afraid of green-eyed ghosts?” The big fat lady says no. The green-eyed ghost says, “Well I’m a green-eyed ghost and I’m going to touch your thighs.” And then the big fat lady says, “You ain’t gonna touch my thighs, or I’m gonna touch your FACE, man!”
At which point we would dissolve into hysterical laughter every single time. Kelly would usually end up being the teller because she did the best voices. But other than that, I have no idea why it was funny.
And yet I can’t stop laughing.
*Say it out loud: “I eat mop who?”
** None, because ice cream has no bones.
*** Yeah, I don’t know either.
Friday, February 10, 2006
The Best Thing About Heather Is She Writes All My Blog Posts For Me
VelociHeather: i have to share this
PGS DenMILF: you may begin
VelociHeather: Amy said they just hired a gal in her office whose name is "Latrina"
VelociHeather: seriously
VelociHeather: i could not stop laughing
PGS DenMILF: BWAHAHAHAHAHA
PGSDenMILF: do people not think?
VelociHeather: i guess not
VelociHeather: her parents must be retarded
VelociHeather: I would go by my middle name and never, ever reveal my real first name
PGS DenMILF: what if your middle name was swampass?
VelociHeather: i would make up a symbol, like Prince
PGS DenMILF: Latrina SwampAss Moyer
VelociHeather: Latrina Swampass McButterfart
PGS DenMILF: maybe your symbol could be a little rectangle with two little concentric ovals right beneath it. like an overhead view of a toilet
VelociHeather: haha
VelociHeather: i like that
VelociHeather: of course, hopefully no one would call me "The Woman Formerly Known as Latrina Swampass"
PGS DenMILF: yeah, that could be a problem
PGS DenMILF: you may begin
VelociHeather: Amy said they just hired a gal in her office whose name is "Latrina"
VelociHeather: seriously
VelociHeather: i could not stop laughing
PGS DenMILF: BWAHAHAHAHAHA
PGSDenMILF: do people not think?
VelociHeather: i guess not
VelociHeather: her parents must be retarded
VelociHeather: I would go by my middle name and never, ever reveal my real first name
PGS DenMILF: what if your middle name was swampass?
VelociHeather: i would make up a symbol, like Prince
PGS DenMILF: Latrina SwampAss Moyer
VelociHeather: Latrina Swampass McButterfart
PGS DenMILF: maybe your symbol could be a little rectangle with two little concentric ovals right beneath it. like an overhead view of a toilet
VelociHeather: haha
VelociHeather: i like that
VelociHeather: of course, hopefully no one would call me "The Woman Formerly Known as Latrina Swampass"
PGS DenMILF: yeah, that could be a problem
I Expect A Lot From My Guests
Heather: I had a dream last night where I was visiting you. You were living in a college dorm, and when you introduced me to your friends I said, "Now don't expect me to defile a towel like your other visiting friends have!" And then everyone busted up laughing.
I have no idea what that means.
Me: It means when you visit me you should wash your ass before you wipe it on my towel.
Heather: What the hell? Why don't you just handcuff me and take away my rights as an American!
I have no idea what that means.
Me: It means when you visit me you should wash your ass before you wipe it on my towel.
Heather: What the hell? Why don't you just handcuff me and take away my rights as an American!
Monday, February 06, 2006
Ill-annoying
Honestly people, all I wanted to do was officially become an Illlinoisian. Illinoiser? Illinoisan? Whatever. I wanted to officially be from Illinois. That is, get Illinois plates for Alistair and an Illinois driver’s license for me. Well, let me tell you something kids: you better fucking be from here in the first place because they don't take kindly to foreigners in these parts.
Since I have a social phobia regarding any situation I haven't previously encountered involving other people, I checked first with my good friends out at the Liz to get the low down on what to expect. Their utter amusement did nothing to allay my fears.
"Do you have your old registration and proof of insurance? Your old driver's license and some proof of residency, like a utility bill? You should have everything you need then. And don't worry, if you don't, they're very kind and understanding," said Klug.
"Oh, and by the way, don't tell them you've lived here an entire year," JoE advised. "You're supposed to get an Illinois license within 10 days of moving here. Although, you can tell them how long you've really been here if you want. I’m sure they'll be very kind and understanding."
"Don't worry about where you need to go or anything," Fish assured me. "There's a guard at the door now. You tell him what you need to do, and he'll tell you what line to get in. He's very kind and understanding."
I suspected they were mocking me.
The guy at the door was a little Mexican guy in a very official looking outfit that implied if I said anything stupid, he had the authority to shoot me. He looked neither kind nor understanding, and I would come to find out that my first impression was correct. But he did know where to send me. Driver's license first. Line 2.
Line 2 was very short, although the area just beyond Line 2 looked like Ellis Island circa 1907. To get an Illinois license you need the following items: your old out of state license, proof of birth, proof of Social Security number, and proof of residency. I had on me the following items: my Ohio driver's license (with my Social Security number included), my birth certificate, and a bill from People's Energy.
"Where's your Social Security card?" asked the Line 2 attendant.
"I don't have it."
"Well, you need proof of your Social Security number to get an Illinois license, so you won't be able to get that today."
"Um, but it's printed right there on my Ohio license," I said. Because it seemed to me that if my Social Security number was ON MY OLD LICENSE that it should qualify as "proof" that this was MY Social Security number. Putting your SS# on your license is optional in Ohio, but as far as I know, you don't have the option of putting just anyone's number on there. It has to actually be yours.
"That's not on the document list," he said, handing me a sheet of paper and circling Section C, "Proof of Social Security". Sure enough the items on the list included a U.S. Military ID, a State of Illinois ID card, a letter from the Social Security people officially stating your SS#, or your Social Security card. Out of state driver's license, whether you number was printed right on it or not, was not included. "Come back with your Social Security card. Also you'll have to take a written exam and a vision test." He shoved all the paperwork back at me, indicating that I was dismissed.
"Can I still get plates though?" I asked him. This was the more pressing issue, as my driver's license won't expire until next year, but my Ohio tags expired last week. He said I could, and also permitted me to just unhook the rope and get in Line 1.
Now I was in line 1, and for this exercise I had ready: my Ohio registration, my loan agreement, and my insurance card. I would not need any of these immediately. The woman behind the counter began rapid firing her automated list of questions at me and pulling out forms as I answered them. Because I bought the car outside of Illinois, new, from a dealer, still owed money on it, and used it outside of Illinois for a specified period of time, I was handed a stack of approximately 87 forms to fill out before I could receive my two metal rectangles indicating that my car lives here. I headed off to the long table in order to accomplish this.
As I was working, a surly employee made his way down the table peering over everyone's shoulder, deeming each of us stupid in turn, and sending us off to the auditors for "help" filling out our small forest's worth of forms. I was doing pretty well, I thought, but not well enough for the Form Enforcer. "Ma'am," he said in an exasperated tone as if I was just too dumb to understand (though I hadn't said anything to him at this point), "you need to go over to the Auditors and have them help you fill this out right now. We'd like to get out of here some time today." I'd been standing there for maybe three minutes when he said this and was already halfway done, due to my diligence with Having Things Ready. But this wasn't good enough, so I headed over to the Dummy line.
Turns out I belonged in the Dummy line. I handed all my documents and papers to the older gentleman assisting me, and of course the first thing he asks me for is the exact mileage on my car. That particular nugget being the one piece of information I did not have. I told him this and he looked around tiredly. "Doesn't look like the doors are locked yet," he said. "Better go out and get the mileage off your car." So chastened, I ran out to my car and diligently wrote down "14,242" on my forms before heading back inside.
I walked in and immediately headed back to the Auditor lime. But before I could take three steps the little Mexican man (hereafter, "the Mexi-nazi") stopped me with an authoritative bark. "Ma'am," he said sharply, "what's your business here?"
"Um, I was just here, remember? I need to get plates? I just had to get something out of my car."
"Line 1," said the Mexi-nazi coldly.
I thanked him stupidly, then ignored him and went straight back to the Auditors. At least he didn't shoot me.
I got a different auditor this time. She took my registration and loan agreement away and made copies of them (no one ever asked me for proof of insurance. WTF?), stapled them to my paperwork, signed and stamped a dozen things, and sent me off to stand in another line so I could give them my money. I stood in the line and glanced around, as you do. And in so glancing, I noticed a sign on the wall. "We accept, cash, personal check, money order, and Discover Card."
So rarely have I been in a place that accepts Discover but not Mastercard or Visa that I had to read it twice. And instantly I wished I had read it before going to take down my mileage, because in my purse I had no cash, no money order, and no Discover card (since I carry Mastercard like a normal person). I did have a checkbook....in my car. The Form Enforcer was nearby, so I went to him and timidly said, "Um, can I please run out to my car? I left my checkbook there by accident." He approved my trip and I went out to the car a second time.
I was gone, oh, 45 seconds, tops. When I got back, I discovered the front door was locked. So I did what any other rational adult who had been granted permission to get her checkbook from her car would do: I went in through the exit door.
A small but strong hand gripped my shoulder as I stepped inside, and I turned around and came face to face with the Mexi-nazi. "You can't come in Ma'am," he announced.
I heard a whiney little kid speaking and realized it was me. "But I was just here. The man told me I could go out and get my checkbook." I looked around for the Form Enforcer only to discover that he'd vanished into the ether. Instead I sheepishly held out my finished paperwork.
Mexi-nazi tightened his grip on my arm and shook his head at me. "You can't come in. We're closed." He steered me back toward the doors. It was clear that I would not be granted the privilege of giving the state of Illinois $143 that day.
Defeated, I let myself be escorted off the premises without obtaining an Illinois driver’s license or Illinois plates. When I got to my car, I immediately called Fish to complain. When he answered I announced I was moving back to Ohio because everyone here was mean and then promptly burst into tears.
