Things that make me feel like a loser because I giggle about them, and come on, that’s gay.
1. My bed. Ok, so it’s not my bed, really. Maybe we better back up.
Actually, no, I don’t want to back up, that would take too long and be complicated. Plus the beep-beep-beeping that starts when I back up is annoying. Instead I will just describe to you the situation as it now stands.
A. My bed is big
I am used to sleeping on a twin sized bed. Now I am sleeping on a Queen. When you are 6’6”, and used to your ankles hanging off the foot of the bed (in danger of monsters! Hello!), this makes a big difference. Now I can lie diagonally, I can switch positions in the middle of the night, I can sleep on top of four or seven pillows… I churn around in my new digs like a pig in a mudhole. Seriously, that’s the best description—I roll around, covering myself with the softness, and grunt with pleasure. Also, a pig’s orgasm can last for half an hour, so there’s that.
B. My bed is soft and comfortable
Maybe this item is more about the fact that my old bed sucked. Because it was hard. I kept telling myself that real men liked a firmer mattress, that it was actually good for a heavier body, that it actually massaged me because it was hard and knobby. Yeah, that was bullshit. You know why I thought that? Because of those stupid Sleep Number commercials—you know what I’m talking about, when the girl always says “I like my bed nice and soft—about a 41!” and the guy’s all “I’m pretty tough. I’m rugged. Do you see my stubble? That’s why I like an 87 sleep number.” They’re like the bears from Goldilocks—the girl’s Baby Bear, the guy’s Papa Bear. Well, after years of deluding myself that I could be like Papa Bear too, I quit. And guess what? I’m not even Goldilocks with the medium-softness bed, I’m just another Baby Bear. I like a soft bed. Bite me.
C. My bed has sheets
Yeah, I went to college. College doesn’t do sheets. Let me rephrase: grungy college guys don’t do sheets. Fine, get grossed out. Get disgusted. Cry me a river, build a bridge and get over it.
Anyway, I sleep about ten hours a night. It’s fantastic. It’s dangerously good.
On Tuesday night, I had Stephen Colbert’s “I am America” and Dean Koontz’s “Cold Fire,” climbing into bed at about 7:15 and I was giggling. I started bouncing on my butt while I got into bed, with gutty “hee hee hees” bursting out. I was ecstatic. I crawled around the bed in a circle like a dog marking his territory, laughing and laughing by myself, then I reared up on my knees and cast myself backwards onto the pillows, laughing and sighing and snuggling my face into the pillowcase. It was weird.
2. Eli Stone. Dude, that show is a delight to watch. It warmed my cockles so much, I almost burned my cockles. It was like cockle-fever. It was like hot-cockle-mania. If you don’t watch the show yet, this is a great time to start, for real. You’ve only missed three or four episodes, and it’s about to refresh anyway. New beginnings. So get in on the ground floor bitches. It’s right after LOST anyway, so you can’t miss it.
The writing is great, the hallucinations are hilarious, but what really makes it is the acting job of Johnny Lee Miller. He’s funny, sure, but also relatable. The heartbreaky plot elements might be contrived, but when he gets that look on his face at the beginning of one of those visions, you just want to be there to see what he’s seeing. And thanks to the wonder of television, you can. The best documentary in years.
That didn’t make sense to you did it? That’s because you’re not enlightened. Get with it. Eli Stone.
Oh, I almost forgot, the plotlines and dialogue are ridiculously liberal—I mean way out there leftist, throwing in Bush-hating blah when it doesn’t even make sense. But I excuse this because the show doesn’t take itself too seriously and everyone knows everything they say is a fantasy.
It might be sort of anti-Catholic, but in an honest, ignorant way: they make the priest who messed up the annulment really nice. Then again, he did mess up the annulment. No one told the writers that priests can’t up and declare annulments; that’s a bishop’s job. So don’t get nitpicky with it; it’s a flight of fancy, and it’s fun. God wants you to watch.
3. This limerick. This limerick is by far the best I’ve ever seen. Perfectly perversely, doubly irreverent — to politeness, to the form of the limerick, to prudeness and to crudeness.
There was a young lady from Bude
When swimming one day, in a lake
A man in a punt
Stuck an oar in her ear
And said You cant swim here it's dangerous!
And there you have it. Three things that really made me giggle so much I was almost ashamed. Like Julianne Hough style.
Oh that reminds me, Kristy Lee Cook from American Idol. She’s in this category too. I guess I’ll have to get back to her some other time. But hear this now, and remember it: Kristy Lee Cook is going to win American Idol. Take it to the bank. If she doesn’t, it will be the greatest miscarriage of justice since Sale and Pelletier had to share their gold medal with the dirty Ruskis.
I’ll be glad to get this up, and push the drama down the page. It has it’s place, sure, but it’s kind of boring, and it’s better not to get bogged down in it. Have it out and be done, that’s what I say. Just like good bowel movements and pig orgasms. Have a good weekend, y’all.
Friday, February 29, 2008
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Why can't we be friends? Why can't we be friends?
Yesterday, a blogger from my sidebar requested to be my friend on Facebook. Yes, that means my real Facebook profile with my real name, which has the title of my real job and place of employment on it. Blogging identity and real identity, right? And never the twain shall meet?
Well, this blogger who requested my friendship was cheating! He was messing with the system. That was my second reaction. My first was “oh, how nice.” Third came “how did she do that?” Turns out he had found me using Facebook’s friend-finder, because I had left the same email address for both my Facebook and my blog.
Some of the loose ends were easy enough to tie up. I changed my Facebook email straightaway. Done and done. From now on, no one who reads my blog will find me through Facebook.
But the whole ordeal (or experience, or whatever) made me think about a few things, especially if I decide to accept the friendship, which I am inclined to do (but haven’t yet).
I know my Facebook friends, and they are really my friends. I get a lot of friend requests that I turn down from people I know, or people I’ve met. Sorry, you’re not my friend, so that’s it.
So what if one of my friends sees this blogger friend, or some post she writes on my wall, and asks “who is that?” Well, um… well. My friend? Is he?
Because when we get down to it, what is my relationship with the people who read my blog? With people whose blogs I read? Why do I write, for myself or for them? Why do I read, for them or for myself? Do I count any of them my friends?
Well, I read for entertainment. My “care factor” is pretty small.
