Wednesday, December 28, 2005


One thing I noticed about Seattle while I was there: Seattle LOVES it's Nutcrackers. Loves. Though perplexed by this revelation, I didn't try to understand the city's fascination with the painted novelty nut-remover. I decided instead to respect this strange cultural obsession, to observe the rituals of the indiginous peoples of this land by paying homage to the various commemorative shrines, or "cracker-spots" set up around town. I took a few pictures of these sacred, celebrated toy monuments whenever I could.

Here is a playful Nutcracker, diligently guarding the Market like a sprite guards a forest:

A feminine 'cracker; beautifully decorated in a floral-pattern mosaic. This could be some sort of tribute to a primitive diety, or maybe an offering to the ghost of a long-forgotten local banshee. Courtney Love perhaps?:

Despite his incredulous expression, Ryan has assured me that he LOVES Nutcrackers, just like the natives of his chosen homeland:

Even stranger than this hypnotic 'cracker is the strange thing taking place before it. Yes, my friends; this is Kyle on a cell phone. Truly, these objects inspire bizzarre occurances:

And here is the scary "Nightcracker," guardian of the lower streets of Seattle, foe of wrong-doers and criminals, commando in the war on the uncracked, and the primary reason I remain afraid of gay toy soldier holiday items:

Seattleites are a strange people indeed.

Monday, December 12, 2005


I was woken up yesterday at 8:30 by Carl McHoverton, who was at that moment hovering over the bed with a robe in his hands, saying something to me. I said something back to him that sounded like this:
"C'mon, get up! The eggs are burning, the eggs are getting cold," he said.
"Muhhh???" but I complied, slogging out of bed and flopping downstairs in his robe and slippers. Wherupon I discovered two sets of eggs. My eggs, which were still warm, and his eggs, which were not in fact burning. Thank god we sorted that out.

Somewhere in the middle of forking my waffles and eggs down my throat, he springs on me, "hey, I want to go to Pebble Hill today!" Pebble Hill, for those of you who do not know (which is probably all of you), is the nondenominational church that Carl used to attend a few years ago. Conversation continued thusly:
"Pebble Hill. We can totally make it to celebration if we leave soon."
"You are serious."
"Yes! Let's go! Hurry eat faster get dressed water the cats water the Christmas tree c'mon put shoes on!"

So that's how I ended up at church yesterday, knitting and listening to an inspirational sermon. Of course, the minister threw in antecdotal notes about life with his gay partner; the wholesome boy shoveling the sidewalk had dreadlocks; the congregation included a man who wore a dress and his new breasts to service, and an anouncement by one of the community leaders reminded the congregation about the upcoming Solstice feast.

What kind of topic might be discussed by such a minister in such a place? The title of the discussion was "What Star are You Following," roughly translated into hippy speak as (and I kid you not) "Follow the Disco Ball in Your Heart."

Sunday went on to include a drive to New Hope and delicious Thai food in a charming yuppie cafe, but "Follow the Disco Ball in Your Heart?" That there is a priceless moment of togetherness that you just can't recreate, ever.


The Seattle Minutes
Part 4

Wednesday, November 30

10:30 am Put K-Dawg on shuttle to airport. Good thing I was here; he could have gotten lost in the driveway or tripped on some leaves.
10:45 am-5:12pm knit sock, wash dishes, knit sock, watch The View, knit sweater, put dishes away, knit sock, take shower, knit sock, rifle through friend's medicine cabinet, knit sock, etc.
5:13 friends come home; enjoy meal and Simpsons
8:40 leave apartment at perfectly reasonable time in order to make 10:45 flight to CLT
8:42 Get last eyefull of the Space Needle (or Speedle, as the locals call it)
8:46 Gaze upon fair visage of the city that has fed me so well; say a silent ciao
8:47 Pass creepy logo eyes staring down at us from high atop the Starbucks HQ like some caffein-pushing big sister, just letting us know that she's watching
8:49 Bid adeiu to the rolling hills and fresh radio grooves that seem to eminate from them
8:50 Lean forward in seat and say, "Oh shit. I forgot my cell phone"
8:51 Drive back to apartment
9:00 S-money retrieves phone from kitchen
9:01-9:15 big eyefull, last visage, fair sister, ciao Speedle, etc.

