LADY-LIKE

Man Friend: (Belch)

Man Friend's Dad: "Contrary to what you might think, ladies do NOT like those sort of gutteral noises."

Me: "Awwwww. You're dad thinks I'm a lady."

MORE INCONVENIENT THAN IRONIC, TO BE PERFECTLY HONEST

Sooooooo..... funny thing.

I got a job. In Mason. So I will be moving BACK to Cincinnati.

I realize I JUST. MOVED. AWAY. not more than a week ago but this offer came after that happened and it's too tempting to resist while I'm searching for that "IT" job in Columbus.

Another funny thing.

The gentleman who WAS going to be taking my room at the coolest college house on earth? He may be backing out because of a recent injury (long story) so I'm pretty much moving right back into the house I just moved out of.. sans nearly all the things we moved out. I'm going to be sleeping on an air mattress and living out of a suitcase. Just like co-op. With a much better payday.

Woo.

DID NOT

"You knew from the start Jaymes was going to be lazy."

"How do you figure?"

"She was born 21 days late."

"You were born late, too."

"Yeah, but she came more than a week later than I did, and not even willingly. You guys had to cut her out."

"But she came out and then went right to sleep. The doctor slapped you and you stopped crying 12 years later."

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY

"You are just SO damn charitable."

"I'm selfless, really."

"Ish, Jaymes. You're selfish."

"I hate you."

AT FIRST I THOUGHT I BROKE IT

For those of you who don't know, as you walk down the stairs of my house there is a ledge. For the longest time, we kept art there, namely a sign that said "way of love" with an arrow that pointed at a Picasso butt. It was hot.

Alas, there is no longer any artwork on this 4 inch ledge, but there is now a hunk of my skin. As I was walking down the stairs carrying 4 drawers off to my right side so I could actually see where I was going rather than risking falling down the stairs, I managed to BASH THE HOLY EFFING SHIT out of my pinky finger, catching it right at the knuckle between the wooden drawers and the equally wooden ledge.

It's been a long time since I've needed to put ice on something. I iced that finger and whimpered and ended up with this pathetic little excuse for a bruise that makes me tear up when I touch it. And the logical thing to say here would be.. well, then stop touching it. But if I stop touching it then it stops hurting and just feels weird instead which probably is a better scenerio but I fear I'll lose your pity if it doesn't hurt sufficiently.

Uhhh! It hurts!

AS WE WERE DRIVING AROUND LOOKING AT CHRISTMAS LIGHTS

"I hate. Hate. HATE. those freaking blowup Christmas decorations. They are the spawn of Satan. PUT UP SOME DAMN LIGHTS YOU FAT AMERICAN!!"

"Well, we don't have to have them at our house."

"Oh! We WILL NOT have them at our house."

"Well, how about a blowup Brutus?"

"..."

"What?! Just from Friday night to Sunday morning."

"Oh, HELL NO."

"How about just during game day?"

"Absolutely not."

"Uhhh! But the team stuff was around FIRST. You would have liked it before the Christmas stuff got popular." (Note the whiney quality here)

"... No, I wouldn't."

"What if we call it an inflatable team mascot rather than a blowup doll?"

"NO. You can, however, decorate the rec room all you like with OSU stuff."

"That's right I can. AND I can decorate wherever else I want!"

"..."

"With your permission."

WHEN THE JOKE GOES TOO FAR

(Some radio commercial for a jewelry store advertising its selection of diamond solitaires.)

"Pssshh! Solitaires." (note the tone of distain)

"Hah! I do believe when the time comes the word 'petite' WILL be tossed around."

"That's what you think." (note the LOOK of distain)

IN TRANSITION

Hi kids. The next couple of days are going to be a bit busy for me since I am interviewing and officially moving the hell out so I may or may not post.

I'll keep you posted. (HAH! See how funny I can be?! No? Damn.)

PROCRASTINATION FOR A GOOD CAUSE

Go nuts.

KILLING A DREAM

Not my dream, mind you, but rather Danny's. I found out through intensive and exhaustive research that Chuck Norris? His real name? Carlos Ray. Doesn't that just kill it for you? The national identity of asskickerness is named Carlos. Does this look like the face of a Carlos to you? HAH! Just kidding. I meant this one.

OH COME ON! You can trust me this time. Click the link. I promise it isn't Hoff in his underpants this time.

Would a Carlos pose like that? I think not.

So where did I find this out? You're going to make fun of me when I tell you but my excuse is I use it to find names for my short stories.

Baby Name Database.

That's right. Scroll down to 'N'. He's at the bottom.

Yup. It's true. I was there.

FOUND IMAGE (Thanks, Jenny!)

Holy God am I hot.

I laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed when I saw this picture. I must think I'm way cooler than I actually am.

(I'm eating cereal at Cereality in Chicago on Dannyfest 2005: Ladyfest aka TEAM AWESOME. It was a might tasty AND it contained espresso. Hellz yes.)

BUT DANNY PEES IN THE SHOWER*

*It makes him happy when he is sad... and there is also a special way to do it to ensure it gets everywhere. Ask me. I would be more than happy to show you.


Man Friend: "Okay well I'm going to go inside now and stop freezing my balls off."

Me: "You could get online and talk to me."

Man Friend: "I know and I will later after I eat and pee and take a dump and take a shower. Though I guess I could do two of those at the same time."

Me: "Pee and take a shower?"

Man Friend: "Um, no. Pee and take a dump. Wow, I wish I controlled your blog so I could write about this."

Me: "Not necessary. I'll do it."

POSSIBLE CONCUSSION NO. 5?

I'm no longer allowed to drink when I have a cold. I had TWO (Killians and a mudslide) and it just affected me in weird ways and harder than it usually does. Let me explain.

Man Friend and I went down to Columbus on Friday night to meet up with some of his friends at GameWorks. Neither of us had ever been there? (not actually positive on that point) and we managed to arrive BEFORE everyone else even thought we got there an HOUR after they said they wanted to leave for the place and they all actually reside IN Columbus. To kill the time and because we could, we ended up playing some racing games, including one that you had to lay down on and it made your whole body vibrate. I won at that game. No comment on why.

The first of the dumb things to happen (which was actually overshadowed by the second) was Man Friend ventured off to do something so while I was alone I decided to play a Star Wars aircraft-of-some-sort-shoot-at-the-enemy-these-controls-are-REALLY-touchy game. I don't know how well I did at this game or if I got too terribly far but the last level I did play was hard and I was concentrating on the screen and just after the GAME OVER printed it self on the screen Man Friend yelled "boo" right behind my head. To say that I am easy to startle is an understatement but usually, in public situations, I have just barely enough control that I don't scream in terror outright. But normally, in public situations, I haven't been drinking with a cold.

I screamed. Loudly. Man Friend all but collasped in a fit of giggles (YES, YOU DO GIGGLE. Manly chuckle my ass).

The second of the two events I arguably did to myself. Man Friend was holding my hand and we were walking toward some game he wanted to play and I was concentrating hardcore on some picture taker contraption off to my right. I felt Man Friend's fingers slide from mine. Right before I felt the hard, cold smack of the gray metal pole colliding with my face.

I didn't hit ANY OTHER PART OF MY BODY. My FACE took the brunt force of it all.

Man Friend did good about stiffling the initial giggle and finding out if I was okay and l didn't hit it hard enough to bruise. I can't decide if that is fortunate or unfortunate yet because I could have had some fun explaining that bruise to people. But I don't bruise easily and probably would have had to hit it hard enough to cause a fracture to get anything worth talking about. Instead, now I just get to tell you all I was dumb and tipsy and I walked into a pole. But my face broke the fall.

LIFE WITH ROOMMATES, PART 5

"Oh my God, Katie you fell over... WHERE THE HELL ARE YOUR PANTS?!"

I USED TO LOVE HER, BUT I HAD TO KILL HER

I think Man Friend is secretly repressing urges to kill me. He keeps having dreams about me that involve me in danger or some resemblance of pain. The first time I thought it was cute, almost charming, how worried he was but after the second attempt on my life, albeit in dream form, I'm beginning to question.

I can only hope he's smart enough to take out a life insurance policy on me first.

Now, I know most people aren't really interesting in the dreams of others because they rarely make sense and are often just utterly ridiculous but THESE dreams are about me and what the hell else am I doing blogging other than talking about myself? Honestly.

The first of these dreams occurred some weeks ago, maybe two, and I was actually present for this one. I was laying next to Man Friend, perfectly content in my own dreams when he woke me up by pulling me into a hug. Don't get me wrong. I like me some hugs but not if they require me waking up to receive them.

Then he whispered into my ear, "are you okay?"

This was not the "are you okay?" that actually translates to, "you're not mad at me, are you?" or the, "damnit woman, will you stop fidgeting?" He was scared.

"I'm fine. Why?"

He proceeds to tell me he just had a dream in which I was beaten up and he couldn't do anything to help me.

"Awww. That's cute. I'm fine. Can I go back to sleep now?"

The latest dream involved me witnessing a mob murder. He was trying to hide me in his parents basement because the mob was trying to kill me. Some of his buddies, particularly guys he goes shooting with, were defending the fort and one of them noticed someone moving outside. Thinking it was a mob guy here to kill me, the friend shot the intruder... only to find out it was my dad.

"You killed my dad?!"

"I didn't do it! Zayne shot him."

"So you had my dad killed?"

"No!"

"Yes, you did! Why don't you like my dad?"

"Please don't tell you dad about this. It probably wouldn't be good for family relations."

GRAB ME A BEER WHILE YOU'RE UP?

"I can't wait until we live close enough together so that you can cook for me."

"..."

"What?"

"I'M the sick one and you want ME to cook for YOU?"

"Well, you wouldn't be sick."

"I can just see you now. Getting home. Lying in bed beside me. Poking me until I got up to make you dinner. 'Woman, make me a steak.'"

"I was thinking more a grilled cheese sandwich."

I WANT A HIPPOPOTAMUS FOR CHRISTMAS

But in lue of that, this might suffice.

Man Friend and I have a running joke (to be honest I'm not so sure how much of a joke it is) that when he wins the lottery he is going to buy me a pony. And a 4-wheeler. And an alpaca farm.