Fish was very kind and understanding.
Since I have a social phobia regarding any situation I haven't previously encountered involving other people, I checked first with my good friends out at the Liz to get the low down on what to expect. Their utter amusement did nothing to allay my fears.
"Do you have your old registration and proof of insurance? Your old driver's license and some proof of residency, like a utility bill? You should have everything you need then. And don't worry, if you don't, they're very kind and understanding," said Klug.
"Oh, and by the way, don't tell them you've lived here an entire year," JoE advised. "You're supposed to get an Illinois license within 10 days of moving here. Although, you can tell them how long you've really been here if you want. I’m sure they'll be very kind and understanding."
"Don't worry about where you need to go or anything," Fish assured me. "There's a guard at the door now. You tell him what you need to do, and he'll tell you what line to get in. He's very kind and understanding."
I suspected they were mocking me.
The guy at the door was a little Mexican guy in a very official looking outfit that implied if I said anything stupid, he had the authority to shoot me. He looked neither kind nor understanding, and I would come to find out that my first impression was correct. But he did know where to send me. Driver's license first. Line 2.
Line 2 was very short, although the area just beyond Line 2 looked like Ellis Island circa 1907. To get an Illinois license you need the following items: your old out of state license, proof of birth, proof of Social Security number, and proof of residency. I had on me the following items: my Ohio driver's license (with my Social Security number included), my birth certificate, and a bill from People's Energy.
"Where's your Social Security card?" asked the Line 2 attendant.
"I don't have it."
"Well, you need proof of your Social Security number to get an Illinois license, so you won't be able to get that today."
"Um, but it's printed right there on my Ohio license," I said. Because it seemed to me that if my Social Security number was ON MY OLD LICENSE that it should qualify as "proof" that this was MY Social Security number. Putting your SS# on your license is optional in Ohio, but as far as I know, you don't have the option of putting just anyone's number on there. It has to actually be yours.
"That's not on the document list," he said, handing me a sheet of paper and circling Section C, "Proof of Social Security". Sure enough the items on the list included a U.S. Military ID, a State of Illinois ID card, a letter from the Social Security people officially stating your SS#, or your Social Security card. Out of state driver's license, whether you number was printed right on it or not, was not included. "Come back with your Social Security card. Also you'll have to take a written exam and a vision test." He shoved all the paperwork back at me, indicating that I was dismissed.
"Can I still get plates though?" I asked him. This was the more pressing issue, as my driver's license won't expire until next year, but my Ohio tags expired last week. He said I could, and also permitted me to just unhook the rope and get in Line 1.
Now I was in line 1, and for this exercise I had ready: my Ohio registration, my loan agreement, and my insurance card. I would not need any of these immediately. The woman behind the counter began rapid firing her automated list of questions at me and pulling out forms as I answered them. Because I bought the car outside of Illinois, new, from a dealer, still owed money on it, and used it outside of Illinois for a specified period of time, I was handed a stack of approximately 87 forms to fill out before I could receive my two metal rectangles indicating that my car lives here. I headed off to the long table in order to accomplish this.
As I was working, a surly employee made his way down the table peering over everyone's shoulder, deeming each of us stupid in turn, and sending us off to the auditors for "help" filling out our small forest's worth of forms. I was doing pretty well, I thought, but not well enough for the Form Enforcer. "Ma'am," he said in an exasperated tone as if I was just too dumb to understand (though I hadn't said anything to him at this point), "you need to go over to the Auditors and have them help you fill this out right now. We'd like to get out of here some time today." I'd been standing there for maybe three minutes when he said this and was already halfway done, due to my diligence with Having Things Ready. But this wasn't good enough, so I headed over to the Dummy line.
Turns out I belonged in the Dummy line. I handed all my documents and papers to the older gentleman assisting me, and of course the first thing he asks me for is the exact mileage on my car. That particular nugget being the one piece of information I did not have. I told him this and he looked around tiredly. "Doesn't look like the doors are locked yet," he said. "Better go out and get the mileage off your car." So chastened, I ran out to my car and diligently wrote down "14,242" on my forms before heading back inside.
I walked in and immediately headed back to the Auditor lime. But before I could take three steps the little Mexican man (hereafter, "the Mexi-nazi") stopped me with an authoritative bark. "Ma'am," he said sharply, "what's your business here?"
"Um, I was just here, remember? I need to get plates? I just had to get something out of my car."
"Line 1," said the Mexi-nazi coldly.
I thanked him stupidly, then ignored him and went straight back to the Auditors. At least he didn't shoot me.
I got a different auditor this time. She took my registration and loan agreement away and made copies of them (no one ever asked me for proof of insurance. WTF?), stapled them to my paperwork, signed and stamped a dozen things, and sent me off to stand in another line so I could give them my money. I stood in the line and glanced around, as you do. And in so glancing, I noticed a sign on the wall. "We accept, cash, personal check, money order, and Discover Card."
So rarely have I been in a place that accepts Discover but not Mastercard or Visa that I had to read it twice. And instantly I wished I had read it before going to take down my mileage, because in my purse I had no cash, no money order, and no Discover card (since I carry Mastercard like a normal person). I did have a checkbook....in my car. The Form Enforcer was nearby, so I went to him and timidly said, "Um, can I please run out to my car? I left my checkbook there by accident." He approved my trip and I went out to the car a second time.
I was gone, oh, 45 seconds, tops. When I got back, I discovered the front door was locked. So I did what any other rational adult who had been granted permission to get her checkbook from her car would do: I went in through the exit door.
A small but strong hand gripped my shoulder as I stepped inside, and I turned around and came face to face with the Mexi-nazi. "You can't come in Ma'am," he announced.
I heard a whiney little kid speaking and realized it was me. "But I was just here. The man told me I could go out and get my checkbook." I looked around for the Form Enforcer only to discover that he'd vanished into the ether. Instead I sheepishly held out my finished paperwork.
Mexi-nazi tightened his grip on my arm and shook his head at me. "You can't come in. We're closed." He steered me back toward the doors. It was clear that I would not be granted the privilege of giving the state of Illinois $143 that day.
Defeated, I let myself be escorted off the premises without obtaining an Illinois driver’s license or Illinois plates. When I got to my car, I immediately called Fish to complain. When he answered I announced I was moving back to Ohio because everyone here was mean and then promptly burst into tears.
Fish was very kind and understanding.
Friday, January 27, 2006
Bartenderism: The Language of Gay
"I'm telling you, he's gay. I have a gay brother and a lesbian sister, and I used to be the general manager a gay nightclub. I'm well versed in gay."
Chipotlame
I just got back from Chipotle (they had chicken today and charged me the correct amount for it thankyouverymuch), where I saw a very sad sight indeed.
What I saw were two women, approximately my age, sitting together at a table each eating...
...a bowl of shredded lettuce.
That's it. I think the one girl had a little bit of cheese on hers. There were no others at their table eating a proper burrito or anything. Just them.
I almost cried for them. (I cried with joy at my delicious fajita burrito with extra cheese and extra sour cream instead. Mmmmm.)
What I saw were two women, approximately my age, sitting together at a table each eating...
...a bowl of shredded lettuce.
That's it. I think the one girl had a little bit of cheese on hers. There were no others at their table eating a proper burrito or anything. Just them.
I almost cried for them. (I cried with joy at my delicious fajita burrito with extra cheese and extra sour cream instead. Mmmmm.)
Tuesday, January 24, 2006
The Naked Standard
Here's an argument I'm having with Fish. Actually it's two related arguments. I thought I'd poll the experts (this means you, lovely readers). Here's the set up:
Fish: so joe and I are arguing whether you get to see Beckinsalebreasts in Underworld 2
Fish: I told him no because I would have heard about it
Fish: but he is adamant
PGS DenMILF: WHAT?
PGS DenMILF: are you talking about
PGS DenMILF: oh wait
PGS DenMILF: Kate Beckinsale’s tits?
Fish: yeah
Fish: Joe says yes, I say no, only you have seen it so we need to know
Fish: titties or no titties
PGS DenMILF: you're both right
PGS DenMILF: you see them, but you don't see any nip
Fish: oh
Fish: so thats a no
Fish: I win
PGS DenMILF: no it isn't
Fish: yeah it is... nipple = nudity... breast = provocative
PGS DenMILF: there's a part where michael is unzipping her catsuit
PGS DenMILF: you see the outline of her breast. it is HOT
PGS DenMILF: you see a full body shot of two naked people, head to toe
PGS DenMILF: but somehow all their naughty parts are covered
PGS DenMILF: they kept zooming in on her stomach
PGS DenMILF: it was hot
Fish: I don't jerk off to outlines
Fish: so it isn't nudity
Fish: sorry
Fish: in the end, its a tease
PGS DenMILF: ok, so you've never jerked off to a girl that was dressed
Fish: not that I recall
PGS DenMILF: that's effed up
PGS DenMILF: Kate Beckinsale wearing the cat suit is not masturbatory material
PGS DenMILF: that's what you're saying
Fish: for me?
Fish: no
Fish: society has taught me that nipples are the difference between a PG-13 and R rating (except for a few instances) so they must be special... not as special as a crotch shot which guarantees an R
Fish: its the difference between maxim and playboy
Fish: between USA up all Night and Skinimax
Fish: as you can see... these aren't my rules
PGS DenMILF: But my argument is that both Maxim and Playboy are provacative
Fish: the original question is does K.B. get naked (aka nude) and, the answer, is no
PGS DenMILF: The rule is, if you have NO CLOTHES ON you are naked
PGS DenMILF: The answer is YES because she's not wearing any clothes!
Fish: No
PGS DenMILF: some dude on top of you humping you does not qualify as clothes!