9:25 arrive at airport, give hugs goodbye at United check-in sidewalk
9:26 realize I am fly ing U.S. Air; walk there instead
9:32 check in
9:34 security shake-down. Wonder how many times in my life I've done this
9:39-10:03 Meander through gift shops, searching for junk to blow money on. (truffles for mom...what makes these truffles any more Seattle? I mean, Seattle isn't exactly known for it's chocolate...aah..the guilty airport I-didn't-buy-you-anything-yet buy) What would boyfriend like? useless Speedle novelty statuette? A box of salmon for $29.99? um.....shot glass? no...I mean, what says "Seattle" that my boyfriend would enjoy? What?? Settle on box of tea from the Market Spice place.
10:04 cursory glance at food court offerings. Studiously avoid the gaze of Starbucks.
10:05 somehow not hungry. Make way to gate

10:20 board plane
10:25 find seat. Over wing again. Thank god I'm here; these people probably have families to go home to. Seat next to me is empty.
10:45 take off
11:05 drink cart: should I get some coffee?
11:06 No, tomato juice again. Coffee would probably suck. I'm spoiled after all the mornings of good, strong coffee at boyfriend's house. Man, does that guy love his coffee...

Friday, December 09, 2005

Wherein We Meet the People; See the Sites

The Seattle Minutes (expressed here in day form, because it's been a week and I can't remember the minutes anymore)
Part 3

Saturday: Drive up and down many hills and one-way streets so that we can eventually find and gawk at the bridge troll. We sneer at his monstrosity, gasp at his unfortunate plight, and peer up his gargantuan nostrils. I force friends to pose for pictures in front of the troll that all of them have already seen.

Sunday night: Prying ourselves away from number puzzles and knitting, Steph, Kyle and I walk down through the seedy part of town to a closed bookstore; press noses to glass forlornly. Pass many nutcrackers placed around the city in promotion of The Nutcracker. Wish to take pictures of nutcrackers; do not due to prevalence of boisterous homeless specimens roaming streets and overall creepiness of nutcrackers at night. Nutcracker.

  • Meet Ryan for peroshkis at the Market. Savor delicious homemade hot-pocket type thing filled with mushrooms, broccoli and cheese; pretend I am a Polish fisherperson on the way to the docks.
  • Kyle and I walk around Market; see fish trade made famous by Real World Seattle.
  • Take pictures of nutcrackers. (yay for broad daylight)
  • Take pictures of mountains.
  • Take pictures of water.
  • Lose camera.
  • Search frantically.
  • Find camera in own bag; hang head.
  • Go to Elliot Bay, delicious multi-leveled bookstore of my dreams where Harry Potter would have gotten his school books had Harry Potter been set in Seattle. Bookstore is now curiously open for business.
  • After consuming delicious berry/pineapple pizza lovingly handcrafted by Ryan, we decide to go to Dragonfish again. Drunkery and a self-indulgent sushi fix ensues.

Tuesday: Ryan takes us on the sceneic tour of the coldest parts of town so we can meet Steph for lunch. We have Mexican. Will the eating never cease? No, it won't.

Monday, November 28, 2005

Let Them Eat Everything

The Seattle Minutes part 2

November 24
12:40 am arrive at Steph and Ryan's apartment
12:41 Kyle and I tour apartment
12:41 tour ends
12:44 Ryan thoughtfully picks up wine bottle
12:45 somehow find ourselves sitting on the kitchen floor, passing wine bottle and chatting
12:55 finish first bottle
1:20 finish second bottle
1:40 finish third bottle
1:42 make white russians
1:55 experiment with Canadian whisky
1:56 decide that wasn't a good idea
2:10 finish white russians
2:15 we all flop down on enormous sofa-bed to watch Family Guy
2:16 Kyle reminds me that it's actually 5 am our time
2:17 Ryan asks, "what jerk decided to start passing around a bottle of wine?"

12:30 pm grogily eat aspirins
12:45 eat delicious frosted cinnimon rolls

3:30 get cranky while making green bean caserole

4:45 arrive at Samantha's house, meet the other "misfit Thanksgiving" guests
4:46 ogle spread of side-dishes
4:47 drool at spread of side-dishes
4:48 consider volunteering to test out side-dishes, in case of poison
4:49 omg won't someone please carve the turkey? We've been here for like, FOUR minutes!
4:52 Ryan will!
5:05-6:00 ravenous hoovering of Thanksgiving. It was everything I knew it could be and more.
6-9 sipping of various wines, discussing of the local music scene, admiring of the view from the veranda. Am simultaneously impressed, jealous, and suspicious of this heady, metropolitan lifestyle.
9:00 sophistocated metro people make hand turkeys. Ah, the great equalizer.
10-12 play complicated drinking game, pick at carcass. Spoon leftover sides into gullet.
12-1 Twister: drunks vs. sobers. Take amusing pictures of each other in comprimising positions, go home.