But, rather than waiting for something that WILL NOT happen (seeing how he doesn't actually BUY lottery tickets), I thought, for Christmas, I'd get him started early. Introducing Butterscotch. Check out those product details. Particularly the last one. That ALONE is enough reason to buy this toy.


Why I'm glad Dad never got me that pony.

COOKIE MONSTER

Man Friend has what you could consider a skewed sense of vengence and I'll tell you why.

I made Man Friend cookies this weekend. Snickerdoodles to be exact. And they were damn good. To prove to everyone present just how good they were I offered a cookie each to Man Friend's mom and dad and then thought nothing of leaving the container on the counter while Man Friend and I went to Columbus to see the Loyal Divide play at some bar. I mean, we're all adults here. I should be able to leave Man Friend's cookies and have a reasonable expectation that something more than crumbs would be left.

Alas.

We got home late (2ish) and I walked into the kitchen and noticed a severe lack of cookies. I informed Man Friend of his lost goodies.

Man Friend was not pleased. (I told you they were damn good cookies.) He woke his father just to yell at him.

The next morning, I woke up to three notes from his father DEMANDING more cookies. When it was suggested the he wasn't getting any more cookies until the following weekend and only then if he would be nice enough to share he suggested I spend my Thanksgiving making him more cookies. Man Friend suggested I add too much salt to them, right after he finished tearing up his Dad's bed and rolling the sheets into a ball. Then, after his mother made some not so good store bought cookies (some of which tragically ended up burned because no one told me I was supposed to be watching them), Man Friend and I ate all the not burned ones sans one which he then fed to the dog. In front of his father.

I asked his dad why he couldn't have saved Man Friend at least one of the cookies I made FOR Man Friend and he said he had left one but he just couldn't sleep knowing that cookie was left there in the kitchen. Taunting him. Taunting. A cookie.

JUST END ALREADY

I have no interest in entering the world of academia today.

Or tomorrow for that matter.

QUICKIE

I gotst stuff to do tonight so I can't regale you all with stories of Thanksgivingness so this is going to have to do for now:

"I don't want any more of your lovin'. It's dirty and it hurts and it offends my morals."



BING!

TEENY BOPPER AT HEART

Since I've been making random, yet useless confessions (I killed Hoffa), I thought to myself, "Self. Why not one more?"

I was once in my younger days somewhat of a teeny bopper. Uch. I think I just threw up in my mouth a little. But, alas, it's true. I refuse to go into details about how much of a bopper I was but let's just say, back in the day, JTT was a DREAMBOAT. The jury, however, is out on whether or not I ever sang along to a Spice Girls song. (From the first album. By that second monstrosity I'd learned my lesson.)

This is why it wasn't much of a stretch last night when Emily suggested (I can still blame this on Emily) we watch A Cinderella Story. The one with Hilary Duff. And Chad Michael Murrey, who, as luck would have it, I don't find to be nearly the same dreamboat quality at JTT was back in his hayday (and, my, what a hayday).

The movie was a let down and I'll tell you why. For one thing, it's distracting to watch a movie like that involving high school dances and see a woman who is so stacked you know there isn't anyway she's under 25. And I just can't forgive his (CMM's) character for being a dick all the way up until the end. Oh, wahh, I gave up a football scholarship for a girl in painted on pants and a chance to go to Princeton (because that is where princes go to school). Seriously. His football team mascot was the Fighting Frog. Last play of the night and he just walks off the field? MY ASS. My adult teeny bopper brain is more decerning than that. I DEMAND reality. Not this "awww" bullshit that doesn't happen in real life. Give me my JTT in Man of the House where wrongs are realized and the illusion of the perfect familly looks like it took some time to get there, where people are appreciated and the girls aren't dressed like prostitutes in training. Take me back when things were simpler. Take me JTT, back to the golden days.

36, 24, 36

I have a confession to make. I, the bringer of the cool, seductress extraodinaire, wear a padded bra.

Pause for shocked silence.

But I don't wear it for what might be considered the usual reasons. Such as my floor board cousin's reasons. Despite what my voluptuous, bountiful, able-to-feed-a-small-country sister might have said ever since her chest exploded, I am not lacking in that area of my physique. I have a respectable handful. So instead of attempting to add volume, I wear a padded bra for another reason. That reason being my traitorous nipples.

These little nodules of flesh don't really need so much as a stiff wind to be set off. They've been likened (by me) to turkey testers. You know. Those little red button's that pop up when the turkey is fully cooked. Yeah. Kinda like that.

I wasn't always fully aware of my ability to etch glass immediately following an awkward brush of fabric or a whisper of wind or no real reason at all. I mean, it might have been pointed out here or there but never to the point to discourage me from wearing a tank top, sans bra, come midsummer. That was until THIS summer and until this particular tank top. This was early in Man Friend and my relationship. He took me to a nice restaurant. It was late summer, still warm. I was wearing my favorite green tank top because.. well.. I wanted to show off my boobs. There. I said it. Don't judge me. The restaurant was air conditioned. ON HIGH. And shockingly, I get cold easily, which, shockingly, sets them off. Man Friend said they weren't that bad. He's a bloody, effing liar. I went to the bathroom and it was like I wasn't even wearing a shirt. You could make out EVERY detail, and I do mean every. I spent the rest of the meal with my arms crossed.

So now, now I wear a padded bra. My horrible secret is out. But I'll tell you what. Despite the padding, you can still tell when I get a chill. I'm like the princess and the pea. Four inches of fabric and you can still see it. But I have to say, I don't hear the gentlemen complaining.

O-H-I-O

My wonderful, charming, better-than-your boyfriend made a spur of the moment decision to come visit me this weekend despite his less than reliable transportation. This was wholey unexpected because this was the weekend of the OSU, Michigan game. Man Friend's original plans included spending the entire weekend in Columbus getting shit-faced drunk and completely forgetting he ever had a girlfriend.

But he DID NOT forget and drove all the way down here to share in the glory of college football with this non-believer. An obvious consequence of this surprise visit involved me spending four hours watching football, but I have to confess it was worth it (and from this moment on I will deny ever saying that despite irrefutable evidence to the contrary).

Now, funny thing. Despite the fact that professional drinkers (Tiff and Trini) could EASILY drink Man Friend under a table, he doesn't often get drunk. HOWEVER, things just worked out Saturday during the game that there was enough time between the pancakes I made him for breakfast (at noon) and the pizza Danny ordered for the game come 6ish that around halftime, he leaned over and stage whispered in my ear that he was, in fact, drunk. I'm not sure how quickly his body metabolizes alcohol, but that apparent admission was enough excuse to allow for an ENTIRE NIGHTS WORTH of sticking a clean or often times otherwise finger under my nose and demanding I sniff it. Not exactly star boyfriend action.

I know what you're thinking. Why would I put up with that? Well, for starters, I started it. Not THIS time, but I am the one who first stuck a finger under his nose and demanded he sniff it. Second, he's bigger than me and if he can pin me down for raspberries, he can certainly do the same for a tainted finger.

Besides, I got him back this morning.

It so happened that I had to be up (relatively) early to work my last day in retail hell. Rather than get up with me and leave immediately, Man Friend decided to remain in bed and get a little more caught up on sleep before the long hike home. I was forced against my will to leave the nice, cozy warmth of my bed and my reward was icy cold hands. Usually, when I'm alone, I'll press my hands between my thighs to warm them, but this method is uncomfortable and why use my thighs when I could use his? Sweet, juicy revenge was mine as he writhed and whimpered under the frosty bite of my touch.

The crop dusting I was doing the night before didn't hurt either.

DON'T SAY IT IF YOU DON'T WANT IT REPEATED

"When we get to your sister's I'm going to need to take a shower."

"Okay."

"Yeah. I've got a major case of swamp ass."

"?!.. I'm telling everyone you said that."

ALL'S WELL ON THE NORTHERN FRONT

"Want to know something? We just spent all weekend together and I'm not sick of you yet."

"I'm not sick of you either. I didn't even get mad at you all weekend."

"Yes, you did."

"Doesn't count. I was annoyed, not mad."

NOT ONE TO MINCE MY WORDS

My (Future) Brother-in-Law, hereafter and forever known as Trini, is an asshole. "Why is he an asshole?" you might ask yourself. He's exceptionally friendly, he treats my sister well, he's generous with his money and is happy to buy you a beer, he's practically raising his Aunt's kids, so why on God's green earth would you call that poor man an asshole? Because it's true.

I would know. I was there.

My sister doesn't DO floors. So Trini does them. He polishes them to a fine, high shine.

"Now how would that possibly make him an asshole? I wish I had myself a man who was willing to do floors."

You want to know WHY that man is willing to do the floors? Because of the aftermath. His floors are so slippery people have been known to fall down on them while STANDING STILL!, much less running away from a would be attacker as was my situation. I was BAREFOOT. My left foot hitting that floor reacted much like the shady side of a hill after a snowstorm. The right foot however, remained where it was, safely planted on the carpet and not budging an inch as my no so flexible ass did a split only to bash (see: possibly break and maim) toes and bruise a knee.

And all the while Man Friend and Tiff are leaning over me asking if I'm alright and doing a damn good job of stiffling their own laughter, Trini is over on the couch laughing so hard his face is red (quite a feat, let me tell you). Now I'm occassionally hobbling around and I'm pretty well convinced I broke my foot. Not anything serious. I mean it doesn't hurt so much as annoy, but it's the same feeling I got when I fractured my hand (and dad didn't believe me for a week).

Man Friend prefers to think it was this accident that caused the suspect fracturing since the other accident involved his knee and he doesn't like the idea of breaking me.

(DISCLAIMER: Trini is FULLY aware his floor does this. It is why he waxes it like that. He even waxed it SPECIFICALLY FOR US TO COME VISIT knowing there would be alcohol consumed -- though I hadn't been drinking when this little incident occured. Bastard.)

... AND LOSING IT AGAIN

"If I died you would need Katie to perform sexual favors for you to ease the grieving process."

"Or Andrew."

"That IS another option. You aren't picky."

"Which is why I'm dating you."

"... I will make you pay for that."

WINNING THE BATTLE OF THE BOYFRIENDS

"Apparently while we're up there (Boston), Trini is going to go to a birthday party. With strippers. He invited you to go along if you want."

"I'd rather hang out with you."