Let me put it this way: let’s say Random Blogger A that I read is trying to get into architectural school, right? Sure, I want him to get in from basic philanthropic motives. But I also want the one with the best story. And if getting rejected is a better story, I won’t tear my hair out about it.
At the same time, of course, I don’t know which will make the better story beforehand, so it’s easy to root for “my guys.” Go y’all. Hope you get that promotion, hope your mom doesn’t die from cancer. I really do.
But you’re not my friends. You’re just different than that. My friends are people I’ve met, hung out with, conversed with face to face over and over again. You guys are just a bunch of people who are smart and usually cool and sometimes have a modicum of morality to you.
You know how I figured out my answer to this whole question? I thought about whether it would bother me how other bloggers answered it. And it wouldn’t.
Some of you might classify me as a friend. That’d be cool. Some of you might not. That wouldn’t really bother me.
For me, it’s just a matter of definition. My friends are a very specific thing. You all are something else. It’s a cool something else, but it is something else.
I’ve heard some people use the word “freaders.” Fine, I guess. Maybe that works. But for me, friends doesn’t.
So, what about for you? Does it matter to you what I think about this? What do you think? Can we still be friends? I mean, no wait…
Well, this blogger who requested my friendship was cheating! He was messing with the system. That was my second reaction. My first was “oh, how nice.” Third came “how did she do that?” Turns out he had found me using Facebook’s friend-finder, because I had left the same email address for both my Facebook and my blog.
Some of the loose ends were easy enough to tie up. I changed my Facebook email straightaway. Done and done. From now on, no one who reads my blog will find me through Facebook.
But the whole ordeal (or experience, or whatever) made me think about a few things, especially if I decide to accept the friendship, which I am inclined to do (but haven’t yet).
I know my Facebook friends, and they are really my friends. I get a lot of friend requests that I turn down from people I know, or people I’ve met. Sorry, you’re not my friend, so that’s it.
So what if one of my friends sees this blogger friend, or some post she writes on my wall, and asks “who is that?” Well, um… well. My friend? Is he?
Because when we get down to it, what is my relationship with the people who read my blog? With people whose blogs I read? Why do I write, for myself or for them? Why do I read, for them or for myself? Do I count any of them my friends?
Well, I read for entertainment. My “care factor” is pretty small.
Let me put it this way: let’s say Random Blogger A that I read is trying to get into architectural school, right? Sure, I want him to get in from basic philanthropic motives. But I also want the one with the best story. And if getting rejected is a better story, I won’t tear my hair out about it.
At the same time, of course, I don’t know which will make the better story beforehand, so it’s easy to root for “my guys.” Go y’all. Hope you get that promotion, hope your mom doesn’t die from cancer. I really do.
But you’re not my friends. You’re just different than that. My friends are people I’ve met, hung out with, conversed with face to face over and over again. You guys are just a bunch of people who are smart and usually cool and sometimes have a modicum of morality to you.
You know how I figured out my answer to this whole question? I thought about whether it would bother me how other bloggers answered it. And it wouldn’t.
Some of you might classify me as a friend. That’d be cool. Some of you might not. That wouldn’t really bother me.
For me, it’s just a matter of definition. My friends are a very specific thing. You all are something else. It’s a cool something else, but it is something else.
I’ve heard some people use the word “freaders.” Fine, I guess. Maybe that works. But for me, friends doesn’t.
So, what about for you? Does it matter to you what I think about this? What do you think? Can we still be friends? I mean, no wait…
Thursday, February 14, 2008
Real Romance
You know, Valentine's Day has become more and more commercialized in the last few years, and I think it's important to take a step back and try to remember what really makes this day special. On that note, I'd like to recounte a conversation I had yesterday, but first, here's a little something for you.
My mother slipped a little candy heart into my lunchbag before I left for work this morning. Isn't that sweet? I opened my sandwich bag, and it rolled out, a little pink one inscribed in red with "my pet." I smiled, popped it in my mouth, and then immediately stopped smiling and spit it out. Those things are disgusting. They taste like chalk laced with barf and battery acid. So I threw it away. But it was a nice gesture.
And I'd like to leave you with an example of real romance from Jake, a friend who's near and dear to me, and a really genuine guy. Also is smooth with the ladies. Yesterday he gave me a few tips as we chatted over facebook. And let me tell you, it's amazing to see him in action. The things he pulls off will boggle your mind.
Fort Knocks: A girl at work straight up told me I was getting fat when she saw me monday, and I think she might be right.
That, or my face was still puffy from my thunderous two-day San Francisco hangover.
Jake: I love girls who can be that blunt. The trick is finding one who can handle the same bluntness in return.
Go up to her and tell her "you should wear longer skirts, not because you look slutty, which by the way, you do, but because I don't want to stare at those monsterous calves all day."
If she says, "oh, shut up." or "shut the fuck up." she's no good.
But if she says "whatever, you know you like how my big fat tree stumps would complement your third and fourth chins" or "now don't you think my big butt would seem a tad out of place if i had had little twig legs?" and then either one followed with "but seriously, you have gained weight." then she might be worth making fun of more often, especially on a date setting.
Fort Knocks: You truly are the Confucius of the relationship.
Then when she says that, you raise your hand and make like you're going to hit her, but then at the last minute you stop, and just brush her hair lovingly. [yeah, I stole that one from Dan.]
Jake: Better yet you do hit her, but then tell her you didn't mean it and that she deserves so much more than you. Then you ask if you can take her out for dinner which is really just happy hour at Chili's.
Meanwhile you make sure your friends are there too, and then when you arrive, you act surprised and after brief introductions you ignore her completely.
The only time you talk to her is when you say "there you go" as you place another drink in front of her. Then after two hours you say "I'm gonna order some food, you want anything?"
Then you leave to the bathroom before she even responds.
She of course follows you to tell you that she has called her friend and is being picked up.
But before she can get that little tid-bit out, you grab her and give her a passionate make-out smooch by the bathroom door.
She steps back in confusion, and that's when you spring this little guy...
"I've been wanting to do that all night, you just look so cute sitting there putting up with my friends like that. I promise I'll make this up to you."
Then before she responds you tell her you'll be back in one sec and dart into the bathroom.
When you come out, you go back to your friends and pretend like that never happened.
Funny thing is, when you glance over at her, her eyes are locked on yours, and she keeps giving you little knowing smiles which you accept but do not reciprocate.
game over
Fort Knocks: You're right. It's a foolproof plan.