November 25
12 noon
lets never eat again.
2:00 late lunch at the 5 spot. Consume "Aunt Em's" potato pancakes, pork chops and eggs in down-home midwestern-themed diner/bar.
5:30 feast of cheeses, crackers, beer and apples. Delicious.

November 26
10 am
Steph and I arrive at Starbucks to meet her friends for knitting.
10:02 I cannot efficiently pronounce either "Grande Caramel Machiatto" or "Pumpkin Cream Cheese Muffin" in a timely fashion. I am obviously from some po-dunk town where they don't have Starbuckses. Everyone shakes their heads in dismay. They pity this ignorant buck-toothed country specimen before them. Oh, the shame.
10:45-11:30 Unpronounceable muffin is awesome. Two other knitting friends arrive. Discuss Thanksgiving dinner at the home of one of their SO's family: "These people don't even know what organic food is." "How is that even possible?" "Most traditional dinner ever. I mean, they actually had Stovetop stuffing." "NO!" "Yes." and so forth. I am amused.
12:00 Steph and I treat ourselves to her lucious yarn store.

4:30 warm-up happy hour at Dragon Fish. Sushi, sake, beer. How can life get any better than this?
6-8 wander around Barnes & Noble and the mall. acquire samples of candy and apple cider.
8:00 dinner at Morraccan resteraunt. Meet Samantha and Manuel (one of the Twister crew) for "5-course feast," including lentil soup, salad, strange sugared meat pie, an entree, and desert with tea. All eaten with our hands.
9:00 belly dancer appears
9:10 people start putting dollars in her belly chain. I am very disturbed by this.

10:00 pay bill, wander around street, find coffee shop with a sign outside that says "Bauhau's! Where it's slightly less cold than where you are right now!" This is not a very ambitious campaign for our business. Amusing gay barista inside makes up for this.
10:05 really. A coffee shop in Seattle. I know.

November 27
4:00 pm
dinner at Bucca de Beppo's. Family-style feasting.
5:00 Oh, my god. Why did we eat so much?
5:30 food induced coma prevents further activity. ever.

Sunday, November 27, 2005

See Mo fly. Fly, Mo, fly.

The Seattle Minutes, part 1

November 23
5:30 arrive at PHL 1 1/2 hours early so as to avoid throngs of Thanksgiving travelers
5:33 complete e-tix check-in, obtain boarding pass from convenient, easy-to use machine
5:35 smuggle knitting needles, pen, and car keys through security
5:41 arrive at gate

6:40 board plane, sit between Nebraska-bound Harvard student who laughs every two minutes and perfect black woman from the 70's, complete with sexy poncho and fro. Wish to take both home with me.
6:45-7:31 sit on tarmac, waiting. Discouraged from rioting with Willy Wonka.
7:32 take off
7:45 obtain cup of tea, continue watching weird Johnny Depp interpretation. Eat tiny bag of pretzels, lament the passing away of airplane peanuts.
7:52 legs fall asleep
8:45 (Chicago time) land in Chicago

8:55 emerge victorious upon land, pee at nearest receptical
8:57 obtain overpriced Starbucks comfort fluid
9:05 travel underground conveyor-belt walkway; barraged by frentetic neon lighting along the walls and ceiling; feel like factory item assembled on acid
9:09 arrive at gate to SEA, sit against wall
9:10 text everyone I know so as not to feel alone in an exotic land
9:11 notice that everyone arround me is working on a paper. I have found the place where college kids go when they are not starring in my version of Felicity. Miss college. Do not miss Felicity.
9:12 lust after girl's scarf; wonder if she made it. Wonder if I could make it for me.
9:13 reply to reply texts; I am loved.
9:14 notice sweater coat on different girl; more lust
9:15 hate waiting
9:16 hate waiting
9:17 waiting I hate

9:40 board plane aquire window seat in row all to myself. Hahahahahaha. Mine mine mine.
9:55 take off 15 min late
9:56 notice how much wing wobbles upon take-off; recall that airplanes are mostly glued, not bolted together. Use the force to keep wings on plane. Save throngs of holliday travelers. Am hailed as a hero and showered with roses and yarn and gift certificates to Victoria's Secret.
10:20 try to watch Willy Wonka again. Try watching in Spanish. Still annoying. Give up.
10:21 read that the initials for the Charlotte Dougless Int. Airport are CLT. Will never forget this.