Fish: no nipple, no jerkoff, no deal
Fish: that's how we roll
PGS DenMILF: i think that's just how YOU roll
PGS DenMILF: if you're at a strip club, and the stripper is topless, but she has pasties on, you're saying you haven’t seen her breasts
Fish: yes
It went on like that, but you get the point. The two arguments are:
1. Do you have to see nipple (pubes, dick, etc.) to qualify as naked?
2. Do men only masturbate to images of naked women, or do women dressed provacatively work as well?
And since it's my blog and I don't have to play fair: Fish is saying that none of my readers are going to masturbate to this image of Hot Heather licking my boobs just because I am wearing a corset:
Say it ain't so. ;-)
Fish: so joe and I are arguing whether you get to see Beckinsalebreasts in Underworld 2
Fish: I told him no because I would have heard about it
Fish: but he is adamant
PGS DenMILF: WHAT?
PGS DenMILF: are you talking about
PGS DenMILF: oh wait
PGS DenMILF: Kate Beckinsale’s tits?
Fish: yeah
Fish: Joe says yes, I say no, only you have seen it so we need to know
Fish: titties or no titties
PGS DenMILF: you're both right
PGS DenMILF: you see them, but you don't see any nip
Fish: oh
Fish: so thats a no
Fish: I win
PGS DenMILF: no it isn't
Fish: yeah it is... nipple = nudity... breast = provocative
PGS DenMILF: there's a part where michael is unzipping her catsuit
PGS DenMILF: you see the outline of her breast. it is HOT
PGS DenMILF: you see a full body shot of two naked people, head to toe
PGS DenMILF: but somehow all their naughty parts are covered
PGS DenMILF: they kept zooming in on her stomach
PGS DenMILF: it was hot
Fish: I don't jerk off to outlines
Fish: so it isn't nudity
Fish: sorry
Fish: in the end, its a tease
PGS DenMILF: ok, so you've never jerked off to a girl that was dressed
Fish: not that I recall
PGS DenMILF: that's effed up
PGS DenMILF: Kate Beckinsale wearing the cat suit is not masturbatory material
PGS DenMILF: that's what you're saying
Fish: for me?
Fish: no
Fish: society has taught me that nipples are the difference between a PG-13 and R rating (except for a few instances) so they must be special... not as special as a crotch shot which guarantees an R
Fish: its the difference between maxim and playboy
Fish: between USA up all Night and Skinimax
Fish: as you can see... these aren't my rules
PGS DenMILF: But my argument is that both Maxim and Playboy are provacative
Fish: the original question is does K.B. get naked (aka nude) and, the answer, is no
PGS DenMILF: The rule is, if you have NO CLOTHES ON you are naked
PGS DenMILF: The answer is YES because she's not wearing any clothes!
Fish: No
PGS DenMILF: some dude on top of you humping you does not qualify as clothes!
Fish: no nipple, no jerkoff, no deal
Fish: that's how we roll
PGS DenMILF: i think that's just how YOU roll
PGS DenMILF: if you're at a strip club, and the stripper is topless, but she has pasties on, you're saying you haven’t seen her breasts
Fish: yes
It went on like that, but you get the point. The two arguments are:
1. Do you have to see nipple (pubes, dick, etc.) to qualify as naked?
2. Do men only masturbate to images of naked women, or do women dressed provacatively work as well?
And since it's my blog and I don't have to play fair: Fish is saying that none of my readers are going to masturbate to this image of Hot Heather licking my boobs just because I am wearing a corset:
Say it ain't so. ;-)
Monday, January 23, 2006
Bathroom Mysteries
I'm having issues in my bathroom right now. One is an intriguing garbage can finding; the other has to do with my being a complete moron.
Saturday morning I got up at 3 a.m. to take a shower so I could be at Tai's to start painting by 4:30 (I am very serious about my work). I groggily got up, crashed into the door frame to my bedroom (as I do), and staggered through the dining room and kitchen and into the bathroom to get ready. It was when I went to throw a tissue into the trash can that I saw it: a mysterious twig was poking up out of the can. My brain slowly worked this over: Where did this twig come from? I didn't recall putting a twig in the garbage can. I decided maybe I had better get myself fully conscious before I sprained something thinking about it, so I jumped in the shower.
Now awake (also clean and naked), I got out of the shower to find that there was still a twig in my garbage can. I went back over my movements for the last few days, and found none that involved placing a twig in my garbage can. I started going over other options.
Option 1: Kristen put it there. There are several problems with this theory. For one thing, Kristen does not go outside so she'd have trouble getting her little paws on a twig to begin with. I'm sure she could have found it in the house if I tracked it in there somehow, but I don't really think so. Also, being that she's a cat and all, she doesn't have opposable thumbs to grasp a stick and throw it in the trash. True, she could have picked it up in her mouth and dropped it in there, but to do that she'd have to jump up onto the toilet with it and lean over at a weird angle to get it in there. Also, and most importantly, why would Kristen want to put a twig in my garbage can in the first place?
Option 2: The bartender did it. Besides me there are only two others with keys to my apartment, the landlord, and the bartender who happens to also be my catsitter. If the bartender came over while I wasn't home, he could have tracked in a branch that he noticed and threw out while using my bathroom. But the thing is, the bartender would not just show up and use a key to get into my house without telling me. We're in a big fight right now too, so if he had been in there when I wasn't home, I would have expected to find some of his belongings that I'm currently storing to be missing. So probably not the bartender.
Option 3: The landlord. This seems like the least likely, because in order to come in my apartment, the landlord is supposed to call and warn me first. In fact, the few times they've been in there they've never failed to call first.
So I have no explanation for a twig in my garbage can and it is really bothering me. When I talked to MrSteve about it yesterday he was unimpressed. "Fine, but we might be about to invade nuclear facilities in Iran. Don't you think that's maybe a little more important?"
"Well, no, because how does that effect me, Steve? Oh wait! Unless it was Iranian terrorists and they broke in and put a twig in my garbage can. That might be it."
"Right. Why would terrorists break in your house and put a twig in your garbage can, Amber?"
"To fuck with my head! Obviously. And it's working."
Poor Steve, I don't know why he bothers trying to talk to me at all. Anyway, the twig is still in there and it is still bothering me. I need help on this one, folks. What am I missing?
My other problem is that I am unbelievably stupid at practical things. Such as changing the batteries in my Crest Spinbrush. I can't get the damn thing open to get at the batteries. I've tried pushing, pulling, twisting, pulling and twisting, twisting and pushing, squeezing and twisting, pushing and squeezing, and banging it against the sink. The little drawing on the side implies that it should just swing open at one end, but I'm telling you, I tried that and it didn't work. The worst part of this is that I got it open once before because I've changed those batteries once already. I can't figure it out. My toothbrush is going to die if I don't find a solution to this problem soon. Please help me.
Saturday morning I got up at 3 a.m. to take a shower so I could be at Tai's to start painting by 4:30 (I am very serious about my work). I groggily got up, crashed into the door frame to my bedroom (as I do), and staggered through the dining room and kitchen and into the bathroom to get ready. It was when I went to throw a tissue into the trash can that I saw it: a mysterious twig was poking up out of the can. My brain slowly worked this over: Where did this twig come from? I didn't recall putting a twig in the garbage can. I decided maybe I had better get myself fully conscious before I sprained something thinking about it, so I jumped in the shower.
Now awake (also clean and naked), I got out of the shower to find that there was still a twig in my garbage can. I went back over my movements for the last few days, and found none that involved placing a twig in my garbage can. I started going over other options.
Option 1: Kristen put it there. There are several problems with this theory. For one thing, Kristen does not go outside so she'd have trouble getting her little paws on a twig to begin with. I'm sure she could have found it in the house if I tracked it in there somehow, but I don't really think so. Also, being that she's a cat and all, she doesn't have opposable thumbs to grasp a stick and throw it in the trash. True, she could have picked it up in her mouth and dropped it in there, but to do that she'd have to jump up onto the toilet with it and lean over at a weird angle to get it in there. Also, and most importantly, why would Kristen want to put a twig in my garbage can in the first place?
Option 2: The bartender did it. Besides me there are only two others with keys to my apartment, the landlord, and the bartender who happens to also be my catsitter. If the bartender came over while I wasn't home, he could have tracked in a branch that he noticed and threw out while using my bathroom. But the thing is, the bartender would not just show up and use a key to get into my house without telling me. We're in a big fight right now too, so if he had been in there when I wasn't home, I would have expected to find some of his belongings that I'm currently storing to be missing. So probably not the bartender.
Option 3: The landlord. This seems like the least likely, because in order to come in my apartment, the landlord is supposed to call and warn me first. In fact, the few times they've been in there they've never failed to call first.
So I have no explanation for a twig in my garbage can and it is really bothering me. When I talked to MrSteve about it yesterday he was unimpressed. "Fine, but we might be about to invade nuclear facilities in Iran. Don't you think that's maybe a little more important?"
"Well, no, because how does that effect me, Steve? Oh wait! Unless it was Iranian terrorists and they broke in and put a twig in my garbage can. That might be it."
"Right. Why would terrorists break in your house and put a twig in your garbage can, Amber?"
"To fuck with my head! Obviously. And it's working."
Poor Steve, I don't know why he bothers trying to talk to me at all. Anyway, the twig is still in there and it is still bothering me. I need help on this one, folks. What am I missing?
My other problem is that I am unbelievably stupid at practical things. Such as changing the batteries in my Crest Spinbrush. I can't get the damn thing open to get at the batteries. I've tried pushing, pulling, twisting, pulling and twisting, twisting and pushing, squeezing and twisting, pushing and squeezing, and banging it against the sink. The little drawing on the side implies that it should just swing open at one end, but I'm telling you, I tried that and it didn't work. The worst part of this is that I got it open once before because I've changed those batteries once already. I can't figure it out. My toothbrush is going to die if I don't find a solution to this problem soon. Please help me.