That, ladies and gentlemen, is what romance is about. And the girls eat it up, eat it right up, like graceful cattle at the trough of a strong man's love. Happy Valentine's Day, to all of you.
My mother slipped a little candy heart into my lunchbag before I left for work this morning. Isn't that sweet? I opened my sandwich bag, and it rolled out, a little pink one inscribed in red with "my pet." I smiled, popped it in my mouth, and then immediately stopped smiling and spit it out. Those things are disgusting. They taste like chalk laced with barf and battery acid. So I threw it away. But it was a nice gesture.
And I'd like to leave you with an example of real romance from Jake, a friend who's near and dear to me, and a really genuine guy. Also is smooth with the ladies. Yesterday he gave me a few tips as we chatted over facebook. And let me tell you, it's amazing to see him in action. The things he pulls off will boggle your mind.
Fort Knocks: A girl at work straight up told me I was getting fat when she saw me monday, and I think she might be right.
That, or my face was still puffy from my thunderous two-day San Francisco hangover.
Jake: I love girls who can be that blunt. The trick is finding one who can handle the same bluntness in return.
Go up to her and tell her "you should wear longer skirts, not because you look slutty, which by the way, you do, but because I don't want to stare at those monsterous calves all day."
If she says, "oh, shut up." or "shut the fuck up." she's no good.
But if she says "whatever, you know you like how my big fat tree stumps would complement your third and fourth chins" or "now don't you think my big butt would seem a tad out of place if i had had little twig legs?" and then either one followed with "but seriously, you have gained weight." then she might be worth making fun of more often, especially on a date setting.
Fort Knocks: You truly are the Confucius of the relationship.
Then when she says that, you raise your hand and make like you're going to hit her, but then at the last minute you stop, and just brush her hair lovingly. [yeah, I stole that one from Dan.]
Jake: Better yet you do hit her, but then tell her you didn't mean it and that she deserves so much more than you. Then you ask if you can take her out for dinner which is really just happy hour at Chili's.
Meanwhile you make sure your friends are there too, and then when you arrive, you act surprised and after brief introductions you ignore her completely.
The only time you talk to her is when you say "there you go" as you place another drink in front of her. Then after two hours you say "I'm gonna order some food, you want anything?"
Then you leave to the bathroom before she even responds.
She of course follows you to tell you that she has called her friend and is being picked up.
But before she can get that little tid-bit out, you grab her and give her a passionate make-out smooch by the bathroom door.
She steps back in confusion, and that's when you spring this little guy...
"I've been wanting to do that all night, you just look so cute sitting there putting up with my friends like that. I promise I'll make this up to you."
Then before she responds you tell her you'll be back in one sec and dart into the bathroom.
When you come out, you go back to your friends and pretend like that never happened.
Funny thing is, when you glance over at her, her eyes are locked on yours, and she keeps giving you little knowing smiles which you accept but do not reciprocate.
game over
Fort Knocks: You're right. It's a foolproof plan.
That, ladies and gentlemen, is what romance is about. And the girls eat it up, eat it right up, like graceful cattle at the trough of a strong man's love. Happy Valentine's Day, to all of you.
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
Dirty Sexy Updates
I'm sorry, but it's just not quite time yet to get to the talk about San Francisco. There are a couple other things I've got to run through.
Last night, I was drinking bourbon and flipping back and forth between The Biggest Loser and Big Brother (during the commercials of American Idol), and thought a couple things. The first thing I thought, I thought when the fatties on Biggest Loser started stripping for the weigh-in. Call me old-fashioned, but I don't really like looking at blubber, so I changed the channel... only to find a 23-year-old Douche-Captain saying about a 46-year-old housemate, "46, dude? She still looks GOOD. I'd hit that." Well, I had to think, why are all TV shows about gross people?
That was an easy one, of course. It's because we all like watching gross people and mentally wincing at how much grosser they are than we. Like the Real World. I love the Real World.
Then I flipped back to the Biggest Loser, started looking at blubber again, and had my second thought: "the phrase 'the bigger they are, the harder they fall' should really be 'the fatter they are, the harder they fall,' because don't fat people always hurt themselves when they fall?" Then I thought, "but then again, they've got all that fat for padding, so..." In case you couldn't tell by now, I drinking plenty of bourbon.
And all this drinking and thinking about falling got me to remember the last time I fell down when I was drinking. It was about a month ago, and after drinking at home, I had gone out to a bar until closing time, after which I had stopped by a party that my brother was at, after which I went back home with my cousin and played dance music and drank, after which we decided it would be good to head to his apartment for a nightcap. After which, fatefully, we decided we needed to go buy Tiger Woods for his X-Box 360. It was 6:30 am.
Immediately upon walking out his front door, I stepped on a patch of ice, skidded a little forward, caught my balance with a sharp pitch left, and then caught my toe on an uneven edge of sidewalk. I bit it, straight up bit it. Big tree fall hard.
I bounced slightly on my chin, took the brunt of the shot on my left eyebrow, bounced and skidded onto my right side and finished with scrapes covering my face, bleeding in a cascade over the left half of my face. So we kept going to the store.
When the cashier asked me, startled, "Are you ok?" I was quick with, "no, we just need to buy Tiger Woods."
I didn't say it was a good story.
Some people have been finding my blog with some interesting Google searches lately. The most recent:
(with my reactions)
1. why are you such a lush
I don't know. Is that a trick question?
2. defecating in bed –dog
True enough. Don't think I've ever defecated in bed WITH a dog.
3. dress up retarded men games
Or tell them it's the special olympics and make 'em run around?
4. am I retarded quiz
If you're Googling this, then yes, probably.
5. Julianne Hough scoring
I wish.
6. Pope undershirt
I think that's a sin to talk about, man.
7. Think like a retarded woman
Oh, if only we could.
8. feeling of car hair on tongue
?
9. but first, I would just like to get to know you
Great, because I usually don't put out on the 0th date.
10. Women are retarded
Well, that's not the best way to phrase it, but...
Also, in case you cared (I'm sure you didn't), I updoodled the layout over here. And the blogroll's updated too. If you don't thank me for adding you to that little pile of exclusivity and sexiness within two days, I'm going to kill you and never call you again.
Do we have to get more into it than that? Do I tell you every time I get a haircut? No, I don't. And that's why you think there's another woman. Well, maybe I just didn't remember, or I didn't think it was that important.