10:22 anticipate drink cart, cannot decide what I want. pepsi, tea, apple juce. tea. tomato juice, a screwdriver, tea. tomato juice. screwdriver. tomato juice screwdriver tomato juice screwdriver tomatoscrew. screwmatodriver.
10:26 spill drops of tomato juice on book.

11:04 use W.C. and extraordinarily unabsorbant T.P.
11:05 wish to punch chatty flight attendant in the boob. She is chatty. And annoying. And needs a punch in the boob.
11:07 spray water all over self with unexpectedly pressurized water bottle.

11:09-2:01 lay down on bed of sharp seatbelts and pillow of plastic armrest for delicious, restful nap, punctuated only nine or eleven times with moments of discomfort

12:02 (Seattle time) awakened by soothing sounds of pilot; look out window and down into the hills of Seattle, shrouded in a layer of mist that is all lighted from beneath like under-water explosions, frozen in time
12: 11 land in a sea of fog

Monday, November 21, 2005

An Email Exchange

R-Spot: That's just silly. (Link to the listing for the entire Buffy DVD set)

Mo: dude, I'm good for a ten-spot or two. But I want her on weekends and some holidays. And maybe take her on a Disney cruise next summer. Just me and Buffy on a Disney cruise...only the best for my little DVD set...

R-Spot: That's fine. I have no use for her anyway... The holes in the DVDs are just too small...

Sick, dude.

And ouch.

Friday, November 18, 2005

Goody Hoff had it coming.

Today I am twenty-four. Which is definitely mid-twenties, which is definitely almost thirty. I am so. grown. up.

But, she doesn't have one baby yet! She's not even married! What an unfortunate burden on her family she has become. I frankly feel sorry for the puir dear. Lord in Heaven, what man would have her now? Any minute her tits are going to fall down and her face is going to dry up...I mean, she is pushing thirty and all. It's not even safe to have babies at her age!

Does any one else have a Medeival village of rabble rousers living in their head? Cause I don't.

Stone her! I saw her put a pox on Goody-

Goddamnit. Shut up, you!


Ok then. You know, I have a feeling that I will always feel like I'm too young or too inexperienced or too unqualified to do whatever it is that I'm doing. I will be forty and have a doctorate and a big house and six kinds of insurance, and I'll still feel like I'm not ready to have a real job or real kids or be responsible for anything of consequence. Like I don't know something that all authentic, certified grown-ups know, and any minute I am going to be found out for the fraud that I am. I bet a lot of people go through their whole lives with the nagging sensation that they don't know what they are doing. I guess I'd better accept that now.

So today there will be Harry Potter and Olive Garden with loved ones, brought to me by Carl. I'm wearing something cute, the sun is shining, my dad called me on the right day, and my tenure as a pizza slave has all but ended. Next week, I will fly out to Seattle, whereupon we will tear it up; wine, cheese, crackers, the whole shebang. Everything is right with the world. Happy Birthday to me.

Saturday, November 12, 2005

I've Got Your Flare Right Here.

Douchy Imported Manager In Training: (approaching me doing the "cowboy guns" bang-bang thing with fingers) Hey hey! There she is! Miss Doesn't-Wear-A-Name-Tag! Miss, gee I don't know, Wears-A-Hat.

Miss Wears-A-Hat: Um. No.

D.I.M.I.T: No? No what?

M.W.A.H.: No, I do not wear name tags.

D.I.M.I.T.: (overexagerated pouty face) you dooon't? You do know it's part of the dress code? (taps own tag knowingly)

M.W.A.H.: I am way too cool to wear something so douchy. Way.

Other Delivery Guy: (dies in a puddle of laughter behind D.I.M.I.T.)

Friday, November 04, 2005


Monday night was a night of pizza delivery in which every single pizza was at least an hour late. This was influenced by both Monday night football and every single schmo in the greater RoFo area stuck at home handing out candy to trick-or-treaters, and the fact that there was only one other driver besides myself. Afterward, I sat down and wrote my place of employment a little note. I wonder if they were able to read the subtext. I'll spell it out to you here, just in case.


Dear ::Pizza Hell:: Management Team,

It is with a heavy heart (fuck you) and deep regret (fuck you) that I must offer my resignation (fuck you). Let this missive (fuck you) serve as my two week's notice (fuck you).

My last date of available employment at this fine establishment (fuck. you.) will be Thursday, November 17. Thanks for all the good times (fuck yooou). These memories will last a lifetime (no, no, fuck you).

With much regard (and fucking of you),

Morgen :-)

What do you think? Too subtle?