"Are you saying that because you really don't want to or because you think that is what I want to hear?"

"I want to hang out with you."

"Even if hanging out with me means you're forced to go shopping?"

"Yup."

"Atta boy."

APHRODISIAC

Apparently, men find it very sexy when a woman is wielding a gun (so long as she isn't psycho pissed and aiming it at their preciouses (hell yeah, I just made a Lord of the Rings reference)). This was so proved by Man Friend's insistance that I not only wear a ammo belt Rambo style but that I pose for a picture with his big ass*, HEAVY, scary looking 500 S&W Magnum.

*It would seem my definition of a big ass gun is very similar to Rusty's definition of a bad ass gun.

I did not fire this gun. Oh, no. I have no interest in getting pistol whipped because I can't handle the recoil. But holding it as if I'm not actually terrified of the thing? That's hot.

"Even Drew said it was hot."

I suggested if THAT was hot with me wearing a coat zipped up to my chin, might it not be EVEN HOTTER if I was wearing a slutty top that showed off my puppies, using the ample valley to cradle that massive bringer-of-death? Apparently not.

"That gun would dwarf you, if not hide you altogether." And by "you" he means my assets.

But despite the veto of the money shot, there is a lesson to be learned from all of this. The new hottest look for fall is Victoria Secret's slut wear coupled with a holster. Maybe even a little badge on the hip. Ohh! And handcuffs. Make sure you don't forget the handcuffs.

DID UR GF

Driving through Columbus last night mine eyes happened upon that little beauty of a licence plate. Happened upon because the guy who owned the plates cut me off. Doing 90.

I'm sure it comes as no surprise to ANYONE that I, myself, was speeding (Hello. I am my father's child.), and this guy cut by me, sweeping across LANES of traffic in either direction, only hitting his brakes when absolutely necessary... and then got off at the next exit. His driving wasn't what bothered me either. Despite the speeding and the cutting and the weaving, despite all of that, it was still reading his licence plate that elicited my freshly painted middle finger. Little prick. I hope she gave you syphilis.


I found out a few things this weekend. The first being I'm a decently okay shot. As Man Friend told his father, I'm either low or dead on. What does this mean for you? Well, should ever the occasion arise where I'm shooting at you, I'll either hit you in the chest where I was aiming or the nuts. And if I was aiming for your nuts? Well.. then I won't miss.

I also discovered that Man Friend's parents won't do a whole lot of anything if they hear a girl's screams eminating from their eldest's room. Like coming to my rescue. And I don't like being pinned down and given raspberries. It tickles.

Finally, I found the depths to which Man Friend will stoop. I won't give the details but it involved the farts and my face in an area I would never willingly put it. (No, he didn't fart ON my face but there was certainly the imminent threat of residual gases eminating forth from their cling hold on the fabric of his jeans - an act wholey unacceptable in any boyfriend o' mine.)

MY ROOMMATES CANNOT TELL JOKES

Andrew: "So the pirate goes to the pet store.."

Katie: "I know this one! 'Arr!! It's turning me balls!'"

Andrew: "You mean, 'driving me nuts?'"

CANNIBALISM

My class was cancelled for this evening and do you know what that means?! Here are my (your) choices:

a) Taking the wonderful opportunity to play catchup on my portfolio and various readings and assignments, including the two scary looking articles I still have to create (e.g. pull out of my butt) for my writing seminars.

b) Napping.

c) Packing (The plan is to slowly but surely move all of my crap back home to Mommy and Daddy's so it isn't so overwhelming and to drag the sappy sentimental pain and heartache out as long as possible).

d) Anything related at all to personal hygiene.

Alright. Let's be bloody, effing honest here. I haven't done ANY of those things today. Why not? Well for starters, breakfast was delievered to me IN BED this morning by one very nice roommate who made cinnamon rolls. Why I'm using that as an excuse is beyond me other than the fact that I really haven't been FORCED from my nest in order to fend for myself today.

I did do something productive by way of applying for another job on careerbuilder.com and monster.com. The deal with Mother Dearest* is that I will apply to AT LEAST one place per day for the next two weeks so she doesn't decide to respawn Satan (and thus depression) upon my consciousness.

(THANK YOU SO EFFING MUCH, JAYMIE - not that the youngest of the R. clan even reads my blog but OH! will she get her comeuppance the next time her pretty little face is within clawing distance. You know a conversation with your mother is NOT going to be good when her response to you ANSWERING. THE. PHONE. is this, AND I QUOTE: "I just got done talking to your younger sister about her lack of a job and now I'm on the war path." All I've got to say is my Christmas present better be expensive you little shit and I hope she made you cry.)

Despite this recent jump in job hunting activity on my part and finding a couple of publishing jobs I WOULD KILL MY YOUNGER SISTER FOR (or at least fake it pretty damn convincingly), I have yet to hear anything by way of a response. True, I need to give it a little time for it to sink in how wonderfully brilliant I am and for them to decide between my asking salary and 50 bajillion dollars AND the fact that it would be slightly convenient for them to wait to schedule an interview until I've gotten psycho Mom to buy me a suit to interview in... I just want it resolved BEFORE I HAVE TO MOVE BACK IN WITH MY PARENTS. It is one thing when you can avoid picking up the phone ("I don't want to be like Grandma. I know what it's liked to be nagged to death.", ((COUGH)) You aren't like Grandma. GRANDMA DOESN'T KNOW WHERE I LIVE. - Oh, she knows the mailing address for the occassional card with pretty green paper stuffed inside but we all know she's at the age where eating her own offspring is beyond her physical capabilities so driving to Cincinnati ISN'T AN OPTION.**)

Don't get me wrong. I love my parents. Both of them. Even though Dad is winning that whole A-parent prize by default right now. Hell, I even LIKE them. I am WILLING TO HANG OUT WITH THEM whenever I manage to make it home. But I still don't want to move back in, free rent and all, because I would like to CONTINUE liking my parents. And being able to not pick up the phone is an appealing option.


*This is the name I use for her when I'm not particularly charmed by her existance.
**I'm not insinuating that MY mother wants to eat her young. My bright red guts strewn all over the floor is a pretty clear indication.

867-5309

"Call your charming, beautiful, funny girlfriend. Then, after that, call me."

SHE'S A BRICK... HOUSE

As a female who has been self-conscious about her weight since THE THIRD GRADE, it's a nice feeling to know Man Friend can sling me around like a sack of potatoes.

That is to say until his shoulder is planted firmly into my stomach and my pleas for mercy errupt from my throat as grunts.

This display of manliness is also a clear indication that I could not take Man Friend is a fight. Ohhhh, no. Battle of wits? Maybe. Screaming match? Most definately. (I actually have no proof of this seeing how we've never BEEN in a screaming match, but I believe we are all WELL AWARE of the set of lungs I've got on me.) But Man Friend has shown himself to not shy away from biting, spanking, or generally molesting me back. And I can't exactly DEMAND clemency when I started it.

HERE

Read this, take two aspirin, and call me in the morning.

BAAAAAAAA*

*Like a sheep.

People I like did this (Jenny T. and Sarah Cool) and who am I not to follow in their pretty, well-manicured footsteps? I, humble though I may not be, am a nobody so bring on the sheep.. or lemmings. It's really your choice. I just don't know how to immitate the sound a lemming makes as it's drowning. Gurgle mayhaps?

My Perfect...

Day: Getting hired (ANY place not retail), getting paid more than I think I'm worth with a great benefits and vacation package, finding my first big-girl-doing-this-on-my-own apartment, realizing I actually CAN afford my way of living and getting a dog.

Getting a book deal would be a pretty damn good day too I would imagine.

Job: Good Lord, I don't know. If I knew then I would HAVE a goal and not be so stressed (AAAAAAAHAHAHAHA! I just put that in print! Like I actually BELIEVED it! Hoooo.)

Food: Quaker Caramel Mini Rice Cakes. They are perfectly scrumptious, a euphoric blend of crunchy and sweet that won't make my butt balloon.

Color: I'm beginning to dislike the fact that is this "My Perfect..." rather than "My Favorite..." because how can you define something as broad as your perfect color? It changes with the circumstance. Such as: Wall color? Sage or a dark taupe. Dress color? Deep red. Shirt color? Black. Pant color? Striped. You see? It CHANGES people.

Date: A moonlit walk along the beach after a candle lit dinner until we find some lifeguard station that was accidently left unlocked and we shack up until one or both of us gets splinters in our butts from the friction against a wooden floor. THAT or something that we won't walk away from clean (SEE: 4-wheeling, horseback riding, cow tipping, mud wrestling).

Book: Lullaby, Brave New World, or Lovely Bones.

Life: Traveling and writing about it.

Word: Damnit. I like the way it curls around my teeth.

Ending: The End (written in a scripty font).

DAMN THE MAN

Here is a list of things I have continued to do since a boy roommate moved into the house that I probably shouldn't do:

1. Change my clothes with the door open.

2. Openly complain about feminine hygiene products (I've also thrown them at him).

3. Openly complain about the causes for the need of feminine hygiene products.

4. Walk around the house without a bra on.

5. Not put clothes on when I have to use the bathroom at 4 in the morning.

6. Attack Katie and tickle her.

7. Not always close the bathroom door all the way (in my defense, it is sometimes hard to close because it sticks).


Just a thought.

WHY I'M A TERRIBLE GIRLFRIEND

Man Friend and I are what some uneducated individuals might consider "verbally abusive." What I mean by this is we pull out all manner of "your mom" jokes and "no, you are" and "that's what she said." (Man Friend is the SOLE perpetrator of the "that's what she said" crap. MY sense of humor is MUCH classier). I, unfortunately, suck at "your mom" jokes which just so happen to be the go-to joke of choice and Man Friend starts to get VERY annoyed when I give up and pull out a, "your mom is a whore." (She isn't and I like his mother but I really do suck at this game.)

Well, today. Today I tried to mix it up a bit. I don't remember the exact prompt but it was something along the lines of an accident and my BRILLIANT retort was, "well, you're a..."

"Yeah! Say it! Just say it!"

Now, under most normal circumstances, this retort wouldn't have been THAT bad, but Man Friend? He's adopted. And I've known this since BEFORE I MET HIM.

Sigh.

I'm going to blame it on the hormones.