Hockey for Dummies
So last Tuesday night I went to my first ever Blackhawks game, which served as my first ever professional hockey game at all. The owner has season tickets, which he hands out like door prizes to all the people he likes that week, so I ended up watching my first ever professional hockey game from 7 rows back right behind the goal with the bartender, another bar employee (we will call him the body. Because the girls seem to enjoy his greatly ripped arms. I personally am not into such a build, but I thought "the body" was a nicer name than "the man-whore", if not quite as accurate.) and that guy's daughter.
The bartender and I got there well ahead of the body, which is to say we got there before the game started as opposed to halfway through the first period. We gathered some food and took it to our extremely awesome seats.
"Gene says nice sausage," said the bartender while looking at his phone. Apparently, my drinking buddy Gene Honda keeps binoculars up in his little PA announcer booth to spy on his friends in the not-so-cheap seats, and possibly scan the crowd for attractive women. He claims they are so he can see what's going on down on the ice, but when he texted us at the start of the third period, "Ice cream too!" I began to get suspicious.
Speaking of hot women, there was one just behind us. The bartender saw her first (as he tends to do). He elbowed me in the ribs. "Turn around." I did, and saw an attractive brunette about my age sitting with a guy who was completely unattractive and much much older. You know the Beastie Boys' Sabotage video, where they're dressed up like a 70's cop show with really bad helmet hair and huge unruly mustaches? That is what this guy looked like.
"Hot," I said, "but what is she doing with that guy? Is that her dad? Tell me that's her dad."
The bartender shook his head. "Money," he concluded. "She's with him because he has money." He paused. "I wish I had money. I need to fuck her."
As it turned out, I needed him to fuck her too, or better yet get a blow job from her, because as it turns out she has the duel problems of being incredibly stupid and unable to stop herself from talking.
Look, I'll be honest with you. I don't really know much about hockey. It's not a sport I've ever really followed. I used to go to a lot of games in college, but that was mostly to support my friend Mike and to scream "YEAH! MAKE HIM YOUR BITCH!" whenever someone got slammed into the boards. My knowledge of hockey is limited to the bare basics. I am not a hockey genius in any way.
But next to the hot dummy I certainly looked like one. For starters, she decided that she had a thing for Mark Bell, number 28 on the Blackhawks. But she couldn't figure out his name, even with it written on the back of his jersey. She simply referred to him as her boyfriend. "Look, there's my boyfriend!" she squealed everytime his line came on the ice. "Why is he leaving? Come back boyfriend!" she would cry out everytime his line went off. I rolled my eyes at the bartender.
"Not very bright there, your girl."
He grinned. "Those are the best kind."
Later she apparently missed the action while staring at her "boyfriend". Play had stopped for a hooking penalty. When she noticed no one was skating except one guy crossing the ice by himself, she questioned her benefactor. "What happened? Did that guy do something bad? Is he going to the bad boy box?" Later she would shorten this to "the bad box", which was only slightly less idiotic. I turned to the bartender.
"[Bartender], will you do me a favor and please go put something in her mouth? She just called the penalty box a "bad boy" box."
She then got loudly got confused about hockey having three periods instead of four quarters. I began to beat my head against the bartender's shoulder. I could hear the four guys sitting directly in front of her start speculating as I had that the poor stiff she was with was her dad. After having to hear about her boyfriend and how hot he was for nearly an entire game, Bell completely missed a pass and then immediately fell down flat on his face. One of the guys stood up pointing and shouted triumphantly, "THAT'S your boyfriend!" Our entire section busted up laughing.
Ultimately, the Blackhawks lost to the Islanders in overtime, but overall my first pro hockey game was pretty cool. I'm totally going again.
The bartender and I got there well ahead of the body, which is to say we got there before the game started as opposed to halfway through the first period. We gathered some food and took it to our extremely awesome seats.
"Gene says nice sausage," said the bartender while looking at his phone. Apparently, my drinking buddy Gene Honda keeps binoculars up in his little PA announcer booth to spy on his friends in the not-so-cheap seats, and possibly scan the crowd for attractive women. He claims they are so he can see what's going on down on the ice, but when he texted us at the start of the third period, "Ice cream too!" I began to get suspicious.
Speaking of hot women, there was one just behind us. The bartender saw her first (as he tends to do). He elbowed me in the ribs. "Turn around." I did, and saw an attractive brunette about my age sitting with a guy who was completely unattractive and much much older. You know the Beastie Boys' Sabotage video, where they're dressed up like a 70's cop show with really bad helmet hair and huge unruly mustaches? That is what this guy looked like.
"Hot," I said, "but what is she doing with that guy? Is that her dad? Tell me that's her dad."
The bartender shook his head. "Money," he concluded. "She's with him because he has money." He paused. "I wish I had money. I need to fuck her."
As it turned out, I needed him to fuck her too, or better yet get a blow job from her, because as it turns out she has the duel problems of being incredibly stupid and unable to stop herself from talking.
Look, I'll be honest with you. I don't really know much about hockey. It's not a sport I've ever really followed. I used to go to a lot of games in college, but that was mostly to support my friend Mike and to scream "YEAH! MAKE HIM YOUR BITCH!" whenever someone got slammed into the boards. My knowledge of hockey is limited to the bare basics. I am not a hockey genius in any way.
But next to the hot dummy I certainly looked like one. For starters, she decided that she had a thing for Mark Bell, number 28 on the Blackhawks. But she couldn't figure out his name, even with it written on the back of his jersey. She simply referred to him as her boyfriend. "Look, there's my boyfriend!" she squealed everytime his line came on the ice. "Why is he leaving? Come back boyfriend!" she would cry out everytime his line went off. I rolled my eyes at the bartender.
"Not very bright there, your girl."
He grinned. "Those are the best kind."
Later she apparently missed the action while staring at her "boyfriend". Play had stopped for a hooking penalty. When she noticed no one was skating except one guy crossing the ice by himself, she questioned her benefactor. "What happened? Did that guy do something bad? Is he going to the bad boy box?" Later she would shorten this to "the bad box", which was only slightly less idiotic. I turned to the bartender.
"[Bartender], will you do me a favor and please go put something in her mouth? She just called the penalty box a "bad boy" box."
She then got loudly got confused about hockey having three periods instead of four quarters. I began to beat my head against the bartender's shoulder. I could hear the four guys sitting directly in front of her start speculating as I had that the poor stiff she was with was her dad. After having to hear about her boyfriend and how hot he was for nearly an entire game, Bell completely missed a pass and then immediately fell down flat on his face. One of the guys stood up pointing and shouted triumphantly, "THAT'S your boyfriend!" Our entire section busted up laughing.
Ultimately, the Blackhawks lost to the Islanders in overtime, but overall my first pro hockey game was pretty cool. I'm totally going again.
Thursday, January 19, 2006
Tag - I'm It
Heather, who is an evil little monkey, tagged me with a meme this morning. I've never been tagged before, which I've always kind of gloated over (haha, I don't have to think up any stupid crap!), but then late at night when I was all alone in my bed, I would cry huge Precious Moments tears, because if no one was tagging me, it obviously means no one is paying any attention to me and if they are they don't find me interesting enough to want to know more.
But today the streak has ended, and now I've been instructed to tell you all three things you probably don't know about me, or risk spending the rest of forever burning in the 7th circle of hell or filing Satan's toenails or something. This is not easy given the broad range of people who read this blog and the fact that the entire point of Bizzybiz is for me to stroke my ego by talking about myself. Material is scarce. But here goes:
1. When I was little I HATED going to school. I know, you'd never know it given what a gigantic nerd I am now, but in elementary school it was all I could do to drag myself there. So I was always looking for ways to get out of school. One surefire way to get sent home from school is to throw up in class. But since it never occurred to me to just make myself throw up, I needed some other source of vomit. So I would spend, like, hours in my mother's bathroom, going through her make up and lotions and whatnot, trying to mix up something that looked and smelled like vomit. I even experimented with adding cotton balls so my fake puke would have "chunks". This, of course, never ever worked and I never tried the "fake puke" ploy in class. But I did use up tons of my mom's Mary Kay.
2. I can't stand fast food hamburgers. Any of them. McDonald's, Burger King, Wendy's, White Castle, Arby's, Rally's - none of them. You would have to starve me for a month to get me to eat one, and even then I'd make sure there was absolutely nothing else available to eat. At "real" restaurants though, hamburgers are probably in my top three favorite things to order.
3. One year on Easter, I snuck downstairs in the middle of the night and found all the Easter eggs. The next day, Brandon and I went looking for them, but I already knew where all of them were. Because I was pretty quick on the uptake, I realized that if I ran around scooping up all the eggs, my parents would know what I did, so instead I walked around all morning pretending to look for eggs. I made sure Cap got the same number of eggs as me so I wouldn't look suspicious. Ultimately, I gained nothing since I didn't use my advantage for fear I'd get caught. Also it wasn't any fun because I had nothing to look for. So it sucked and I never did it again.
Hmm. That was fun. Maybe I should make a whole post out stupid things I did when I was a little kid. Who's in?
OK, now for the really fun part! I get to inflict this incredible burden on three bloggers of my choice! So Cap, Hot Heather and Brooke (ha! you thought you'd escape way down south, didn't ya?), get crackin on things some crap I don't know. Preferably things I can make fun of you for later.