Or maybe there is another woman. And she's skinnier than you.
As Confucius said, "my philosophy in life is not to spend too much time fantasizing about old Jewish men."
Did you hear me say I like the Real World earlier? Because I don't.
Last night, I was drinking bourbon and flipping back and forth between The Biggest Loser and Big Brother (during the commercials of American Idol), and thought a couple things. The first thing I thought, I thought when the fatties on Biggest Loser started stripping for the weigh-in. Call me old-fashioned, but I don't really like looking at blubber, so I changed the channel... only to find a 23-year-old Douche-Captain saying about a 46-year-old housemate, "46, dude? She still looks GOOD. I'd hit that." Well, I had to think, why are all TV shows about gross people?
That was an easy one, of course. It's because we all like watching gross people and mentally wincing at how much grosser they are than we. Like the Real World. I love the Real World.
Then I flipped back to the Biggest Loser, started looking at blubber again, and had my second thought: "the phrase 'the bigger they are, the harder they fall' should really be 'the fatter they are, the harder they fall,' because don't fat people always hurt themselves when they fall?" Then I thought, "but then again, they've got all that fat for padding, so..." In case you couldn't tell by now, I drinking plenty of bourbon.
And all this drinking and thinking about falling got me to remember the last time I fell down when I was drinking. It was about a month ago, and after drinking at home, I had gone out to a bar until closing time, after which I had stopped by a party that my brother was at, after which I went back home with my cousin and played dance music and drank, after which we decided it would be good to head to his apartment for a nightcap. After which, fatefully, we decided we needed to go buy Tiger Woods for his X-Box 360. It was 6:30 am.
Immediately upon walking out his front door, I stepped on a patch of ice, skidded a little forward, caught my balance with a sharp pitch left, and then caught my toe on an uneven edge of sidewalk. I bit it, straight up bit it. Big tree fall hard.
I bounced slightly on my chin, took the brunt of the shot on my left eyebrow, bounced and skidded onto my right side and finished with scrapes covering my face, bleeding in a cascade over the left half of my face. So we kept going to the store.
When the cashier asked me, startled, "Are you ok?" I was quick with, "no, we just need to buy Tiger Woods."
I didn't say it was a good story.
Some people have been finding my blog with some interesting Google searches lately. The most recent:
(with my reactions)
1. why are you such a lush
I don't know. Is that a trick question?
2. defecating in bed –dog
True enough. Don't think I've ever defecated in bed WITH a dog.
3. dress up retarded men games
Or tell them it's the special olympics and make 'em run around?
4. am I retarded quiz
If you're Googling this, then yes, probably.
5. Julianne Hough scoring
I wish.
6. Pope undershirt
I think that's a sin to talk about, man.
7. Think like a retarded woman
Oh, if only we could.
8. feeling of car hair on tongue
?
9. but first, I would just like to get to know you
Great, because I usually don't put out on the 0th date.
10. Women are retarded
Well, that's not the best way to phrase it, but...
Also, in case you cared (I'm sure you didn't), I updoodled the layout over here. And the blogroll's updated too. If you don't thank me for adding you to that little pile of exclusivity and sexiness within two days, I'm going to kill you and never call you again.
Do we have to get more into it than that? Do I tell you every time I get a haircut? No, I don't. And that's why you think there's another woman. Well, maybe I just didn't remember, or I didn't think it was that important.
Or maybe there is another woman. And she's skinnier than you.
As Confucius said, "my philosophy in life is not to spend too much time fantasizing about old Jewish men."
Did you hear me say I like the Real World earlier? Because I don't.
Monday, February 11, 2008
Coming home from San Francisco
I went to San Francisco this weekend and it was a lot of fun. Tons of fun, actually.
But we're going to save all that talk about the past for another time. Now it's time for me to share with you my feelings on returning to Chicago.
1. When we embarked for the return flight in San Francisco, the sun was just starting to burn off all that Pacific Ocean haze, and the temperature was on its way up to about 68-70 degrees. When we landed in O'Hare International, the pilot was discombobulated for a second during his "Welcome to Chicago" speech, letting us know that "the skies are clear and the temperature is one... degrees, one degree, um." He should have just told us "welcome to Chicago, it's currently cold as balls, but it's too late to go back. I'm sorry." At least then we could have had a good laugh or cut his head off.
2. I don't think you understand how cold that was. It was cold. It was colder than climbing in a freezer to have a naked snowball fight with the White Witch. Within five minutes of stepping outside, I couldn't feel my feet, my nose had dual snotcicles, and I was crying. Well, I was trying to cry, but my tear ducts were frozen solid (which was cozy), and I was moaning out long, dry cough-sobs and rubbing my chattering-chapped face with the back of my sleeve. This succeeded in friction-melting my snot and grinding into my cheeks, which was both comfortable and attractive.
3. The combination of mild jet-lag, profound hangover and run-of-the-mill misery almost overwhelmed me at Mass last night, when I had to sit back during Communion like a damned Philistine. Then I realized I was probably just dizzy because I had smelled myself.
4. I dragged my ass into work today and learned the hopeful news that the temperature was going up. All the way to 11 degrees. Which was just enough for it to start snowing. We should get about 6 inches.
5. Yes, by the way, the ice cold car seat which sucked the heat from my pants, underpants and backside this morning was exceedingly comfortable, thanks for asking. I almost wish I had hemmorhoids so I could ice them soothingly on the way to work. How do I go about getting hemmorhoids? Is "achieving hemmorhoids" appropriate phraseology? Because I think I might as well achieve hemmorhoids.
6. Luckily, my mom had promised to get the oil changed on my car, which was overdue for it (my bad). Thank God for mom, right? Except she forgot to do that, whoops.
7. I plopped down on the toilet this afternoon at work to rub my frost-bitten ankles, relax for five minutes and, you know, plop down on the toilet. I was thrilled and excited that the man who came and stood outside the door had severe sinus congestion so that he didn't have to speak to let me know he was there and he had to get in. I tried to close my eyes and tune him out, but after a few violent mucusy snarls started getting closer and closer to the door, I gave up and got out of there.
Is that what you do, sir, when someone is in the bathroom and you have to go? Start off my sniffing loudly, mix in a noseblow and 3-5 stifled coughs and then just start hacking and snorting and yelling and wheezing? Doing those long-ass pretend-I'm-clearing-my-throat-but-I'm-really-just-screaming-hoarsely RIGHT OUTSIDE THE FUCKING BATHROOM DOOR?