AIRING OUT THE DIRTY LAUNDRY

Can you get fired for calling a manager a caustic asshole?*

I hate retail. I hate managers of retail stores (and food service but that's another story). NEVER IN MY WORKING CAREER have I EVER disliked a manager, unless... that's right. Retail. What is it about the phrase, "Customer service is our number one priority," that turns what MIGHT (and I use this term loosely) be normal people into raving control freaks with condocending undertones? Is it the POWER of it all because for for the love of all that is holy, it's r-e-t-a-i-l. Ooooooo! Color me impressed.

I'll give it one thing though. It has certainly taught me how to go from glaring at a manager and in one quick and easy quarter turn be smiling and asking in an apparently genuine tone how a customer is doing and what I can do to further help them today. Here. Here is my soul.

Let me give you an example of WHY these managers are so bloody effing charming in a convenient "what I thought" and "what I said" format:

Me to a customer: "Here is your receipt. Have a good evening!"
Turning to Bossy McBoss who is checking out: "Employee number?" (So the man can get his employee discount)
Bossy McBoss: "You know, usually at these places they tend tp greet you with a 'hello, how are you?'. Here it seems they just bark out 'employee number.'" (This wasn't even said TO me. It was said to his girlfriend. Can you say passive-aggressive?)
What I thought: "Are you bloody effing serious?"
What I said: "I do greet customers."
Bossy McBoss: "I would hope. Can you throw in (some other item) too?"
What I thought: "No."
What I said: "I would be happy to do that for you today, sir." (Yes, I really did say that and NO, I'm not proud of it.)
B McB: (Looking at the receipt) "Oh wow, you DID charge us for everything."
What I thought: "Imagine that! I'm competent at my job! And without the proper body parts to boot!"
What I said: "Yup. Have a nice evening."


*I didn't actually CALL a manager this but Lord strike me dead if I didn't THINK it to myself.

BRINGING THE SMACK DOWN

This weekend was full of attempted dutch ovens, ticklings, near suffocations under the covers and LOTS of, "don't you dare (insert not nice action here)'s," followed quickly by, "OW! BUTTHEAD!'s."

Some of the more noted occassions were Man Friend biting my arm, snapping me with a towel, and putting a bike helmet on my head and then hitting the helmet, which wouldn't have been THAT bad except one of the little plastic chin strap pieces is UNDER the helmet and got pushed into my head.

Don't fret however. I got him back. The most notable of these attempts was shoving a finger under his nose (a perfectly clean, relatively sterile finger) and telling him to sniff it (there may or may not have been a wedgie given as well).


NOT ANYWHERE NEAR G-RATED:
Mom: "Did I tell you that we had decided to get you and your (older) sister a hotel room you all can share with your significant others (at the youngest's wedding in August)?"
Me: "Yeah, you told me. Guess we're going to have to come up with some sort of sock on the door knob system then, aren't we?"
Mom: "Things I didn't need to know."

Me: "My dog won't be like that. I'll keep the pooch on a tighter leash than I keep him (Man Friend)."
Rusty: "..."
Dad: "Don't worry, Rusty. If you fly over (my home town) you'll see the dirt path I've run around the end of my lead."
Me: "Just shy of those tittie bars, huh Dad?"

Man Friend: (He got shocked, as in high voltage electricity coursing through his body, this week) "It felt like someone kicked me in the chest. My nuts jammed so far up into me, I thought I was going to choke." (That is more a rough guesstimation what was said because I don't remember EXACTLY.)

BARNESY, BARNES, BARNES!!!

I have attempted to use this site to try and entertain the masses. Occassionally it's hit or miss but I think I've done a fair job, so when I hear that one of my masses (no, that is NOT a fat joke) is despressed... WELL! I'm going to do my damnedest to try to cheer them up. So may I present to you:

TOP 10 REASONS I HEART ERIK WITH A K!!!*

10. He works with crazy people.

9. The man is brilliantly sarcastic with a dry wit that is like the creamy sauce on top of the fetticini.

8. He's going to be a pro-wrestler.

7. He's like the Rock only A MILLION TIMES COOLER!

6. He's definately not ashamed of his MASSIVE action figure collection.

5. He doesn't get all squeamish when I make dirty jokes, and often times joins in.

4. He gives really good hugs.

3. He isn't bitter and resentful of (most) women.

2. He has superhuman powers. It's true. I've seen it. It's called compassion.

1. He writes the greatest theme songs KNOWN TO MAN!


*There are certainly more than ten reasons but I had to end this entry somewhere.

FEEL BETTER, ERIK WITH A K! I command you!

MORE THAN JUST A ROOMMATE

"Katie, I think I have a (left blank for your well being and because there actually ARE some things I won't admit to the web viewing public... let us just call it a "thing")."

"Are you sure it's a thing? Do you want me to look at it?"

"Not really."

"Well, I could tell you if it actually IS a thing."

"..."

"...?"

"FINE!"

(Looking intently at some part of my body) "That's a thing alright."

"We must NEVER speak of this again."

TOILETTE

"We have a girl bathroom. There are no magazines in there. It is not set up for power pooping."

"You know what you can do to fix that?"

"There's a boy here now. He can fix it, though arguably he has not yet asserted his dominance over that part of the house. He did however attempt to mark his territory by clogging the bathroom sink with his chin pubes*."


*And leaving the toilet seat up.

DISJOINTED AND HAPHAZARD (MUCH LIKE MY GRIP ON REALITY)

I can relate. It's like a disease! Specifically, syphallus. Except incurable. The part I'm really digging for is that it eats your brain rendering your head full of swiss cheese.

IN OTHER NEWS:
About my copy editing professor. Beyond the fact that the man is categorically insane and insatiably long winded, it DISPLEASES me the way he talks about design.

GRANTED, he does say that simply because you're familiar with a program doesn't mean you can design and granted, newspaper design is unlike what we are taught at DAAP, it still drives me up a freaking wall when he talks about teaching something in five WEEKS that I had to study for five YEARS. Not that I'm the best designer ever and I haven't ever seen his stuff but COME ON. There is SOMETHING to be said about raw talent (which I don't really feel I was blessed with - shut it, you naysayers. Design is hard and it has a whole hell of a lot to do with the fact that I'm too hard on myself) but I refuse to believe that EVERYONE in that room has a smidgen of it.

AND FINALLY:
When I finally get my dogget I promise not to do this. Okay, MAYBE the harem dog but only to shame and humiliate him when he shows himself for the slut he really is.

CONFESSIONS

God damn, I'm a bitch.



I'm sorry.

ABOUT AS GRACEFUL AS AN OSTRICH MATING DANCE* **

*For those of you who don't get this analogy, I apologize. For those of you who do, I profusely apologize.
**Yes, I do watch a lot of the Discovery Channel.

I am not graceful. Shock. I can trip while not even walking. I have no doubt you've all seen that "keeping my balance" dance I perform whenever I lean too far to one side and have to bounce around to regain a normal standing position and to prevent myself from crashing bodily to the floor.

Unfortunately, that little hop along dance isn't always an option. Like when I'm squatting. At work. In front of the printer.

Now, I work at the customer service desk. This means I am completely surrounded. There is MAYBE three feet of space from the wall where the printer is located to the wall that is the actual desk that customers (and by customers I mean devil spawn) stand at, asking me in all sorts of demeaning and unflattering tones to do their evil bidding. There was plenty of wall space for me to merely reach my hand back and catch myself as I teetered off balance while in that unflattering squat. At least you'd think.

I reached my hand back all right to what I thought was the drawer. I was off by about 5 inches. Rather than the drawer, I planted my hand and thus my weight onto the flap creatively put into the wall to hide the trashcan. I fell down.

Luckily, our trash almost entirely consists of paper products so it isn't horrendously disgusting to accidently stick your palm into the garbage but that same little flap that betrayed me? It also raked its little corner across my arm.

Two managers were behind the customer service kiosk with me at this point (neither of them doing a damn thing to help me out with the barrage of people standing before me). One asked in the most disgusted tone if I was alright. The other couldn't breath enough to even make an audible chuckle, the same manager that told me, after I asked if she'd gotten a haircut, that no, she hadn't gotten her hair cut, she'd just bought a shampoo that makes your hair shrink AND MY BRILLIANT RESPONSE?!

"Really?"

...

I deserved to fall on my ass in front of a lot of people.

HOW DO I POSSIBLY EXPLAIN THIS? (continued)

I forgot one of the better thing that resulted from the costume, the thing that made me laugh so hard I thought my insides would liquify and forcibly leave my body.

While Danny was still packing that lovely image as seen below, someone (Dan) suggested he sneak himself around the corner and "present" himself to Jenny because she was a) sitting, and b) face height with his crotch.

So Danny, of course, did.

And Jenny shrieked. She actually screamed when presented with Danny's penetrating manhood in her virginal face.

This is what it's like when girls swoon over Danny. Some of us can't breath. Others scream for joy.

HOW DO I POSSIBLY EXPLAIN THIS?

I threw Dan (another) "Go Away" party tonight. Because he's going away (Guatamala). Forever (2 years).

In the process of packing, Dan found a number of things he put into a grab box for all of us at the party to take away a piece of him in his absense.

He packed a special bag for Danny.

In this bag was a Warrent t-shirt, a blond wig, and red spandex track pants. Think about it. Roll it around. Settle it under your tongue. Let that just sink in a moment. Yup.

I'm completely unashamed to admit we're JUST that kind of crowd to encourage Danny to put it on and Danny is JUST that kind of guy to succumb to our peer pressure.

For those of you with queezy stomachs, I suggest you look away.


May I present what Danny is packing. You know you want to hit that.

So after he removed the fruit and potatoes from his nether regions, I was still debating putting the produce back into the feed bin rather than throwing out the testitaders. Innocently, I pointed to Danny's crotch and said with no shame, "can that thing penetrate?"

He looked down, almost dejectedly and responded, "I sure hope so. That IS what it's for."


Oh, it can penetrate all right. It just raped my eye sockets. I dare you to try and look away.

BECAUSE I'M INSANE

The Man Friend and I were walking through the mall the other day, specifically the younger adult apparal when this little sprite of a conversation convulsed forth:

"I'm going to piss off my kids something awful when I tell them I'm not buying them shit like this because they'll look like filthy sluts and arrogent little pricks."