But today the streak has ended, and now I've been instructed to tell you all three things you probably don't know about me, or risk spending the rest of forever burning in the 7th circle of hell or filing Satan's toenails or something. This is not easy given the broad range of people who read this blog and the fact that the entire point of Bizzybiz is for me to stroke my ego by talking about myself. Material is scarce. But here goes:
1. When I was little I HATED going to school. I know, you'd never know it given what a gigantic nerd I am now, but in elementary school it was all I could do to drag myself there. So I was always looking for ways to get out of school. One surefire way to get sent home from school is to throw up in class. But since it never occurred to me to just make myself throw up, I needed some other source of vomit. So I would spend, like, hours in my mother's bathroom, going through her make up and lotions and whatnot, trying to mix up something that looked and smelled like vomit. I even experimented with adding cotton balls so my fake puke would have "chunks". This, of course, never ever worked and I never tried the "fake puke" ploy in class. But I did use up tons of my mom's Mary Kay.
2. I can't stand fast food hamburgers. Any of them. McDonald's, Burger King, Wendy's, White Castle, Arby's, Rally's - none of them. You would have to starve me for a month to get me to eat one, and even then I'd make sure there was absolutely nothing else available to eat. At "real" restaurants though, hamburgers are probably in my top three favorite things to order.
3. One year on Easter, I snuck downstairs in the middle of the night and found all the Easter eggs. The next day, Brandon and I went looking for them, but I already knew where all of them were. Because I was pretty quick on the uptake, I realized that if I ran around scooping up all the eggs, my parents would know what I did, so instead I walked around all morning pretending to look for eggs. I made sure Cap got the same number of eggs as me so I wouldn't look suspicious. Ultimately, I gained nothing since I didn't use my advantage for fear I'd get caught. Also it wasn't any fun because I had nothing to look for. So it sucked and I never did it again.
Hmm. That was fun. Maybe I should make a whole post out stupid things I did when I was a little kid. Who's in?
OK, now for the really fun part! I get to inflict this incredible burden on three bloggers of my choice! So Cap, Hot Heather and Brooke (ha! you thought you'd escape way down south, didn't ya?), get crackin on things some crap I don't know. Preferably things I can make fun of you for later.
Tuesday, January 17, 2006
Top Things I Didn't See at my Birthday Party at Tai's
1. Anyone going by the name of Dave, Hutch, Keri, TK, Pablo, or whose last name rhymes with "Schmongola". Though I hear Chris and Steve were in on Friday. Asswipes.
2. Gene Honda's reaction to my Chief Wahoo birthday cake. I was in the bathroom when he came in. When I saw him later I asked if he thought my cake was pretty. He said "What's left of it" and mimed smashing it with his fist.
3. Left over cake. Gene had two pieces. So did the bartender and several others.
4. Hot Heather's boobs/the bartender's dick. Though Heather and I did scurry off to the bathroom so she could take a picture of my ass. And I did get to squeeze her boobs (I vaguely recall we were counting to four for some reason and demonstrated this by feeling each other up.)
5. Help from the staff. I was cornered by some short guy and a Canadian. They sang happy birthday to me in Polish and French, respectively, and then the short guy quickly became annoying with his repetitive attempts to kiss me. Also, some other guy kept licking my legs. Yes, licking them. Rather than rescue me the owner told him, "You owe me 10 bucks for her."
2. Gene Honda's reaction to my Chief Wahoo birthday cake. I was in the bathroom when he came in. When I saw him later I asked if he thought my cake was pretty. He said "What's left of it" and mimed smashing it with his fist.
3. Left over cake. Gene had two pieces. So did the bartender and several others.
4. Hot Heather's boobs/the bartender's dick. Though Heather and I did scurry off to the bathroom so she could take a picture of my ass. And I did get to squeeze her boobs (I vaguely recall we were counting to four for some reason and demonstrated this by feeling each other up.)
5. Help from the staff. I was cornered by some short guy and a Canadian. They sang happy birthday to me in Polish and French, respectively, and then the short guy quickly became annoying with his repetitive attempts to kiss me. Also, some other guy kept licking my legs. Yes, licking them. Rather than rescue me the owner told him, "You owe me 10 bucks for her."
Thursday, January 12, 2006
Birthday Loot!
Happy Birthday to me! The gifts are rolling in! So far:
Cyanide & Happiness @ Explosm.net
Let's continue this thing by leaving comments that say nice things about me! Or by sending assless chaps.
- Birthday cards so far from my step-grandma (thad be Harriet for the fam), my dad and stepmom (with mulah), and the bartender (with 4 CDs of punk rock music he burned for me and drew lopsided smiley faces on);
- One text message from Hot Heather;
- One IM message from Fish;
- e-mail wishes from Cap (who will see me at Tai's), Simmy (who sang happy birthday to me, or, well, typed it), Heather (who points out that I'm old), Kelly (who will call before happy hour), Timmy (who hopes I get all my birthday wishes plus two more!) and Catholic Dennis (who wants me to have a good one);
- A phone call from my dad yesterday. He left a message on my voicemail which was perhaps the most words he's ever said to me all at once in my entire life. It went on for almost a whole minute;
- A hilarious video (probably not work safe due to penis drawings) from Hot Heather. OK, this was maybe not a birthday present so much as a MySpace bulletin she posted yesterday, but I saw it today and laughed, and it's my birthday, so I've decided it's a present;
- Cupcakes from my boss. This was partly for my birthday and partly because he'll use any excuse to go to Tag's Bakery in Evanston;
- The guys who write my favorite web comic, Cyanide and Happiness. Apparently they have telepathic abilities and knew it was my birthday today, but also believe I am a boy. Here is today's comic:
Cyanide & Happiness @ Explosm.net
- Jimmy Kimmel and God conspired to get me the best present of all. Last night I had planned to decorate my birthday cake, but after dinner I suddenly got really tired and fell asleep on the couch with the TV on. It was God who made me fall asleep, you know. Had I decorated the cake as planned and then gone to bed I would have missed it. But as it was, I fell asleep on the couch. And then God awakened me just as Jimmy was introducing his second guest of the night: BEN STEIN;
- The aforementioned birthday cake. Chocolate with homemade frosting depicting Chief Wahoo of the Cleveland Indians. From me.
Let's continue this thing by leaving comments that say nice things about me! Or by sending assless chaps.
Tuesday, January 10, 2006
MySpace is a Liar, but They Make Up for it with Pacman
MySpace e-mailed me to tell me I had a message from Kelly. Great! I thought. Hmm. No. Because I tried to log in to MySpace and was told the following: "Site will be down for maintenance from 2:15AM PST to around 5:00AM PST. January 10, 2006."
Well, very nice. Except it was about 2:15 PM Central when I attempted this, which would make it 12:15 PM Pacific. Maintenance should have been finished hours ago. ALL LIES!
However, they have made amends. They did this by placing a traditional Pacman game, complete with original arcade sounds, on the welcome screen just under the Big Fat Lie. So now I'm surreptiously playing Pacman.
On an unrelated note, hot chocolate is so much better when you make it with milk instead of water.
Well, very nice. Except it was about 2:15 PM Central when I attempted this, which would make it 12:15 PM Pacific. Maintenance should have been finished hours ago. ALL LIES!
However, they have made amends. They did this by placing a traditional Pacman game, complete with original arcade sounds, on the welcome screen just under the Big Fat Lie. So now I'm surreptiously playing Pacman.
On an unrelated note, hot chocolate is so much better when you make it with milk instead of water.
Amber's Birthday Wish List!
The owner (of Tai's) called me last night while I was on my way home from work. Our conversation went like this:
Me: Well hi there.
Owner: What's up, man? (he calls everyone "man'.)
Me: Nothing. Where you at?
Owner: I'm sitting on the beach. (fucker's in Hawaii.) Where are you?
Me: Fuck you. On the train.
Owner: That's sort of the same. (he's also a sarcastic little shit.)
Me: Kind of. Except I'm wearing a coat, and I bet you're not.
Owner: Nope. It's 83 degrees here. (asshole.)
Me: Asshole. Is this the point of your call? To remind me that you're in Hawaii and I'm not and be a dick about it?
Owner: Well, not entirely, but yeah, that's the main reason. (see?) Seriously, though, what are you doing Wednesday?
Me: Working. I'll be home by 6. Why?
Owner: I was thinking maybe Wednesday night I could pick you and your paint brush up and we could go out. (for paint.)
Me: That could work. I'll call you. I can't actually do any painting on Wednesday though, I have to work in the morning. But I'm off Friday AND Monday. I could paint then.
Owner: Oh don't worry, we'll be spending plenty of time together in the next couple weeks. (Tai's has been closed since the day after Christmas. The owner is remodeling the entire back room, which is the room we are discussing having me paint. The work has been going on while the owner is vacationing in Hawaii. They are scheduled to open up again on Wednesday night, though there is some doubt about the work being done by then, which makes me nervous.)
Me: Are you really going to be open by Thursday?
Owner: Oh, yeah. We have to be, it's your birthday! (Yay! He remembered! Probably because I've been threatening him about being open on my birthday since Halloween.)
Me: You remembered!
Owner: I've been telling the workers they have to speed it up, because it's very important that we're ready to open by your birthday. I won't have it another way. (ok, now he's just mocking me.)
Me: Alright, I can't tell how made up that is, but I'm going to choose to believe you because it's sweet of you.
Owner: Isn't it? (such a dick sometimes.)
Anyway, the point of that story is that it seems likely Tai's will be open for my birthday as I'd hoped. Which means the first item on my birthday wish list has come true! In the event you've waited until the last minute to pick up a gift for my birthday (which, to recap, is Thursday), here is a list of things that would be appreciated:
Me: Well hi there.
Owner: What's up, man? (he calls everyone "man'.)
Me: Nothing. Where you at?
Owner: I'm sitting on the beach. (fucker's in Hawaii.) Where are you?
Me: Fuck you. On the train.
Owner: That's sort of the same. (he's also a sarcastic little shit.)
Me: Kind of. Except I'm wearing a coat, and I bet you're not.
Owner: Nope. It's 83 degrees here. (asshole.)