8. I just made the mistake of checking weather.com for San Francisco weather, and it's 66 and sunny. Here it's 9. Welcome home.
Maybe I'll tell you about some of the good times next time. Right now they would feel like a lie.
But we're going to save all that talk about the past for another time. Now it's time for me to share with you my feelings on returning to Chicago.
1. When we embarked for the return flight in San Francisco, the sun was just starting to burn off all that Pacific Ocean haze, and the temperature was on its way up to about 68-70 degrees. When we landed in O'Hare International, the pilot was discombobulated for a second during his "Welcome to Chicago" speech, letting us know that "the skies are clear and the temperature is one... degrees, one degree, um." He should have just told us "welcome to Chicago, it's currently cold as balls, but it's too late to go back. I'm sorry." At least then we could have had a good laugh or cut his head off.
2. I don't think you understand how cold that was. It was cold. It was colder than climbing in a freezer to have a naked snowball fight with the White Witch. Within five minutes of stepping outside, I couldn't feel my feet, my nose had dual snotcicles, and I was crying. Well, I was trying to cry, but my tear ducts were frozen solid (which was cozy), and I was moaning out long, dry cough-sobs and rubbing my chattering-chapped face with the back of my sleeve. This succeeded in friction-melting my snot and grinding into my cheeks, which was both comfortable and attractive.
3. The combination of mild jet-lag, profound hangover and run-of-the-mill misery almost overwhelmed me at Mass last night, when I had to sit back during Communion like a damned Philistine. Then I realized I was probably just dizzy because I had smelled myself.
4. I dragged my ass into work today and learned the hopeful news that the temperature was going up. All the way to 11 degrees. Which was just enough for it to start snowing. We should get about 6 inches.
5. Yes, by the way, the ice cold car seat which sucked the heat from my pants, underpants and backside this morning was exceedingly comfortable, thanks for asking. I almost wish I had hemmorhoids so I could ice them soothingly on the way to work. How do I go about getting hemmorhoids? Is "achieving hemmorhoids" appropriate phraseology? Because I think I might as well achieve hemmorhoids.
6. Luckily, my mom had promised to get the oil changed on my car, which was overdue for it (my bad). Thank God for mom, right? Except she forgot to do that, whoops.
7. I plopped down on the toilet this afternoon at work to rub my frost-bitten ankles, relax for five minutes and, you know, plop down on the toilet. I was thrilled and excited that the man who came and stood outside the door had severe sinus congestion so that he didn't have to speak to let me know he was there and he had to get in. I tried to close my eyes and tune him out, but after a few violent mucusy snarls started getting closer and closer to the door, I gave up and got out of there.
Is that what you do, sir, when someone is in the bathroom and you have to go? Start off my sniffing loudly, mix in a noseblow and 3-5 stifled coughs and then just start hacking and snorting and yelling and wheezing? Doing those long-ass pretend-I'm-clearing-my-throat-but-I'm-really-just-screaming-hoarsely RIGHT OUTSIDE THE FUCKING BATHROOM DOOR?
8. I just made the mistake of checking weather.com for San Francisco weather, and it's 66 and sunny. Here it's 9. Welcome home.
Maybe I'll tell you about some of the good times next time. Right now they would feel like a lie.
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
My Super-Duperficial Contribution: In which I declare my love for deaf women—and they don’t hear me
So I was reading through what Carrie had to say, and enjoying her bit as part of the Deeply Superficial Blog-a-Thon over at South Dakota Dark.
And what can I say? I was inspired. I had to join in the fun. So let me get right down to it.
I’ve told you before how much I love the girl Laura from “The Good Shepherd,” but in case you’ve forgotten, I’ll sum it up for you now: I’m pretty sure that my feelings for Laura are the closest I’ve ever gotten to love.
I got more into it in the previous post, but it makes me nervous to talk about it—obviously, I mean, I’m in love with a person who isn’t real—so let’s just say that thinking about her makes my heart hurt, and leave it at that. What I didn’t mention is the fact that I’ve also got a thing for Marlee Matlin. You know, a big thing. Warm feelings of tenderness.
But I’ve got other crushes, too (Julianne Hough for one), which is why it took me a while to realize the obvious common factor that Laura and Marlee have in common: they’re both deaf. And I both dig it (or something).
So in the spirit of the hour, let’s delve into the superficial reasons why deaf girls get me hot and bothered.
Reason #1. They have that cute “accent.” Yeah, so maybe it’s more of a speech impediment, but let’s not split hairs. When Laura says “I luvf yoo, Edwuhd,” my sacrum gets all puddly. For some reason, deaf girls seem more sincere because they can’t really pronounce the letter R. Perhaps this smacks of innocence to me, of innocent charm and appeal. Because who can’t pronounce Rs? That’s right: sweet little children and sweet little deaf hotties.
Reason #2. They need you. Let’s face the fact: deaf people are disabled; disabled people need help; and everyone loves to be needed. So can I help it that I love the idea of a smoking hot broad who’s totally self-sufficient but still gives me the feeling that she needs me desperately? Can I? No, clearly, I cannot.
Reason #3. They can’t hear you talk shit about them. Anytime your hot deaf girlfriend turns her back, you can complain about how she burned the lasagna because she didn’t hear the oven buzzer, or say really loudly “learn to enunciate!” or even call her a dirty slut, and she won’t bat an eye. She’ll turn back to you with the same light of love in her eyes, and you, relieved of your grievances, will remember the depth of your passion for her. Then the two of you will probably get it on.
Reason #4. They always look at you tenderly. This is the flipside of Reason #3 (as they both spring from the fact that, you know, deaf people can’t hear). Since deaf people, even hot deaf girls, can’t hear you talk, they have to read your lips, which means every time you talk, they’re gazing into your face. Sure, looking at your eyes might be even nicer, but having a lover look at any facial feature is better than having her look at, say, your nipples. I speak from experience here.
Reason #5. They’re truly beneficial in social settings. I’ll just use two examples to illustrate my point here: Firstly, she would be bored as hell at most concerts, just like me! So I could use her as an excuse to never go. Secondly, deaf people, including hot deaf girls, can’t hear farts, even those loud trumpety ones. So when someone lets one go and everyone hears it and acts awkward, she just keeps tossing her hair and talking in sign language, or whatever it is hot deaf girls do. Then, two minutes later, she smells it and goes “AWWW!! Hoo jusht hrippt one?! Thatsh naastee!” and everyone has a good laugh.