"Glad to know I won't always be the mean one."

"Nah. But I think I'd be a good mom."

"I agree. You'd make a great mom."

"Well, probably. You know, after I got past the first few stressful years of no sleep and the screaming."

"Just until I got you drinking again. Heavily."

SCAPEGOAT

I started taking the Pill. No, not for THAT reason but rather as an attempt to level out my hormones. I've been on it two days. You wouldn't think that's really enough for it to have much effect but I have been in a foul enough mood the last two days that I need SOMETHING to blame it on.

Hello, little blue scapegoat.

This is usually the part of the month when I'm okay with who/what I am and where I'm going/what I've done. But not right now. Nope. Every little insecurity is latching itself to my leg and it wants my full attention which, being the overly self-critical worry wart that I am, I am only too happy to supply.

The really pathetic thing? There isn't so much going on right now that I can't handle it. Granted it isn't the best of situations. It isn't what I REALLY want. I'm just being a huge pussy. I'm just too scared to really do anything about it.

And talking to Mom about it had the reverse effect of what I was hoping for.

SMOOTH AS A BABY'S BUTT

I did something dumb.

The worst part? It was ENTIRELY my own idea. I thought it would make life simpler. I thought it would save me time but there are just certain things better left to professionals and the tearing of one's own hair from ((cough)) down there is one of them.

It started off simply enough. As I was haunched over in the shower shaving away at the inevitable strays that make the bikini line just oh-so-unappealing it came to me. Why not forcibly remove said bikini line hair with HOT WAX?! On the most delicate part of my body?! It'll be easy! I do it to my eyebrows all the time!

Pity the tolerance for pain on my face doesn't translate below the belt. Who knew?

To Sally Hansen I go to get the proper supplies. I absolutely refuse to tell you how much I spent but suffice to say it was too much. I even bought a spray-on numbing agent.

So away I spray, securely seated on a towel on the bathroom floor (I'm not putting my butt on that floor. It's hairy) and slather on a nice, thick coat of Wicked Witch of the West Green wax. Rub on a strip to make sure it sticks, hold taunt and OH MY EFFING GOD WAS THAT UNPLEASANT. Not only was my nether region NOT numb, it made the wax not want to stick to the strip. Multiple attempts were made at removing THE SAME CLUMP of wax. To. No. Avail.

BUT! I'd thought of this and my kit kindly came with a bottle of Wax Off, for the purpose of removing left behind waxy residue! One problem? The Wax Off was on the other side of the bathroom.

Yes, I most certainly did. For those of you who have read that horrible email that did NOTHING to dissuade me from this endeavor, you know what is about to happen. I stood up. I IMMEDIATELY regretted that decision. I waddled uncomfortably to the Wax Off and proceeded to rub it onto the problem area. But here is the real kicker, what they don't tell you in school. This miracle Wax Off shit? About as effective as my numbing agent. Oh, it clears the wax off the skin alright, makes it nice and brittle so you can chip it away. But it's a REAL pity if some of that wax just so happens to still be attached to some hair. Now you're forced to remove those chunks A LITTLE BIT AT A TIME. And what's more unpleasant than ripping hairs out by the root? Doing it slowly and in small increments.

And the real bitch of it all? It's patchy. I still have to go over my bikini line with a razor to clean up the parts that didn't turn out so smooth. And for what? It's not even bathing suit season! Apparently, I didn't think I had enough material for here. Needed to spice it up a bit. LEARN YOUR LESSONS FROM ME KIDS. If you're brave dumb enough to go through with it, professional is the way to go.

I'M AN IDIOT

"'We put the Oh! in flowers?' There's no 'O' in flowers."

"Are you serious? What have you been smoking?"

"Not a damn thing."

THINGS THAT JUST AIN'T A GONNA HAPPEN AT MY AGE

Man Friend met my parents for the first time Sunday which resulted in this conversation Saturday:

"What time do you want to meet up with my folks tomorrow?"

"((CENSOR)). I forgot all about that. I was going to get a hair cut. Why didn't you remind me? (Oh no he didn't.)"

"I do believe I DID just remind you. Besides, it's something important. Why didn't you remember? (That's right. I went there.)"

Come Sunday, Dad and a scraggly haired Rusty bonded over OSU football and powertools and Mom did her classic mom routine of jumping to her worse possible scenerio (but saying it as if she were joking) by asking me if he was "the One" and if she should start saving up for the wedding. I assuaged her concerns with my typical response of hands over the ears and yelling "lalala" so as not to hear her, BECAUSE I'M MATURE. Certainly mature enough to be getting married any time soon.

BUT, just maybe what I'm saying is start airing out those hunter green crushed velvet bridesmaid dresses ladies with the pretty orange sash and the puffy sleeves and the lace that goes up to your throat. Does that paint a pretty picture for you? HUH?!? DOES IT?!?

THAT'S MY GIRL

Me: "I'm on top of things."

Jenny T: "Yeah. Like band geeks."

Me: "... Oh, well played."

WORKER PRODUCTIVITY

So I noticed something this morning. I am WAY less likely to procrastinate if I have to get up EFFING EARLY IN THE DAMN MORNING (6am). I seriously got a lot done, and all before noon. I didn't even know it was legal in this state to do much of anything before noon. I...

... did a two hour training session at work on a new POS system AND got paid for it (this was the entire reason I even got up that early at all).
... bought a case of beer for the party (in bottles because Man Friend is a beer snob). Just an FYI: They actually LET you buy beer at 9 in the morning.
... went to the bookstore which didn't open until 10 so I went to Old Navy instead (and spent some of Daddy's money).
... Half Price Books (I LOVE THIS PLACE MORE THAN I LOVE MY SPLEEN, and I have a pretty damn fine looking spleen.)(They have giftcards is all I'm sayin'.)
... DuBois bookstore to pick up the books Half Price didn't have (and spent some more of Daddy's money).
... PennStation small chicken salad sandwich without tomato and extra pickles.
... finally went home to blog about it all for your enjoyment and to take a nap before my class starts at 4.

I am seriously (about 18%) considering taking this up as a habit.

I WANT TO PUSH THE BUTTON

This weekend, I noticed a button on Rusty's old letterman jacket. It was a photo of him and 6 other guys (4 of which I recognize). In their band uniforms. It HAS to be early high school. They all look like they haven't even a whim of growing facial hair, even our own Dan D. the Human ChiaPet. Granted, some of them still haven't a whim but my point is they looked like they were twelve.

I stole this button. I put it on my purse. I look at this button because it makes me SO VERY HAPPY. And by happy, I mean tingly in all the right places. Seriously. I'm the first to admit I like 'em nerdy but I didn't quite realize how much until my eyes feasted upon high school band geek at its finest.

It isn't that I'm into younger men. I tried that (sorta). It failed (he was only a year younger than the youngest sister). Miserably (it might have something to do with the fact that he's a dick). Worse than miserably (and an asshole). I don't look at high school guys now and feel happy (more like annoyed). But the combination of knowing four of these guys now, knowing who and what they are today (a farmer, a doctor, an engineer, and a welder). My heart is all aflutter and my mind is racing to naughty, naughty thoughts (can I hold your welding torch?).

Rusty wanted the button back. I told him it made me want to take my clothes off. He's going to let me keep it.

IF I HAD A MILLION DOLLARS

Actually, if I simply made more than I do and was fiscally able to spend more than $10 on any one person at Christmas time then, Tiffany, this would be yours.

One day, my dear, sweet sister. One day.

BECAUSE I'M HONEST

"You are the best girlfriend ever."

"Well, thank you, but why?"

"You just are. I say so."

"Yeah, but I wanted a laundry list of reasons as my subtle attempt to get more compliments."

BASE JUMPING

To use an analogy I've used a million times over, I feel as though I am walking straight for a cliff. I have NO IDEA what is in my forseeable future because I. Don't. Have. One. In three months, my entire college career will be O-V-E-R.

And then what?

I don't yet have a job. I don't even yet have a working portfolio. I have NO idea what is to become of me and I am TERRIFIED. While part of me just wants this last quarter to be over and done with so I can finally move on and stop driving myself crazy with the thinking and the plotting and the planning... I am just so very scared right now. I try to hide it from myself, too, with looking up apartments (the VERY fun part of all this) and avoiding the more obvious concerns. This is also why I've avoided my portfolio for so long because it puts in my face that someone gets to look at my work from the past five years that I'm not satisfied with in order to determine if I'm at all worth their time or effort.

And despite what everyone else has told me, that I'm crazy and I will be fine (and don't get me wrong, I really do appreciate the encouragement) I just don't see it. I want to. I want to see it. I want to know that after all of this I will come out okay and that I will actually be able to care for myself without being a burden on my parents and I will be successful and that I'll find the dream job I think I want. Not immediately. I'm not so naive to think I'll find it right off the bat. Hell, I think I'll be lucky to find ANYTHING.

I've been told I'm silly, that I think this taking care of myself thing is way more difficult than it actually is but I have no proof that anything I think is wrong. I haven't ever been made to test it. To test myself. And what if I fail? After all the time and effort and money my parents have put into me, after all this confidence everyone else seems to have in me... what if I disappoint you all? What if I disappoint me? I'm not okay with that. But I'm also not confident enough to say it isn't even an option. Working retail the rest of my life certainly isn't. I'm a planner! I organize things! I am almost obsessively thorough! But I just have NOTHING to work with right now. NOTHING to grasp onto.

And all I can do is keep heading for that cliff and hope to God the parachute deploys.

DAN'S GOING AWAY PARTY - UPDATE 1

EDIT: From now on, all updates about the party can be found here.

Hi kids. The Man Friend kindly pointed out the slight issue of where y'all were going to sleep after this shindig is all said and done because Drew is kind enough to offer us a field, but crashing at his place is NOT an option. Dan's parents MIGHT be up for it but I've yet to speak to Dan about the issue so DO NOT QUOTE ME ON THAT.

Another option is camping it and I've already contacted Christina Jo to see if borrowing her seven man tent is an option (I can't imagine that it wouldn't be). If anyone else knows anyone who owns a tent/has one themselves, I would love to borrow it for the occassion. With regards to the seven man tent, I guess the first seven people who ask me about it get it?