Me: Asshole. Is this the point of your call? To remind me that you're in Hawaii and I'm not and be a dick about it?
Owner: Well, not entirely, but yeah, that's the main reason. (see?) Seriously, though, what are you doing Wednesday?
Me: Working. I'll be home by 6. Why?
Owner: I was thinking maybe Wednesday night I could pick you and your paint brush up and we could go out. (for paint.)
Me: That could work. I'll call you. I can't actually do any painting on Wednesday though, I have to work in the morning. But I'm off Friday AND Monday. I could paint then.
Owner: Oh don't worry, we'll be spending plenty of time together in the next couple weeks. (Tai's has been closed since the day after Christmas. The owner is remodeling the entire back room, which is the room we are discussing having me paint. The work has been going on while the owner is vacationing in Hawaii. They are scheduled to open up again on Wednesday night, though there is some doubt about the work being done by then, which makes me nervous.)
Me: Are you really going to be open by Thursday?
Owner: Oh, yeah. We have to be, it's your birthday! (Yay! He remembered! Probably because I've been threatening him about being open on my birthday since Halloween.)
Me: You remembered!
Owner: I've been telling the workers they have to speed it up, because it's very important that we're ready to open by your birthday. I won't have it another way. (ok, now he's just mocking me.)
Me: Alright, I can't tell how made up that is, but I'm going to choose to believe you because it's sweet of you.
Owner: Isn't it? (such a dick sometimes.)
Anyway, the point of that story is that it seems likely Tai's will be open for my birthday as I'd hoped. Which means the first item on my birthday wish list has come true! In the event you've waited until the last minute to pick up a gift for my birthday (which, to recap, is Thursday), here is a list of things that would be appreciated:
- A new roommate. Specifically the bartender, who has been planning a possible move into my storage room since early October, but so far has moved only a set of mixing bowls, some pots and pans, a few kitchen utensils and his golf clubs. If I can't get the whole roommate, I'd like to at least receive
- His shower curtain. The first time I was ever at the bartender's place, the first thing I noticed was his shower curtain. It is made up entirely of 2 inch tall pictures of old Playboy covers. Oh, it is so very, very cool. He took it down months ago, since his current roommate couldn't seem to learn to keep the curtain closed so as to prevent mold. They are now using a plain black curtain instead. I know he still has the Playboy one. I vote it should be the next object he moves.
- In addition to Tai's being open, I would like for all my Chicago friends to show up (Dave, I can't believe you. Your choices are my birthday party or a play and you chose the play? Is Keri in on this slap in the face as well? You guys are dead to me.) I'm baking a cake and everything.
- Surrounded by my loving entourage, I would like for my birthday party to turn out better than last year.
- Lots of blog comments. Especially from the two funniest bloggers I know: Heather and Jennie Smash. I have, like, the worst writer's crush on Jennie Smash. I mean, she is so cool she actually has cough syrup delivered. Mmm, cough syrupy Jennie Smash comments...
- Giant dildos are, of course, always appreciated.
- And I could use a digital camera, at least on loan, so my buddy Daniel can have a peek at my melons.
- Ass-less chaps.
Friday, January 06, 2006
Addendum
MrSteve pointed out in the comments to my previous post that I left out an evening. Just for clarification, this was not due to a drunken blackout, but to the fact that you sometimes lose things when you haven't posted for two weeks. I've learned my lesson. So:
After the Thursday night drunken face sucking fest, I was kinda tired, so I spent most of Friday finishing up some Christmas shopping and napping. In the evening I got a call from MrSteve. "I was thinking about heading up to Tai's. Want to meet me up there?" My liver screamed NO! but my mouth said yes, so off I mosied to go meet Steve.
A word about MrSteve: MrSteve is such on here because that's how he labeled himself when he started leaving comments. In real life he's just "Steve". MrSteve is also a real person. He appears when "Steve" is mixed with "too much alcohol". I like Steve; he's smart and funny and way more cynical than me, which is an accomplishment. But I also like MrSteve, because man, that dude is nuts.
Steve had been at a party previous to showing up at Tai's, and at that party, Steve had been drinking wine. And then scotch. He continued with the hard liquor at the bar, and so it was that MrSteve came to be in the hizz-ouse.
Shortly after my arrival, there arrived another batch of girls and then the Honda. Apparently Steve had been a busy little socialite, because every girl in there had shown up after a phone call from Steve. "Wow, it's like you have your own harem," I told him.
"Not quite a harem, but I am responsible for all these girls being here."
"See? All the girls love you!"
Drunk Steve looked around and then, satisfied with his accomplishment, announced "HA! And my friends think I have no friends."
Which made no sense, and so I said, "That makes no sense."
A long pause while he combed through his last sentence for possible errors. And then he burst into side-splitting, almost maniacal laughter. MrSteve had arrived.
A midget in a cowboy hat had also arrived. (This is why I love Tai's. You can't make up stuff better than this.) He was very outgoing and friendly, playing the jukebox and dancing - he may have shot some pool too I think, but my memory of him is a tad hazy because I was doing that thing where you're staring at someone while trying not to look at them. I'm horrible, I know. The one thing I do remember about him was that he was a dancing freak. He danced with just about every girl in the place. The best was when he danced with a former regular whom I'll call Tall Cool Woman. She's over 6 feet tall, the midget came up to about her knee cap, AND she had the privilege of wearing his cowboy hat whilst they cut a rug.
While MrSteve was off entertaining Honda and the womenfolk, I found myself in a conversation with a complete jackass who simply would not go away. Our conversation went like this (but longer):
jackassguy: Do you hate men?
me: What???
jag: I mean, are you into men, or do you hate men?
me: Well, I don't really like to generalize...
jag: I'm Brian.
me: OK. Hi.
jag: Hi.
me: (trying to find something else to look at so he'll go away)
jag: I'm really shy.
me: Yeah, you seem it.
jag: No I am. I'm shy. I'm Brian.
me: I think you mentioned that.
jag: Where's your boyfriend?
me: Boyfriend? I don't have one.
jag: Why don't you have a boyfriend? Are you not into guys?
me: I believe we covered this already.
jag: Huh?
me: I already answered that.
jag: Oh. I'm shy.
me: Right.
jag:I'm Brian.
me: I know, I heard.
jag: Really? Where's your boyfriend?
me: You know what Brian? I'm kind of getting tired of this conversation.
jag: Why isn't your boyfriend fucking the shit out of you right now?
me: Uh...
jag: Do you like guys? Or are you just not into guys?
me: Dude, I really think you should find someone else to talk to. Seriously.
jag: I can't; I'm shy. Why don't you like guys?
me: Brian! Listen to me. I am done talking to you now. Please go away. This conversation is annoying.
FINALLY he went away. The bartender was leaning against the counter with his arms crossed watching this entire exchange and laughing at me. I glared at him. "Uh huh, laugh it up. Thanks for saving me, asshole. You're a dick."
"BWHAHAHA, that was fuckin FUNNY! Hey, and while you were talking to that guy, you didn't notice, but the midget was standing next to you staring at you. He was waiting to hit on you. But that guy talked so long he gave up. That was so fucking funny!"
In the interim, MrSteve had returned from wherever he was. He had his coat on and was almost out of scotch. Also he had the expression of a homicidal maniac on his face. "They tell me MrSteve is about."
"Yes, I can see that."
"How can you tell?"
"well, you're all squinty. And you're gesturing a lot."
"I'm emphatic."
"Yes."
"You can tell I'm loaded because I squint and I'm emphatic."
"Right. MrSteve: squinty and emphatic."
"Am I making monster faces?"
"Yes."
He laughed spastically and finished off his drink. "I think I'm going now before I get myself into trouble." I told him I thought that was a good idea, hugged and kissed him goodbye and he walked away (emphatically).
I figured with Steve gone, there was no point in hanging around, so I finished my beer, used the latrine and said my goodbyes. I got home around 3:00 am, went to bed and fell right to sleep.
At 3:30 my phone rudely announces that I've received a text message. Lo and behold, it's from Steve. "You left without saying goodbye." This confuses me, because he'd made a huge deal out of saying goodbye, so I text back, "I thought you left." "No. Leaving now. I would not have left without saying goodbye." What a spazz, I think to myself. "You DID say goodbye. That's why I thought you left." "I did? I don't remember that. I'm drunk!"
Ah, the squinty and emphatic MrSteve.
After the Thursday night drunken face sucking fest, I was kinda tired, so I spent most of Friday finishing up some Christmas shopping and napping. In the evening I got a call from MrSteve. "I was thinking about heading up to Tai's. Want to meet me up there?" My liver screamed NO! but my mouth said yes, so off I mosied to go meet Steve.
A word about MrSteve: MrSteve is such on here because that's how he labeled himself when he started leaving comments. In real life he's just "Steve". MrSteve is also a real person. He appears when "Steve" is mixed with "too much alcohol". I like Steve; he's smart and funny and way more cynical than me, which is an accomplishment. But I also like MrSteve, because man, that dude is nuts.
Steve had been at a party previous to showing up at Tai's, and at that party, Steve had been drinking wine. And then scotch. He continued with the hard liquor at the bar, and so it was that MrSteve came to be in the hizz-ouse.
Shortly after my arrival, there arrived another batch of girls and then the Honda. Apparently Steve had been a busy little socialite, because every girl in there had shown up after a phone call from Steve. "Wow, it's like you have your own harem," I told him.
"Not quite a harem, but I am responsible for all these girls being here."
"See? All the girls love you!"
Drunk Steve looked around and then, satisfied with his accomplishment, announced "HA! And my friends think I have no friends."
Which made no sense, and so I said, "That makes no sense."
A long pause while he combed through his last sentence for possible errors. And then he burst into side-splitting, almost maniacal laughter. MrSteve had arrived.