Anyway, that's my take. Any hot deaf girls out there, you can tell I'm a keeper, right? Feel free to give me a call. Actually, an email would probably work better.
And what can I say? I was inspired. I had to join in the fun. So let me get right down to it.
I’ve told you before how much I love the girl Laura from “The Good Shepherd,” but in case you’ve forgotten, I’ll sum it up for you now: I’m pretty sure that my feelings for Laura are the closest I’ve ever gotten to love.
I got more into it in the previous post, but it makes me nervous to talk about it—obviously, I mean, I’m in love with a person who isn’t real—so let’s just say that thinking about her makes my heart hurt, and leave it at that. What I didn’t mention is the fact that I’ve also got a thing for Marlee Matlin. You know, a big thing. Warm feelings of tenderness.
But I’ve got other crushes, too (Julianne Hough for one), which is why it took me a while to realize the obvious common factor that Laura and Marlee have in common: they’re both deaf. And I both dig it (or something).
So in the spirit of the hour, let’s delve into the superficial reasons why deaf girls get me hot and bothered.
Reason #1. They have that cute “accent.” Yeah, so maybe it’s more of a speech impediment, but let’s not split hairs. When Laura says “I luvf yoo, Edwuhd,” my sacrum gets all puddly. For some reason, deaf girls seem more sincere because they can’t really pronounce the letter R. Perhaps this smacks of innocence to me, of innocent charm and appeal. Because who can’t pronounce Rs? That’s right: sweet little children and sweet little deaf hotties.
Reason #2. They need you. Let’s face the fact: deaf people are disabled; disabled people need help; and everyone loves to be needed. So can I help it that I love the idea of a smoking hot broad who’s totally self-sufficient but still gives me the feeling that she needs me desperately? Can I? No, clearly, I cannot.
Reason #3. They can’t hear you talk shit about them. Anytime your hot deaf girlfriend turns her back, you can complain about how she burned the lasagna because she didn’t hear the oven buzzer, or say really loudly “learn to enunciate!” or even call her a dirty slut, and she won’t bat an eye. She’ll turn back to you with the same light of love in her eyes, and you, relieved of your grievances, will remember the depth of your passion for her. Then the two of you will probably get it on.
Reason #4. They always look at you tenderly. This is the flipside of Reason #3 (as they both spring from the fact that, you know, deaf people can’t hear). Since deaf people, even hot deaf girls, can’t hear you talk, they have to read your lips, which means every time you talk, they’re gazing into your face. Sure, looking at your eyes might be even nicer, but having a lover look at any facial feature is better than having her look at, say, your nipples. I speak from experience here.
Reason #5. They’re truly beneficial in social settings. I’ll just use two examples to illustrate my point here: Firstly, she would be bored as hell at most concerts, just like me! So I could use her as an excuse to never go. Secondly, deaf people, including hot deaf girls, can’t hear farts, even those loud trumpety ones. So when someone lets one go and everyone hears it and acts awkward, she just keeps tossing her hair and talking in sign language, or whatever it is hot deaf girls do. Then, two minutes later, she smells it and goes “AWWW!! Hoo jusht hrippt one?! Thatsh naastee!” and everyone has a good laugh.
Anyway, that's my take. Any hot deaf girls out there, you can tell I'm a keeper, right? Feel free to give me a call. Actually, an email would probably work better.
A Daily Dose of Discouragement
Do you ever get the feeling that you're kind of boring? Are you ever confronted by your own subconscious sneaking suspicion that no one else thinks you're clever, that most of your friends find you mildly tedious, that you're the only person that really thinks your jokes are funny?
You ever feel like an emptyheaded waste of space? Because you are.
[rimshot please]
No, of course I don't know for a fact that you are a boring person, but statistically speaking, it's pretty likely. Maybe you really are witty, and superlatively engaging. Fine, it could be true.
But maybe you just think that. So don't be surprised if one of these days it comes to you like a thunderclap, while you're walking down the street, or reading a magazine, or tying your shoes, that you are a tremendous dullard.
Prepare yourself for the realization, because if it catches you unawares, it could shatter your delicate, stupid psyche. Much better to wean yourself from feelings of self-righteous intelligence, engaging in a daily effort to comprehend your own mental shortcomings. What's the saying? That we must know our weaknesses in order to improve ourselves? Well, if your weakness is a failure to recognize your own stupidity, you'd better get on that.
My recommendation? Spend a little time at the end of each day focusing on jokes you didn't understand, instructions you couldn't remember, or mistakes in the office or at home. Set aside five minutes or so each morning to repeat a boring phrase to yourself over and over, and culminate with the firm thought "I think I am dumber today than I thought I was yesterday."
You'll be healthily despondent before you know it.
You ever feel like an emptyheaded waste of space? Because you are.
[rimshot please]
No, of course I don't know for a fact that you are a boring person, but statistically speaking, it's pretty likely. Maybe you really are witty, and superlatively engaging. Fine, it could be true.
But maybe you just think that. So don't be surprised if one of these days it comes to you like a thunderclap, while you're walking down the street, or reading a magazine, or tying your shoes, that you are a tremendous dullard.
Prepare yourself for the realization, because if it catches you unawares, it could shatter your delicate, stupid psyche. Much better to wean yourself from feelings of self-righteous intelligence, engaging in a daily effort to comprehend your own mental shortcomings. What's the saying? That we must know our weaknesses in order to improve ourselves? Well, if your weakness is a failure to recognize your own stupidity, you'd better get on that.
My recommendation? Spend a little time at the end of each day focusing on jokes you didn't understand, instructions you couldn't remember, or mistakes in the office or at home. Set aside five minutes or so each morning to repeat a boring phrase to yourself over and over, and culminate with the firm thought "I think I am dumber today than I thought I was yesterday."
You'll be healthily despondent before you know it.
Monday, February 4, 2008
I had a snow day. And other stories.
I don't know where you live, but here in Chicago, we got an assload of snow dumped on us this weekend. It started on Thursday night, and there was so much snow, in fact, that I didn't even go in to work on Friday.
But that's not where this story starts. This story starts with the simple fact that on New Year's Day, I was so excited by the prospect of left-over hors d'ouevres, no work, and college football that I got drunk and lost my phone.