ALSO, this party is BOYB and Knox County is a D-R-Y county. While it is perfectly legal to drink inside county limits, you cannot purchase alcohol within those same county limits so either buy it here and bring it up or buy it at some pit stop on the way up. (Yes, I realize I've previously stated that there would already be beer there but that beer will be lovingly provided by you because I can only afford so much and the Man Friend is generous but even that is too much for him. So, sorry and if that changes your status then you are totally lame and if not, you are totally cool and rock on.)


LIST OF THINGS TO CONSIDER:
- Do you have a tent? Do you know someone with a tent? Do you have a sleeping bag? BRING THEM!!!

- Buy your beer here and bring it with you.

- I will be driving up after work on Saturday (I get off at 3:30 and will be leaving sometime Sunday late afternoon if someone wants to ride with me).

- If you have a folding chair, BRING IT! The real draw of this party is Dan and the burning of a couch. We're pretty much going to hang out and watch things light on fire. I wouldn't burn smores on this fire seeing how it is a couch but maybe we can provide something else like that. Also, another draw for you city slickers is the fact that you can see every freaking star in the sky. Trust me on this. It made it very difficult to walk up the hill last time because I was too busy checking out the Milky Way.


Seriously folks, if this is too much of a pain, I understand but it is for Dan and I feel way more comfortable asking it of all of you FOR HIM than I would if it were any other person. At the same time, I still want enough people interested to make this worth our while to pull it all together so just tell me you're still interested/absolutely for sure coming come hell or high water/or if this is just a bit too much for you and you're going to kindly back out.

That's it for now. There will, without a doubt, be another update later but I will try to warn you about it via Facebook.

WORTH A THOUSAND WORDS (OR 400 TO BE EXACT)

Mysterious I ain't. There is no sexy allure about me that makes men want to know more. I am not coy. I am not demure. I am not enchanting or seductive. I could just never pull it off and I've given up long enough ago that I have no remaining delusions otherwise. It boils down rather simply. I don't willingly hide things (which I'm sure has some direct correlations to my inability to keep my mouth shut). And along with no delusions, I've also accepted and even become okay with the fact that I will NEVER play the role of the beautiful, mysterious stranger.

What I wasn't prepared for was the fact that I am also so predicable. When I started dating Rusty, one of the first things I thought was, "he's not the type I usually go for." This was a good line of thought seeing how successful I'd been in the past dating guys who fit my "type". (See: The Asshole) But apparently, I WAS so delusioned to think the men I'd dated in the past fit my type at all.

Please. Allow me to explain myself.

I have a picture featuring Rusty amongst a crowd of 10 other boys at some high school dance. In this picture, Rusty is one of only two NOT wearing sunglasses. He is also wearing a gray plaid suit. Now... I'm all for plaid, particularly gray plaid (See: My own pair of hideously ugly gray plaid pants) but... let's just all take a moment to thank the proper authorities that Rusty was wearing this in high school where such lapses of judgement are wholey forgivable and even encouraged for the future entertainment of others.

He is certainly easy to pick out of this photo IF you know who he is. Chris (Katie's best friend) does NOT know who he is, but that did not stop him from picking up this photo, studying it for nary a minute, and pointing Rusty out of the entire crowd saying that is who he thought I would date.

Further investigation revealed that he didn't so much just look at Rusty and decide he was it, he was simply the one left after the process of elimination. BUT STILL! I am so gut wrenchingly predictable a BOY pointed him out. Not even a woman with her astute powers of observation. NO. It was a man.

Bloody hell.

GOING AWAY PARTY INVITATION

Hi kids. I'm trying to think of brilliant ways to spread the word about Dan D.'s Going Away Party/Couch Roast to be held at Drew's farm and the narcissistic part of me thinks enough of you read this blog for it to make any resemblance of an impact.

What: Dan D's Going Away Party/Couch Roast
When: September 23, 2006
Time: 8, I guess.
Where: Drew's farm. It's far away. I know this. But we can't burn stuff in the city and there will be beer and it IS for Dan. D-A-N. You all know and love this guy. He's so worth a car trip. And he'll be up there anyway.
Why: The man is leaving for TWO WHOLE YEARS to save orphans and widows in Guatamala. The least he deserves is your attendance at some party. There will be beer. And maybe hotdogs. Everybody loves hotdogs. And fire. There will definately be fire. And a couch. In the fire. How cool is that? Definately cool enough for you city slickers to drive 3 hours. Definately.

(And there will actually be a couch this time or Rusty get's shot with the potato gun... which may happen anyway.)

I THINK IT'S A TREND

A recent phone message I left Dan: "So.. are we, like, fighting because I haven't heard from you in a long time and I know I haven't called either and I HAVE worked the last four days and I have to work the next four, too, but I was just wondering because I haven't heard from you. Okay, so call me back. Unless we really are fighting. Because in that case, you suck. Bye."
Dan's response: "When did you turn into such a girl?"

A recent phone conversation I had with Rusty: "Yeah, it was touch and go there during the (OSU/Texas football) game. I was tempted to just end this relationship."
Rusty's response: "When did you turn into such a girl?"

BOO

I have a secret. It's heinous. Really and truly awful. Actually, it isn't much of a secret at all because I somehow manage to tell every new person I meet. It's also the best kept secret EVER KNOWN TO MAN because no one seems to believe me until they witness it themselves.

I am ridiculously easy to startle, and I mean easy like a pubescent boy is easy. Seriously, folks. If someone is STANDING (as in, NOT ATTACKING ME BUT STANDING EFFING STILL) some place I wasn't expecting, I jump. If something doesn't LOOK the way I think it should, I jump. This brings great joy to my roommate but WHY does no one ever believe me when I try emphatically to describe the severity of my reaction? I DON'T EXAGGERATE!!!*

Stop laughing. Stop it. I'm not actually kidding though. If it's a story, well, yeah, but other stuff. Stuff like this? SO. NOT. KIDDING.

So when Rusty ran out of my room and I turned the corner and didn't immediately see him, my brain uber quick went through the mental deduction to figure out he had already turned the OTHER corner and was on his way down the stairs.

Except he hadn't.

And he wasn't.

In the moment it took for my eyes to sweep over to where he was standing he didn't even NEED to say the mumbled, "boo" that tumbled awkwardly from his lips, his hands up like claws. Nope. It. wasn't. necessary. The scream that erupted from the very fiber of my being in turn startled the shit out of him. He LEAPT away from me, falling against the wall, arms up in defense, a disgusted and pained look on his face until the shrillness subsided and I was left clutching the wall and my chest, panting.

The biggest problem with this affliction (asside from the uncontrollably loud screaming) is if I don't manage to startle someone with my reaction, I usually don't get a chance for retaliation. That, however, was not the case this weekend. While Rusty was minding his own business (and showering, as it were) I plowed my way into the bathroom, really just to be a pain in the ass, and went to the end farthest from the door to peak in, the thought process in my head being I was less likely to get wet. He heard the door open and looked out to see what was going on just after I'd managed to sneak by. Satisfied that it was all in his head, he turned around to see my floating head peering at him (the upper half of him) and he nearly jumped out of his skin, yelling obscenities and spouting hatred, and again I was left clutching the wall and my chest, laughing.

And I'm beginning to see why y'all think this is so fun.

*Except for that one time!

WHY I KEEP HER AROUND

Because occassionally, she makes me cookies. And on even rarer occassion, she makes me laugh REALLY. HARD.


"Cookie! I'm going to take 5 cookies and that will be my lunch today."

"Okay."

"As a nursing student you would let me do that?"

"No. As a fat kid I would let you do that."


Yay, Katie! Yay, cookies!

SHUT IT, WOMAN

Nothing in my life is funny right now. I tried. I tried three times to write a post for you, Tiff, so you could get some work done in a relatively happy mood but all I'm freaking doing right now is working... retail. I know you've done it and you're a much stronger soul than I. I bow down at your feet, kiss kiss, blah blah, hail the workaholic queen.

HE THINKS MY VOCABULARY'S SEXY

"How was work today?"

"Work was long and arduous and I'm a big pussy because I don't want to go back."

"You are the only person who would ever use 'arduous' in a sentence."

"Is that why you're dating me?"

"Possibly."

ROUND'S A SHAPE

"The largest waist a Playboy Bunny has ever had is 32 inches."

"Well, that isn't hard. When I run my waist drops down to 30 inches."

"When I run my body waist doesn't change."

"Oh yeah?! Well, when I run I get out of breathe."

CLOUD OF DEATH

Katie likes to try to talk to me whenever I'm on the phone or computer. It's as if the sudden distraction of my attention is all it takes to bring on an attack and she just HAS to tell me this one story RIGHT NOW OR SHE'LL DIE. And some nights, this means she must invade my room. Which is dumb. Because I don't always play well with others.

For example:

Katie was laying on MY bed and I didn't want her there so I smacked her butt as hard as I could. If you know ANYTHING about Katie this fact will not upset you because you'll know Katie has an ass that could WITHSTAND THE FORCE OF AN ATOMIC BOMB.

As means of retaliation, she farted releasing an invisible CLOUD OF DEATH over the vicinity of her rear.

So I forcibly removed her from my bed using my feet.

Yes. That's right. I kicked her onto the floor. And promptly knocked shit over.

In my haste to pick up the things that were now toppled, my face took an UNPLEASANT trajectory, right through the aforementioned CLOUD OF DEATH.

For a moment, neither of us could breath. Me from choking and sputtering, her from laughing herself silly. Again, if you know ANYTHING about Katie, you are WELL AWARE of the fact that she is much like a man in some regards, particularly, the stench that E-M-A-N-A-T-E-S from her posterior.

I'm pretty sure I threw up in my mouth a little.

INTIMACY

EriK: "I may not know much about relationships but I would have to think that a woman being comfortable enough to fart in front of her man is an intimacy unrivaled."

Me: "Well, if that's the case then how intimate is it if the boy farts ON the girl? Twice."

Rusty: "It was an accident! I was asleep!"

Me (asside to EriK): "He's not allowed to be the little spoon anymore."

ASS ICE

*If you want to get truely technical the ice never touched his ass. We put it in the front. But Junk Ice didn't have the same ring.