A midget in a cowboy hat had also arrived. (This is why I love Tai's. You can't make up stuff better than this.) He was very outgoing and friendly, playing the jukebox and dancing - he may have shot some pool too I think, but my memory of him is a tad hazy because I was doing that thing where you're staring at someone while trying not to look at them. I'm horrible, I know. The one thing I do remember about him was that he was a dancing freak. He danced with just about every girl in the place. The best was when he danced with a former regular whom I'll call Tall Cool Woman. She's over 6 feet tall, the midget came up to about her knee cap, AND she had the privilege of wearing his cowboy hat whilst they cut a rug.
While MrSteve was off entertaining Honda and the womenfolk, I found myself in a conversation with a complete jackass who simply would not go away. Our conversation went like this (but longer):
jackassguy: Do you hate men?
me: What???
jag: I mean, are you into men, or do you hate men?
me: Well, I don't really like to generalize...
jag: I'm Brian.
me: OK. Hi.
jag: Hi.
me: (trying to find something else to look at so he'll go away)
jag: I'm really shy.
me: Yeah, you seem it.
jag: No I am. I'm shy. I'm Brian.
me: I think you mentioned that.
jag: Where's your boyfriend?
me: Boyfriend? I don't have one.
jag: Why don't you have a boyfriend? Are you not into guys?
me: I believe we covered this already.
jag: Huh?
me: I already answered that.
jag: Oh. I'm shy.
me: Right.
jag:I'm Brian.
me: I know, I heard.
jag: Really? Where's your boyfriend?
me: You know what Brian? I'm kind of getting tired of this conversation.
jag: Why isn't your boyfriend fucking the shit out of you right now?
me: Uh...
jag: Do you like guys? Or are you just not into guys?
me: Dude, I really think you should find someone else to talk to. Seriously.
jag: I can't; I'm shy. Why don't you like guys?
me: Brian! Listen to me. I am done talking to you now. Please go away. This conversation is annoying.
FINALLY he went away. The bartender was leaning against the counter with his arms crossed watching this entire exchange and laughing at me. I glared at him. "Uh huh, laugh it up. Thanks for saving me, asshole. You're a dick."
"BWHAHAHA, that was fuckin FUNNY! Hey, and while you were talking to that guy, you didn't notice, but the midget was standing next to you staring at you. He was waiting to hit on you. But that guy talked so long he gave up. That was so fucking funny!"
In the interim, MrSteve had returned from wherever he was. He had his coat on and was almost out of scotch. Also he had the expression of a homicidal maniac on his face. "They tell me MrSteve is about."
"Yes, I can see that."
"How can you tell?"
"well, you're all squinty. And you're gesturing a lot."
"I'm emphatic."
"Yes."
"You can tell I'm loaded because I squint and I'm emphatic."
"Right. MrSteve: squinty and emphatic."
"Am I making monster faces?"
"Yes."
He laughed spastically and finished off his drink. "I think I'm going now before I get myself into trouble." I told him I thought that was a good idea, hugged and kissed him goodbye and he walked away (emphatically).
I figured with Steve gone, there was no point in hanging around, so I finished my beer, used the latrine and said my goodbyes. I got home around 3:00 am, went to bed and fell right to sleep.
At 3:30 my phone rudely announces that I've received a text message. Lo and behold, it's from Steve. "You left without saying goodbye." This confuses me, because he'd made a huge deal out of saying goodbye, so I text back, "I thought you left." "No. Leaving now. I would not have left without saying goodbye." What a spazz, I think to myself. "You DID say goodbye. That's why I thought you left." "I did? I don't remember that. I'm drunk!"
Ah, the squinty and emphatic MrSteve.
Wednesday, January 04, 2006
A Long December
K, sorry. I suck at posting as of late. First I had nothing going on to write about, then I had too much going on to have time to write, and now...well now I'm just being fucking lazy. Cryp took a break from feeding his monkeys long enough to leave me a comment, so I figured the least I could do was get off my ass and catch everyone up (for the record, darling, my new buzzy works GREAT *wink*).
It seems I got off track right around Christmas week. This is because I spent most of it inside the warm and comforting embrace of the Tais Til 4 establishment and you all know how that goes. Normally, as you know, I would only imbibe at said establishment on Thursday night, but Christmas week does not qualify as normal circumstances. We kicked off the week on Monday night with a little party called, depending on who you ask, A Very Bosco Christmas (named for the moderately ancient, exceptionally caustic, and frequently alcoholed Japanese bartender who happens to open that night) or Honda's Holiday Cocktail Hour (named for the slightly less ancient, equally caustic, hysterical-when-alcoholed Japanese local talent who happens to voice everything from the PA system for the world champion Chicago White Sox to my late night dreams when I fall asleep watching public television). It was very cold out that night and I was tired and tried to get out of it, but the bartender and MrSteve shamed me into going. I was glad I did or I would have missed the evening's most hysterical feature: The Sue Johanson Grab Bag.
Sue Johanson, for those who don't watch the Oxygen Network at midnight, is the host of the show Talk Sex with Sue Johanson. She is about 179 years old and very in your face with the sex advice, which is both funny and disturbing being that she's 179 years old. Sue had nothing actually to do with the bag; it was just a bunch of novelty sex shop items Honda had picked up from somewhere (his sock drawer? It's hard to say). For the girls, there was an assortment of little vibrators and penis tipped pens. The vibrators required various sized batteries, none of which were provided, though for some reason, Bosco had a selection of appropriately sized batteries to hand out to the masses. There were two gifts for the boys. TeacherBoy received a pack of nudie playing cards ("LESBIAN nudie playing cards!" specified the bartender when I asked what was going on on the other end of the bar. (Which was actually not true, they were girl on girl nudie cards, and if you don't know the difference you obviously need to watch more porn.)). And MrSteve was completely unimpressed with his grab bag prize, a pocket pussy. Unimpressed and unamused. So much so that the guy who ended up with it was, um, me. I named her Sexy Sadie and with the help of Hot Heather, I am currently testing to see what objects she can handle having shoved up in there (results to be posted soon).
Tuesday night was the Tai's staff Christmas party, and while I'm not technically on the staff, I do have a tendency to paint walls in there and collect empty glasses or clean up spills on the pool table if I'm in late on a weekend, so the owner graciously invited me. We had dinner at Graziano's, which was fantastic, and exchanged presents in the gift swap (I received a t-shirt from The Alley from the bartender which reads "Fuck Christmas" and depicts a drunk Santa screwing a reindeer, who in turn is happily puffing a fat cigar). We then went bar hopping. Bar hopping with the owner is a dangerous thing, because he is an evil man bent on getting everyone blitzed beyond the point of reasonableness. We started at Augie's which was DECKED THE FUCK OUT for Christmas. My jaw hit the floor when I walked in. Huge displays of snowmen and reindeer lit up in the windows, a train running in circles along the ceiling, and behind the bar a Christmas village with literally 80 buildings running the entire length of the counter in front of the bottles. I half expected them to have found a way to make real snow fall from the ceiling. I hardly drank anything there because I couldn't get my mouth closed long enough to swallow my beer. From there we went to Lange's which was much quieter and barely Christmased up at all, but due to the lack of crowd my stealth failed me and the owner ended up tequila shotting me half to death. After a brief trip to Tai's I headed briefly for home, until a call from the bartender caused me to get back out of bed to haul his drunk ass home from Nick's Uptown.
Wednesday night I took a break.
Thursday night at Tai's was still on, and so I headed up there for the usual. Unfortunately, it was not the usual. Cap headed up early and shortly after his entrance there arrived a drunk. "Shots all around, and then I'm leaving!" announced the random drunk. "I'm on my home and trying to hit every bar on the way and buy everyone a shot. I'm fucking Santa Claus!" Later on Hot Heather showed up, and there was much rejoicing. Not so much from her coming in, because she does that, but because of our decision to make out like porn stars while the world looked on. This also earned us some more shots. Before I knew it, the lights were on, the staff was restocking the bar and Heather was rocking on her feet moaning about dropping her phone in the toilet and she has to go home. She was in no condition to go home, so instead I took her to my place and tucked her in on the couch. Around 11 the next morning the office called wondering where I was. Um.
Since I wasn't going home for Christmas, the owner had invited me over Sunday for prime rib and football. I had also been invited to Hot Heather's place, but as I had promised to loan the bartender my car to visit his mom in Galena, I decided to walk to the owner's place.
Now it may come as a surprise to you, but I sort of have a thing for the bartender. You're stunned, I know. But the bartender has no interest whatsoever, and so I've been relegated to eternal friend status for all eternity. Despite this, I had kind of been hoping to get an invite out to Galena for the holiday. The owner knew this and took to dropping hints on my behalf, not because he's such a nice guy, but because he knows the bartender gets uncomfortable with the whole "what's with you and Amber?" thing and thought it would be hilarious. This seemed to not really work, and so by Christmas Eve I was resigned to football and prime rib (a huge sacrifice, I know). That night I called the bartender to wish him happy birthday and confirm the hour at which he'd be retrieving the car, and it was at that late date that he announced his MOM didn't want me sitting at home by myself on Christmas and had invited me to Christmas dinner at her house. And since I'm stupid, I went. I had a good time, his sister is always a riot and his mom makes a fine ham, but dude, you know?
After Galena we stopped over at the owner's place, where I did get to sample the scrumptious prime rib after all, and of course, down to Tai's for a drink.
So that pretty much catches you up to speed, other than a drunken New Years party at Gongolas where I sadly kissed no one at midnight and did not hook up, though I did work on keeping the kitchen reasonably straightened up and rescued a coffee table from drowning.
Viva 2006!