I knew it was in the house - I knew this very well because, during the entire course of the day, I never set foot outside. And so I didn't look for it urgently, or hurry to have the service canceled. No one had stolen it, no one was going to steal it.
But then I couldn't find it. I would look for it sporadically, every few days, each time thinking of a new spot or two that I hadn't checked. This weekend several factors aligned to get my ass in gear, so to speak. First, it had been a month, a nice round number, and I still hadn't found my phone. Second, I had just paid my cell phone bill, $65 for nothing. 0 minutes, 0 night and weekend minutes, 0 text messages - this was stupid. Third, I knew I was going to San Francisco this week, and I had to have a phone before then.
So Friday, home from work, I ventured out into the blizzard, down Lake Street to the AT&T store. Bianca greeted me from behind the desk. I have "been helped" by Bianca before, and let me tell you, she is a credit to the race of salesmen/cashiers/whatevers. She works for a company that has no problem seizing its customers by their haunches and humping them into submission, but she's polite about it. You know, she'll let you take a shower afterwards, if you take my meaning.
"I lost my phone," I told her, shaking my head and shrugging the way people do when they're saying they lost something - like there's an unspoken parenthetical, "no, really, I do not know where it is. I have lost it and do not know its location."
"Did you have insurance?" Bianca asked me. "Insurance will cover it."
"Yeah, I know. No. Warranty?" I countered.
"Sorry, the warranty only covers defective phones," Bianca said. Her pursed lips, downward tilted chin and raised eyebrows told me that she knew I knew this and that of course her company wasn't going to pay me for something that was my own damn fault.
"Well, then I need a phone," I said.
Bianca paused for a moment, then indicated the wall behind her, covered in displays of phones. "Feel free to go ahead and look arou-"
"What's the cheapest one?" I said.
She nodded knowingly, and without hesitation, seized a little Nokia off the wall. "This is the cheapest we offer," she said. "It's $199."
"Holy crap," I said.
"Mm," said Bianca.
She tried to hand it to me but I recoiled, held up my hands in protest, and slowly raised my eyes to meet hers. And in that moment, Bianca and I connected. She put the phone case back on it's hook, looked furtively from side to side and made ready to stab her masters in the back.
"You know what you could do?" she whispered. "Go across the street and buy a Go-phone from FYE, and I'll make you up a new sim card that you can stick in there. It'll be like, fifteen bucks."
I didn't know whether to trust her or not. Part of me was sure it was a vile trick. But a bigger part of me (it was my left thigh and buttock) wanted a phone for less than $200. I refined the deal. "Make me the sim card now," I growled, "and then I'll see about FYE."
Bianca hesitated. She looked from my face to the screen in front of her, down the hall, and back to me. "Ok," she said finally, and began typing furiously.
Two minutes later, I was out the door and on my way to FYE, sim card tucked in my back pocket, snug against the buttock that had insisted on its purchase.
I pulled open the front door, and did the standard "pretend-I-know-what-I-want-and-where-it-is-so-just-start-walking-toward-the-back-of-the-store" bit. Then I stared at some indie-adult-off-pop album with a woman holding a snake and a wheelbarrow handle for a while, looking out of the corner of my eye for go-phones and trying to look like I wasn't looking for anything.
After five minutes or so of fruitless undercover searching, I decided to go ask for help, and wouldn't you know it, the go-phones are housed up at the register with the gum and cheap magazines. There was one guy in front of me in line, standing with his two sons, about 6 and 8.
The guy stuttered when he got to talk to the cashier, despondent and devoid of all but the most desperate hope. "Do you have any Wiis?" he said.
"Actually, yes!" the clerk announced. "We just got three! They're probably going to be gone in half an hour."
The guy in front of me was psyched. He literally jumped into the air and shouted "yes!" and then grabbed his kids and started shaking them. "They've got it, guys, they've got it!" he yelled. The kids started whooping and jumping up and down. The older one grabbed an Indiana Jones Special Edition box set and swapped his brother across the head with it. They were excited.
While the dad looked at which extra controller to buy and the younger brother nailed the older one in the groin with a display sign, a second clerk stepped up to the next register and asked me to come over.
I put down my go-phone, waited for a second and a half while she picked it up and said, 25% seriously, "I should probably get a Wii, too."
She laughed, and I laughed. It was a pretty good joke. "Do you want one?" she said, 30% seriously.
"Hey, might as well, right?" I said, 34% seriously.
She picked one up from behind her 36% seriously and set it on the counter 37% seriously. "What do you think?" she said, 42% seriously.
I patted it 47% seriously, and thought for a minute. I don't even play video games. This was retarded. Wasn't it? Wasn't it? "I'll take it," I said, 51% seriously.
Unfortunately, this majority vote was all the clerk legally needed to beep it, swipe my credit card and stuff it in a bag. As my receipt printed, I looked over her shoulder at the last Wii perched on the shelf. "Maybe I should buy the last one, too," I said, 9% seriously.
"Do you want to?" she asked, 55% seriously.
The sudden jump was too much for me. "No, of course not," I said. "What would I do with two?" Well, really, what will I do with one? It's sitting on my floor, still in its box. If anyone wants it, I'll give it to you for $350 plus shipping. 95% seriously.
That night, there was a birthday party for my cousin, where I told everyone about my best impulse purchase ever. A few other interesting things happened, too, but we'll save those for another time.
Saturday, I watched twelve episodes of Lost. I'm planning on being caught up by the next new episode.
And then Sunday, the Giants beat the Patriots in the best Super Bowl I ever remember. Can you ask for a better weekend?
Notes in summary:
The go-phone thing really does work. If you ever lose a phone and don't need a fancy camera-music-touchscreen phone, get a go-phone and switch the sim - you get minutes, text and internet and reconnected with your regular plan.
I'll let you know how the Wii situation works out. I might see if I can get more than I paid on ebay. Any ideas? Anybody want to buy it?
Lost is the most aggravating show to watch, by far. I'll get more into this later.
The Giants really deserved it. Beating the Cowboys and Packers on the road, then beating the undefeated Pats? Good enough in my book.
Beware of the escalating-percentage-seriousness phenomenon. I thought I had shaken it after it led me to snort Vitamin C and almost get engaged, but now I have a Wii. And not the Wii-est idea what to do with it.