Imma give you a rundown of my weekendedness in a particular order:

FRIDAY:
Boy Thing gets into town about the time I get off work. We decide to do nothing and rent a movie. My friends decide otherwise. One Matt and two Eric/k's commender my porch (which I must admit is a pretty freaking sweet porch) so THEY can drink and smoke cigars and cloves.

And apparently berate me for being a woman. (SHUT IT ERIK WITH A K! THIS IS MY BLOG AND I'LL TELL THE STORY HOW I SEE FIT!) Now, let's (not) take into account I was hormonal (bitchy) at the time but NO ONE says to me on MY PORCH, and I quote, "Hush woman, the men are talking," and lives to breathe another breath.

All he got, however, was a hearty, "OH ((CENSOR)) YOU," out of me for that. He failed die simply because I would have been the one who'd of had to clean up the blood. And he's huge.

SATURDAY:
Party at my place. You know why I hate having parties anymore? Because y'all are effing slobs but also because I DISLIKE cooking for you people. It's smokey and I'm running around so much I can't enjoy myself.

But you know what is worse? I HATE when someone touches my grill. GET. THE. HELL. AWAY. FROM. MY. BABY.

But that's not funny. Onto what is. Rusty likes to screw with Dan D. and by "screw with" I mean wrestle and generally molest just shy of rape. This particular tussle on the porch resulted in Rusty grabbing Dan around the neck and leaning him back so far that his hips are thrust forward invitingly. I helpfully grab a handful of ice but Matt E. did the honors of shoving said ice into the front of Dan's pants. And rubbing it in.

Luckily for Dan, he wears boxers.

Unluckily for Matt and me, he wears boxers.

Dan picks up the ice that has since fallen from his pant leg and he shoves it into Matt E.'s mouth who then jumps up and runs screaming like a girl through my neighborhood. I get a cube in the mouth, too but I'm not entirely convinced it wasn't worth it.

SUNDAY:
Boy Thing's Jeep breaks down about an hour away from my place so I go keep him company while he's waiting for his dad which means I am the BEST GIRLFRIEND EVER AND DESERVE LOTS OF EXPENSIVE GIFTS AND TOYS. AMEN.

ANAL CLEANING

Katie freaking LOVES it when I have a party. Because I clean. The ENTIRE house. BEFORE the party. Why? Why do I do this? You idiots are just going to mess it up again.

I blame my father.

Come over individually and I see nary a need to lift a finger. Dishes need done? Katie will do them eventually. There are questionable spots on the toilet? I'll hover. The floor has taken on a gray hue under the fine coat of dust? I have dry skin.

But suddenly it's a group and I HAVE TO CLEAN THINGS THAT HAVEN'T BEEN TOUCHED SINCE WE MOVED INTO THIS HOUSE. I watered plants that would have thought the Sahara Desert was a vacation. I WASHED THE SLIP COVER. I moved Frank (the pine tree) and Eliza (the mannequin*) just to mop the hardwood floors.

My sister may be uber anal when it comes to organization (according to D2Mom) but there are two people who are as anal (if not more so) than she is and they would be our father and me. Daddy taught me everything I know (that I hadn't already inherited). A forensic team couldn't find any sort of evidence in this house. Party on.

*Yes, we really do have a mannequin. Here is a picture of Aaron molesting Eliza at the luau this past winter.


It was his idea to wear her bra. He was TOTALLY SOBER. I'm not kidding.

WHY I LOVE JENNY FROM THE BURG

"I think I might clean the house Thursday so Rusty doesn't actually see my anal cleaning come Saturday."

"Anal cleaning? That's gross."

"... Dude, I meant the house. Not my butt."

TO TIFF'S COWORKERS

I have nothing witty to say today to entertain and regale my sister in the first few minutes of her work day. (Shouldn't you be WORKING, Tiff, instead of using the computer for personal entertainment? Does your boss know you're reading this? HEY! TIFF'S BOSS! SHE'S NOT BEING PRODUCTIVE!)

It was brought to my attention that if I don't satisfy my older, nosy sister's need to pry into my day to day life that she's bitter and resentful and just a royal pain in the ass to work with for a good part of the morning afterwards. (Not that she isn't a pain in the ass regardless.) So this is my apology because now not only is she going to be annoyed because there is no brilliantly funny update from me, but she's going to be uber pissed because I'm making fun of her. For being short. And old. Well, older than me at least. Seriously though. She really is short. I bet if you people went over to her desk right now you could see her little feet dangling JUST ABOVE the floor kicking in a rage. It's cute, isn't it, how she has to sit on the edge of the chair to touch the floor. A good prank would probably be to put her chair at full height so then you could watch and giggle as she jumped up and down trying to get her butt up on it. I bet she could even ride Hey Dog like he was a horse. I have to admit though, she is a hard worker and she'll probably move ahead in your company. Not so much for her astute attention to detail but because her head is at the PERFECT height to kiss some major ass.

And let's not forget she's getting on in years now. She may not technically be "old" yet (though you have to admit she's trying her damnedest to make it to 40) but her memory is getting a little rusty*. And she is a product of the 80's. Big hair (so what's changed?), acid wash denim, stirrup pants**, and pants pegging should all be held against her. So should that one Milli Vanilli cassette.

I would like to take this moment to let you all know I love my sister terribly and I know deep down in her soul she's strong enough to take this sort of abuse (only from me, mind you so DO NOT try this at home) and in her infinite grace and mercy she realizes I'm still wet around the ears and to keep my naivety and innocence in mind as she plots my demise. I would also like her to keep reading and enjoying my blog but woman! You just don't threaten to snitch like that!

LOVE! XOXOXO, Shanny Lynn

*Yeah, how do you like that one coming back to bite you in the ass, huh?! It was lame when you said it, too!
**I actually don't know for a fact if she ever owned or wore stirrup pants.

THE KEY TO WORLD PEACE

"There is nothing better at 10 pm (or 10 am for that matter) than an ice cream sandwich."

AW, HELL NO

It's my fault. I really just can't learn my lesson. I can't get it through my head that stairs are meant to be climbed, NOT bash the SHIT out of my toes.

Exhibit A:

Twice! In two days! Bloody hell. See that stuff in the bottom right corner? That's blood. On my flip flop. And you know what I did when offered a bandage by the woman who worked in the coffee shop I stopped at to get a napkin to wipe up said blood? I told her no. No, I'd rather drag my gaping wound of a toe around C-L-I-F-T-O-N until I could get back home and take a picture of the carnage for my blog.

Steps*: 2; Toes: 0

*Particularly concrete steps. In the middle of a dirty, dirty city.

GET THESE MUTHAEFFING ONIONS OFF MY MUTHAEFFING SANDWICH

Talking to Katie I remembered something that I left out of the previous post. APPARENTLY, Rusty's subconscious either wanted to get back at me for giggling at his anger OR he thinks that deep down inside I have a violent streak just waiting to pounce and rear it's ugly head. Following the harrowing dinner fun, the next day Man Friend informs me he had a dream about me.

"Oh? And what sort of dream was it?"

"You got sent to jail."

"Beg your pardon."

"You got sent to jail. Guy put too many onions on your sandwich so rather than letting me go get you a new one you just hauled off and punched the guy."

"So why didn't you protect me from the police? Why didn't you tell them I was totally justified? Damn onions."

"They tackled me."

So he's the hero without actually DOING anything. I mean he TRIED to save me from the jail inside his head but alas. Even heros have an off day. Or they get tackled by the police while the woman fights the good fight. Stupid, freaking onions.

HONK IF YOUR SERVICE IS GREAT

This weekend the man friend (hereafter known as 'Rusty' - Are you happy now, Tiff? It's on my blog so it MUST be real!) ATTEMPTED to feed me. He eventually succeeded (three hours later by no fault of his own). It started off innocently enough. I was hungry. He was paying. So Friday evening we drove into one of the nearby towns (by 'one of' I mean ONLY nearby town) that is sprawling enough to have TWO legit restuarants. The first one boasted a 45 minute wait to which my grumbly tummy declared we would try out luck elsewhere. Elsewhere just so happened to be Ruby Tuesdays.

Nothing too exciting. Nothing I haven't done before.

We apparently merely suggested to the hostess that we THOUGHT we would like a seat in the smoking section (yeah, mom was surprised, too) but we obviously weren't not too sure. We also apparently told only ourselves that we were going to sit at the bar for the 30 minute wait. First thing we noticed as we walk into the smoking section where the bar is located: two empty tables.

I suggested maybe they're running behind because there were a number of people outside.

45 minutes, someone who JUST WALKED INTO THE DOOR being seated before us, and two MORE empty tables later , Rusty decided to ask the hostess if we might be seated as well. She claimed she walked into the bar and called us. Not so. We were as close as you could get to her little podium and nary did she call our name. Not wanting to make a scene, Rusty asked her again to seat us in the smoking section. And she seated us immediately. In the NONsmoking section. Man friend is not pleased. I suggested lightening up, at least we were seated at this point and conversation turned to dinner.

20 minutes later and the lady at the table next to ours leaned over and asked, "you haven't been served yet?" Very astute madame. As our retained possession of the vivid red menus (I think rather clearly) indicated, we had NOT yet been helped. She told her waiter. He tells us he'll get the manager.

A portly fellow in a white buttonup that just screams inept sauntered on over, KNELT DOWN so he's on our eye level, and asked how us folks are doing this evening. Rusty proceeded to explain the last six paragraphs to the man whose managerial response is, "awww."

AWW?! Are you kidding me?!

He asked how he could make it better but at this point Rusty was sputtering pissed and I couldn't even look at the guy because I was laughing at Rusty for being so pissed. So rather than accepting his generous offer of free, spit on food, Rusty informed the man that we would be leaving as soon as he finished his beer (because he'd actually already paid for that), to which our friend responded, "None of my customers leave unhappy."

Like hell they don't. Rusty's stubborn.

Speaking of stubborn, he also feels the importance of fulfilling all his promises, particularly the one about sitting ON MY PILLOW WITH HIS BARE ASS. I had to drive home THREE HOURS and rather than just being able to immediately crash my head into a nice, fresh pillow, I had to CHANGE THE SHEETS.

And blog about it.