It seems I got off track right around Christmas week. This is because I spent most of it inside the warm and comforting embrace of the Tais Til 4 establishment and you all know how that goes. Normally, as you know, I would only imbibe at said establishment on Thursday night, but Christmas week does not qualify as normal circumstances. We kicked off the week on Monday night with a little party called, depending on who you ask, A Very Bosco Christmas (named for the moderately ancient, exceptionally caustic, and frequently alcoholed Japanese bartender who happens to open that night) or Honda's Holiday Cocktail Hour (named for the slightly less ancient, equally caustic, hysterical-when-alcoholed Japanese local talent who happens to voice everything from the PA system for the world champion Chicago White Sox to my late night dreams when I fall asleep watching public television). It was very cold out that night and I was tired and tried to get out of it, but the bartender and MrSteve shamed me into going. I was glad I did or I would have missed the evening's most hysterical feature: The Sue Johanson Grab Bag.
Sue Johanson, for those who don't watch the Oxygen Network at midnight, is the host of the show Talk Sex with Sue Johanson. She is about 179 years old and very in your face with the sex advice, which is both funny and disturbing being that she's 179 years old. Sue had nothing actually to do with the bag; it was just a bunch of novelty sex shop items Honda had picked up from somewhere (his sock drawer? It's hard to say). For the girls, there was an assortment of little vibrators and penis tipped pens. The vibrators required various sized batteries, none of which were provided, though for some reason, Bosco had a selection of appropriately sized batteries to hand out to the masses. There were two gifts for the boys. TeacherBoy received a pack of nudie playing cards ("LESBIAN nudie playing cards!" specified the bartender when I asked what was going on on the other end of the bar. (Which was actually not true, they were girl on girl nudie cards, and if you don't know the difference you obviously need to watch more porn.)). And MrSteve was completely unimpressed with his grab bag prize, a pocket pussy. Unimpressed and unamused. So much so that the guy who ended up with it was, um, me. I named her Sexy Sadie and with the help of Hot Heather, I am currently testing to see what objects she can handle having shoved up in there (results to be posted soon).
Tuesday night was the Tai's staff Christmas party, and while I'm not technically on the staff, I do have a tendency to paint walls in there and collect empty glasses or clean up spills on the pool table if I'm in late on a weekend, so the owner graciously invited me. We had dinner at Graziano's, which was fantastic, and exchanged presents in the gift swap (I received a t-shirt from The Alley from the bartender which reads "Fuck Christmas" and depicts a drunk Santa screwing a reindeer, who in turn is happily puffing a fat cigar). We then went bar hopping. Bar hopping with the owner is a dangerous thing, because he is an evil man bent on getting everyone blitzed beyond the point of reasonableness. We started at Augie's which was DECKED THE FUCK OUT for Christmas. My jaw hit the floor when I walked in. Huge displays of snowmen and reindeer lit up in the windows, a train running in circles along the ceiling, and behind the bar a Christmas village with literally 80 buildings running the entire length of the counter in front of the bottles. I half expected them to have found a way to make real snow fall from the ceiling. I hardly drank anything there because I couldn't get my mouth closed long enough to swallow my beer. From there we went to Lange's which was much quieter and barely Christmased up at all, but due to the lack of crowd my stealth failed me and the owner ended up tequila shotting me half to death. After a brief trip to Tai's I headed briefly for home, until a call from the bartender caused me to get back out of bed to haul his drunk ass home from Nick's Uptown.
Wednesday night I took a break.
Thursday night at Tai's was still on, and so I headed up there for the usual. Unfortunately, it was not the usual. Cap headed up early and shortly after his entrance there arrived a drunk. "Shots all around, and then I'm leaving!" announced the random drunk. "I'm on my home and trying to hit every bar on the way and buy everyone a shot. I'm fucking Santa Claus!" Later on Hot Heather showed up, and there was much rejoicing. Not so much from her coming in, because she does that, but because of our decision to make out like porn stars while the world looked on. This also earned us some more shots. Before I knew it, the lights were on, the staff was restocking the bar and Heather was rocking on her feet moaning about dropping her phone in the toilet and she has to go home. She was in no condition to go home, so instead I took her to my place and tucked her in on the couch. Around 11 the next morning the office called wondering where I was. Um.
Since I wasn't going home for Christmas, the owner had invited me over Sunday for prime rib and football. I had also been invited to Hot Heather's place, but as I had promised to loan the bartender my car to visit his mom in Galena, I decided to walk to the owner's place.
Now it may come as a surprise to you, but I sort of have a thing for the bartender. You're stunned, I know. But the bartender has no interest whatsoever, and so I've been relegated to eternal friend status for all eternity. Despite this, I had kind of been hoping to get an invite out to Galena for the holiday. The owner knew this and took to dropping hints on my behalf, not because he's such a nice guy, but because he knows the bartender gets uncomfortable with the whole "what's with you and Amber?" thing and thought it would be hilarious. This seemed to not really work, and so by Christmas Eve I was resigned to football and prime rib (a huge sacrifice, I know). That night I called the bartender to wish him happy birthday and confirm the hour at which he'd be retrieving the car, and it was at that late date that he announced his MOM didn't want me sitting at home by myself on Christmas and had invited me to Christmas dinner at her house. And since I'm stupid, I went. I had a good time, his sister is always a riot and his mom makes a fine ham, but dude, you know?
After Galena we stopped over at the owner's place, where I did get to sample the scrumptious prime rib after all, and of course, down to Tai's for a drink.
So that pretty much catches you up to speed, other than a drunken New Years party at Gongolas where I sadly kissed no one at midnight and did not hook up, though I did work on keeping the kitchen reasonably straightened up and rescued a coffee table from drowning.
Viva 2006!
Thursday, December 15, 2005
I Am Very Suave
Last night after work I went shopping at Cupid's Treasure. Cupid's Treasure, if you aren't from here and can't guess by the name, is a sex toy shop. Actually shop isn't even the right word, but we'll get to that.
I had multiple reasons to go there. First and foremost, I was on a mission to replace some of my vibrators that had broken because they were of poor quality*. Also, I was shopping for a birthday gift for a friend. Incidentally, I think everyone should have at least one friend where it is totally normal to buy them something from a sex store in a completely serious non-gag gift sort of way.
But I digress.
I had never been to Cupid's Treasure so I looked it up on Citysearch, which immediately filled me with trepidation. Not because I'd never been in a sex store before, I mean, come on, it's me, but it just gave me the impression that these people were really serious and I feared I would look silly and not be anywhere near their league. Also I was a tad nervous going there by myself. It's counter intuitive to feel better buying masturbatory materials with someone else you know there watching you I realize, but you all know of my fear of talking to people thing and God forbid I need to ask a question of someone whose league I am clearly not in.
Cupid's Treasure is in Boystown, and I'm rarely out that far east, so rather than roll the dice on trying to find a parking space, I just parked by Brandon's and walked. Halfway there I started to feel this was maybe a mistake. Or rather the mistake was in asking my stepmother for a bright red dress coat for winter which makes me completely stand out against all the other people dressed in logical neutral winter tones. LOOK AT ME, my coat seemed to scream, LOOK AT THE GIRL IN THE RED COAT GOING SHOPPING FOR SEX TOYS! Also I decided that wearing a red coat made me a target for muggers for some reason, and I was sore afraid.
At least until I turned on Halstead, because there I was greeted with the ginormous rainbow fallacies lining the streets that signify one has arrived in Boystown. This made me feel better because everyone knows that all gay people are really friendly and nice and so could not possibly be purse snatchers or the like.
"Cupid's Treasure" blinked up at me in red neon lights from across the street and I was instantly nervous again. I had two fears: 1) that the people outside the shop would think I was a sick disgusting pervert for going in and 2) that the people inside the store were going to think I was a completely naive little prude. But I had already come this far so I sacked it up and went inside.
Holy crap. I have never seen such an arsenal of plastic penis in all my life. It's not a shop so much as an emporium. Clevelanders, Ambiance and the like are total amateur hour compared to this place. It's humongus. As are some of the dildos I saw, several of which were literally as big around as a football. I really didn't get that because it seemed like it would be much cheaper to just go and buy a football. There is also a whole room, a really big room, stacked floor to ceiling with porn. I wasn't in the market for porn yesterday so I skipped that room, but I'll be back. Oh yes, I will be back. It could also double as a Halloween store because they had costumes for just about any type of person you might want to fuck. It caused me to decide that one thing I really needs is stockings and really, how have I survived without them? So I'll be back for those too.
The two things I was looking for I found with surprising ease, considering how much crap there was to sort through. It was almost as if I was drawn to exactly what I needed by some unseen sexual force. So I didn't have to ask for any store assistance, thankfully, and also I had tons of time to just wander around and take it all in. They have, like, everything there. I found myself thinking "ooh, I'll have to come back for that" and "interesting, but I'm really quite confident that I will never need nipple clamps". I was like kid in a candy store, or an adult in a sex toy store, which is in fact what I was.
Tearing myself away from my browsing, I went to pay for my items where the cashier guy stood looking completely bored, as if he had built up some kind of plastic penis tolerance or something. And I was totally cool handing him my stuff and paying for it. I was even cool when he opened one thing to put batteries in it and make sure it worked, and the sound of the vibrations on the countertop was loud enough to fill the entire store. He packed all my things in a discreetly unmarked black plastic bag and sent me on my way. I was cool right up until I turned back at the door and announced, "I love it in here!", but thankfully he just said that was wonderful and I should come back soon.
So yeah, totally painless and I was very mature almost the whole time. I was even kind of sad that my bag didn't scream Cupid's Treasures because suddenly I wanted everyone I passed to know how mature and confident in my sexuality I am. I then immediately suppressed that thought because what if some muggers came and stole my new penises? I then began to wonder if maybe I have some type of anxiety disorder I should see a professional about.
*because I might have gotten into the habit of clenching the cord in my fist, and I may have done that so frequently that I frayed the wires inside.
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.
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