But that's not where this story starts. This story starts with the simple fact that on New Year's Day, I was so excited by the prospect of left-over hors d'ouevres, no work, and college football that I got drunk and lost my phone.
I knew it was in the house - I knew this very well because, during the entire course of the day, I never set foot outside. And so I didn't look for it urgently, or hurry to have the service canceled. No one had stolen it, no one was going to steal it.
But then I couldn't find it. I would look for it sporadically, every few days, each time thinking of a new spot or two that I hadn't checked. This weekend several factors aligned to get my ass in gear, so to speak. First, it had been a month, a nice round number, and I still hadn't found my phone. Second, I had just paid my cell phone bill, $65 for nothing. 0 minutes, 0 night and weekend minutes, 0 text messages - this was stupid. Third, I knew I was going to San Francisco this week, and I had to have a phone before then.
So Friday, home from work, I ventured out into the blizzard, down Lake Street to the AT&T store. Bianca greeted me from behind the desk. I have "been helped" by Bianca before, and let me tell you, she is a credit to the race of salesmen/cashiers/whatevers. She works for a company that has no problem seizing its customers by their haunches and humping them into submission, but she's polite about it. You know, she'll let you take a shower afterwards, if you take my meaning.
"I lost my phone," I told her, shaking my head and shrugging the way people do when they're saying they lost something - like there's an unspoken parenthetical, "no, really, I do not know where it is. I have lost it and do not know its location."
"Did you have insurance?" Bianca asked me. "Insurance will cover it."
"Yeah, I know. No. Warranty?" I countered.
"Sorry, the warranty only covers defective phones," Bianca said. Her pursed lips, downward tilted chin and raised eyebrows told me that she knew I knew this and that of course her company wasn't going to pay me for something that was my own damn fault.
"Well, then I need a phone," I said.
Bianca paused for a moment, then indicated the wall behind her, covered in displays of phones. "Feel free to go ahead and look arou-"
"What's the cheapest one?" I said.
She nodded knowingly, and without hesitation, seized a little Nokia off the wall. "This is the cheapest we offer," she said. "It's $199."
"Holy crap," I said.
"Mm," said Bianca.
She tried to hand it to me but I recoiled, held up my hands in protest, and slowly raised my eyes to meet hers. And in that moment, Bianca and I connected. She put the phone case back on it's hook, looked furtively from side to side and made ready to stab her masters in the back.
"You know what you could do?" she whispered. "Go across the street and buy a Go-phone from FYE, and I'll make you up a new sim card that you can stick in there. It'll be like, fifteen bucks."
I didn't know whether to trust her or not. Part of me was sure it was a vile trick. But a bigger part of me (it was my left thigh and buttock) wanted a phone for less than $200. I refined the deal. "Make me the sim card now," I growled, "and then I'll see about FYE."
Bianca hesitated. She looked from my face to the screen in front of her, down the hall, and back to me. "Ok," she said finally, and began typing furiously.
Two minutes later, I was out the door and on my way to FYE, sim card tucked in my back pocket, snug against the buttock that had insisted on its purchase.
I pulled open the front door, and did the standard "pretend-I-know-what-I-want-and-where-it-is-so-just-start-walking-toward-the-back-of-the-store" bit. Then I stared at some indie-adult-off-pop album with a woman holding a snake and a wheelbarrow handle for a while, looking out of the corner of my eye for go-phones and trying to look like I wasn't looking for anything.
After five minutes or so of fruitless undercover searching, I decided to go ask for help, and wouldn't you know it, the go-phones are housed up at the register with the gum and cheap magazines. There was one guy in front of me in line, standing with his two sons, about 6 and 8.
The guy stuttered when he got to talk to the cashier, despondent and devoid of all but the most desperate hope. "Do you have any Wiis?" he said.
"Actually, yes!" the clerk announced. "We just got three! They're probably going to be gone in half an hour."
The guy in front of me was psyched. He literally jumped into the air and shouted "yes!" and then grabbed his kids and started shaking them. "They've got it, guys, they've got it!" he yelled. The kids started whooping and jumping up and down. The older one grabbed an Indiana Jones Special Edition box set and swapped his brother across the head with it. They were excited.
While the dad looked at which extra controller to buy and the younger brother nailed the older one in the groin with a display sign, a second clerk stepped up to the next register and asked me to come over.
I put down my go-phone, waited for a second and a half while she picked it up and said, 25% seriously, "I should probably get a Wii, too."
She laughed, and I laughed. It was a pretty good joke. "Do you want one?" she said, 30% seriously.
"Hey, might as well, right?" I said, 34% seriously.
She picked one up from behind her 36% seriously and set it on the counter 37% seriously. "What do you think?" she said, 42% seriously.
I patted it 47% seriously, and thought for a minute. I don't even play video games. This was retarded. Wasn't it? Wasn't it? "I'll take it," I said, 51% seriously.
Unfortunately, this majority vote was all the clerk legally needed to beep it, swipe my credit card and stuff it in a bag. As my receipt printed, I looked over her shoulder at the last Wii perched on the shelf. "Maybe I should buy the last one, too," I said, 9% seriously.
"Do you want to?" she asked, 55% seriously.
The sudden jump was too much for me. "No, of course not," I said. "What would I do with two?" Well, really, what will I do with one? It's sitting on my floor, still in its box. If anyone wants it, I'll give it to you for $350 plus shipping. 95% seriously.
That night, there was a birthday party for my cousin, where I told everyone about my best impulse purchase ever. A few other interesting things happened, too, but we'll save those for another time.
Saturday, I watched twelve episodes of Lost. I'm planning on being caught up by the next new episode.
And then Sunday, the Giants beat the Patriots in the best Super Bowl I ever remember. Can you ask for a better weekend?
Notes in summary:
The go-phone thing really does work. If you ever lose a phone and don't need a fancy camera-music-touchscreen phone, get a go-phone and switch the sim - you get minutes, text and internet and reconnected with your regular plan.
I'll let you know how the Wii situation works out. I might see if I can get more than I paid on ebay. Any ideas? Anybody want to buy it?
Lost is the most aggravating show to watch, by far. I'll get more into this later.
The Giants really deserved it. Beating the Cowboys and Packers on the road, then beating the undefeated Pats? Good enough in my book.
Beware of the escalating-percentage-seriousness phenomenon. I thought I had shaken it after it led me to snort Vitamin C and almost get engaged, but now I have a Wii. And not the Wii-est idea what to do with it.
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