OH! And one more update. For any of you who have known me for any extended period of time (really, we're talking a matter of minutes here people), you know that graceful I ain't. One particular move I consistantly find challenging is, apparently, USING STAIRS. Damnit. It was ONE STEP UP and I didn't lift my foot high enough and now the tip of my middle toe isn't so bruised you can see it, but is bruised enough for me to bitch about it. And I fell, too. Not really because I tripped (which I DID) but rather because of my brains refusal to use the toes I'd just bashed into the metal strip to break the downward motion. Now, I have to give Rusty credit. He didn't laugh (though that smile was a little condesending) and he offered to help me up but the only thing I could think at the time was "Ow. Ow. Ow. Don't cry. Ow."

TRY OUR NEW LIMB REMOVAL SYSTEM

I woke up in an irritable mood today. You've been warned.

My right arm and I are fighting. The whole arm. The right hand and I continue a fragile peace but I fear mutiny at any moment.

You see, the skin on my right arm is forcibly removing itself. In annoying, ugly, white patches.

Why the hell am I molting? Why arm? What did I do to you? Yes, yes, I remember full well burning you in the hot Canadian sun but that was OVER TWO WEEKS AGO and you didn't even get it THAT bad. I've lotioned you since, albeit haphazardly. You have no good excuse for nullifying our relationship and voiding the contract we negotiated in years prior.

And it isn't like I can take a wash cloth to it rid myself of it. That just pisses it off. Maybe I'll just hack off my arm. It isn't like I REALLY need it anyway (yeah, lefty!). I think that punishment suitably fits the crime.

YET ANOTHER VICE

I LOVE caramel.

No. No, wait. LOVE is not a strong enough word to truely express the depths of my feeling about that tan, sugary substance. Alas*, I do not care for caramel on its own. It must be delicately coupled with another to bring about it's truely glorious nature. A coupling such as apples, chocolate, coffee products, or the salty tang of sweat off a naked body.

This is why Nestle Treasures are my FAVORITE CANDY EVER IN THE WHOLE WIDE WOLRD, AMEN. (OH MY GOD, do you SEE that image at the top of the linked page with the chocolate and the caramel and the lighting so pristene on the beautiful oozing center? Knees: weak. Heart: fluttering. MUST. HAVE. CANDY.)

The reaction you see above is also why I do not allow myself to have Nestle Treasures. No self control. It's a real pity but better in the end for my ass if I stay away from the chocolatey, caramely sin.

I do, however, allow myself the caramel treat every now and again in the form of Starbucks (Boo! Damn the man! Down with the corporate giant! Blah, blah, blah! But have you TASTED a caramel frappuccino with no whip and extra caramel sauce?! And the angels came down and said unto the world, "Bask ye sinners in the glory that is a frappuccino." - At least that's how I remember it happening.)


*I really did just use 'alas'. You may commense with the calling me a pretentious bitch.

CANADA! (Ode to my Feet)

Le PARTE TWO-E:
I have to admit this is a little ironic. If you know me at all you know I. HATE. FEET. yet for some reason, I couldn't keep mine the hell out of the Canadia pictures. Therefore, I present to you in their technicolor goodness, my feet.

Water!


More water!


I realize you can't tell but I guarentee this is in fact, still more water. (Yeah, toe ring! It's almost TOO sexy.)


If you don't get what this is by now then NEVER READ MY BLOG AGAIN.


This was me attempting to show how bruised my feet were after Matt "taught" me to play soccer (It's because I have no control and I kick people) but instead this seems to show some strange deformity whereby my feet no longer look like a separate entity from my ankle but come frighteningly close to becoming the dreaded cankle.


May I present for your viewing pleasure: Dirty, sandy feet.


Still dirty but not so sandy feet. I WAS going to take a shower but Canada ran out of hot water. Canada's a bitch.

IT ISN'T CALLED FLIRTING IF I'M LOSING

Okay.

When I say 'wrestle you to the ground' what I really mean is I'll catch you when your guard is down and attempt (rather pathetically) to keep you somewhat vulnerable while I do my best to achieve the second part of the initial threat (in this case licking of the forehead). If such attempts fail, I will make copious excuses to get out of any repercussions there might be as the result of my assault. If THAT fails and I am subsequently covered in excessive amounts of your slobber (IN MY EAR!) and given a sizable wedgie (EFFIN' HUGE!) to accompany my spit bath, my only response is YOU ARE SO GOING DOWN. I don't know when, and I'm not telling you how but you will rue the day.

R-U-E.

NOT TO MOST STANDARDS

Despite how lazy I've been the past week, I feel like, today, I finally got a few things accomplished. Among them:
(BACK OFF ALL YOU PEOPLE WITH YOUR JOBS AND LIVES AND RESPONSIBILIES)

- I got up BEFORE noon.

- I used unnecessary commas in a sentence.

- I showered (AND! I even shaved my legs).

- I went to the grocery store.

- I started* my portfolio.
*Just don't ask me to define started.

Despite ALL of those WONDERFUL GOALS AND ACCOMPLISHMENTS (DROP IT!), I think I forgot one major thing. (I SAID DROP IT!) I cannot for the life of me remember if I brushed my teeth today. I am so VERY disgusted with myself that you don't have to be BUT! instead of immediately rectifying the situation, I decided to tell the internet. I HAVE POOR ORAL HYGIENE. PLEASE JUDGE ME.

I must now to go bravely into the depths and defuzzify what used to be teeth. If I'm not back in five minutes, just. wait. longer.

CANADA! (As told by slightly blurry, not quite compositionally sound photographs)

Le PARTE ONE-E:
Canada was so beautiful sometimes it looked fake as seen here:

Here:

Not here:

Here:

Also note the Estes butt crack Junior is proudly displaying to the right. I swear to God, if not both than at least one brother was sporting this FINE fashion statement AT. ALL. TIMES.

BE GLAD YOU AREN'T RELATED

"I have a great picture to show you."

"You are a cruel person for sending me that."

"Yes, but your reaction made it so worth it. Now you can be cruel to others. OH! I know! I'll send it to Tiff!"

"Nice. I have a feeling that will start a photo war."

"Oh, she can BRING IT! I D-A-R-E her."

"That doesn't sound good."

"Well, I wouldn't tell her that to her face. That would just be dumb."

YEAH, WET WIPES

1) My car got moved. And not by me. This is a good thing. My best guess is Katie and if that is the case I am SO VERY HAPPY that I keep my car keys on the table by the door so that 1) she didn't have to wake ME up to do it since she was up for work anyway and 2) I didn't get a parking ticket. Last parking ticket I got was $40. WTF?! The nice little $10 parking ticket I got in Kentucky was enough to ensure I NEVER PARKED THERE AGAIN! $40 is just excessive. And mean. Bastards.

2) I have no water pressure. AT ALL. The friendly blue notice on my door says I won't have it FOR 6 MORE HOURS. I don't know if the water company got the memo, but I'm done camping. Got back Friday, thanks. (This is also the reason my car needed moved)

3) The Canada pictures will be up... eventually. I have to sort through them and I took almost 200. Don't get excited. None of them are of exceptional quality. Just me dicking around with composition. And now that I admitted that I'm going to be embarrassed to show them to anyone who has even the slightest clue what they're doing with a camera.

"You were in design school for how long? And you had how many photography classes? For SHAME!"

NOSTALGIA

I've been on a quest of sorts to find the cereal my grandparents used to feed me as a small child. It wasn't sugary sweet, to my best recollection it was supposed to be good for me, and I'm pretty sure it was something the elderly community is encouraged by the medical community to eat.

Only thing I know for sure, it isn't All Bran.

But I'm feeling pretty regular.

YOU'RE TOO ENTERTAINING TO GO TO IOWA

I tore my favorite jeans last night. From crotch to midthigh. I leaned over to remove my not-the-sexy bowling shoes and now I need to go shopping.

As a way of consoling me Seth told me a story about his torn jeans. Apparently, Seth carries a LOT of stuff in his pockets. This LOT of stuff tore a hole in his jeans rather high up on his thigh and one day, Seth wore these holey jeans WITHOUT underwear. I'm assuming by the time he realized his mistake he wasn't within the range of a fresh pair of panties so his BRILLIANT, PHILOSOPHICAL solution? He used DUCT TAPE to WRAP AROUND HIS WHOLE THIGH to cover the offending (?) area. Weren't you worried about removing that duct tape later? Along with all your leg hair?

I guess I shouldn't be surprised. This IS Seth.

Seth the beatnik pirate who can't defeat Eric because Eric is a ninja and even though pirates and ninja's are mortal enemies, Seth the beatnik pirate's only real super power is smoking pot.

Seth the amazing sweating man who nuzzles into my cheek and gets sweat IN MY EAR! and then can't understand WHY I'm spazing out.

Seth the bowler extraordinar who decided to make the game a little more interesting last night. For every spare, we had to show our belly buttons. For a strike, our boobs. I showed a whole lot of belly button. Thank God I suck at bowling.



SETH! Don't go to Iowa. They won't appreciate you like we do. Besides, what are you going to do with a MA in Philosophy anyway?

NEW LINKY GOODNESS

Drew M. - At least I think that's what his last name starts with. If I'm wrong, I'm pretty damn sure one of you will not only correct me but then tease me until I cry. (I have been corrected)

Drew is Dan D.'s friend. Drew smells like shit. Drew makes REALLY good cow. It was at Drew's that the bonfire took place. Drew didn't give me a ride on the tractor but then again, I never asked. Drew linked to me first and even though this seems like a rather big jump in our relationship and I thought I told you I wasn't interested in anything serious, I feel pressure to reciprocate since Rusty told me Drew doesn't link to ANYONE. It's just the neighborly thing to do. And it makes me feel like prom queen. Heavy on the queen.


Erik B. - Erik (spelled with a 'K' people, which I think means he can't truely be considered one of the Eric's - spelled with a 'C') is training to hurt people for a living for the entertainment of the nation. Thats right folks, pro-wrestling. I knew another guy who wanted to be a pro-wrestler once. We called him the Polish Thunder. Erik told me once (okay not really but work with me here) that the only way he'll promise not to body slam you is if you buy him a beer. Good beer. In a bottle. None of that can shit (even though the one time I sent Erik out for beer he brought back MGD. In a can).


Dan D. - Best known on this blog for such antics as this, this, this, this, and this, Dan D. finally has a blog all his own. He hasn't written anything yet and probably won't write much once he does start, but he has one. Woo.