On Tuesday, the only sane member of the management team approached me, hands raised in a gesture of surrender, and said "Ok, ok. I'll let you quit if you agree to stay on the schedule for a few days a week. How's that?"


Friday, October 28, 2005

and suddenly, my job is Just. That. Annoying.

Pizza Slave: Will this be for drive-up window or delivery?
Customer: Are there any specials today?
Pizza Slave: Not that I am aware of.
Customer: (in baby-cute pout) OOOooooohhhhHH! No specials for Tuesday??
Pizza Slave: ......No.
Customer: (still pouting) oooohhhhh....alriiiiiight....(mercifully hangs up)

That's right. Whine in my ear and there will instantly be specials. Specials for Tuesday.

High-Maintainence Customer: And can I have all of the meats and cheeses for that salad on the side?
Pizza Slave: Sure.
Crusty Lumped-Up Manager with Pit Stains: Pizza Slave!! Can you please tell me how the hell am I supposed to put all this shit on the side?
Pizza Slave: I don't know. That's what she wanted.
C.L.U.M.P.S.: HOW the FUCK am I supposed to put it on the SIDE for a TO GO salad??
Pizza Slave: *blink* I don't know, CLUMPS, I'm sure you'll think of something.
C.L.U.M.P.S.: (in a voice that customers can definitely hear from the dining room) YOU TELL ME HOWTHEFUCK I'M SUPPOSED TO DO THIS!!
Pizza Slave: I DON'T REALLY CARE, CLUMPS! It's not my PROBLEM!
C.L.U.M.P.S.: (in high, mocking voice) ooooh, its not my proooblem!
Pizza Slave: You're WARPED.
C.L.U.M.P.S.: oooooh, you're warped! *waddles off like the lumbering hose-beast that she is*

Adults should not speak to each other this way. I might as well be dealing with 14 year-olds with emotional problems.

And the kicker. The moment when I started thinking that maybe my career as a Pizza Slave has run it's course:

Inept Store Manager: And, as a thank-you for taking on all of these hours I suddenly dropped in your lap because Joe the asshole driver quit, I'm putting you in for a raise!
Pizza Slave: Oh yeah?
I.S.M.: Yeah! I think doubling your work load and putting you on nights with no warning is worth giving you a raise to $6.25/hr.
Pizza Slave: *is at a complete loss for words*
I.S.M.: Is that okay?
Pizza Slave: *wonders how she can explain to I.S.M. that putting the word "raise" in front of a ten-cent pay hike does not make it a gift. wonders if I.S.M. is trying to insult her on purpose. wonders if she is supposed to say "thank you" in a situation like this. wonders how long this pause has actually gone on. wants to laugh in I.S.M.'s face SO badly. instead of saying "thank you," unexpectedly says,* well, whOOOOOhOOOOOO!
I.S.M.: (who's mouth has actually dropped open) ....won't that help you out?
Pizza Slave: Oh. Yeah. It will help me out. A lot. *starts walking away*
I.S.M.: Well, I can try to ask for $6.50, if that would be better?
Pizza Slave: No, no. I'm good. Thank you.

Thursday, October 13, 2005

Toad Escapes Basement to Wreak Havoc; Lounges

Really. This monster amphibious creature clawed it's way from the under-verse of Carl's basement,

commenced a search-and-destroy mission upon all human life above ground, raining chaos and misery wherever its dour glance happened to fall, required us all to call it "Commendant of Wartcropolis, Bearer of Doom, Ancient Master of the Unholy Nether-World Beyond,"

and then took a little rest, requesting cucumbers for its eyes and a mamosa.

Tuesday, October 11, 2005


Mo: Hi.
Moville: Hi.
Mo: How've you been?
Moville: Do you really care, or are you just making polite conversation?
Mo: Oh, don't be like that. Of course I care!
Moville: You don't post pictures, you dont write...what's a blog to think? I mean, my whole exsistence turns on a word-hell, even a visit from you, and as far as I can tell, You have forgotten that you even created me!
Mo: No! No, I haven't forgotten! I've just been a bit...
Moville: Busy?
Mo: Yeah. Busy.

Mo: I really do mean to write...
Moville: But?
Mo: ...but I have nothing worth writing about.
Moville: Oh, please. Like you ever hand anything worth writing about. "Red Beans 'n Rice?" "Office Haiku #3?" All you ever bring me is little bits of nothing, so if you have nothing to write about, you should be all set to go! So get to it! Let's try, "Toad Escapes Basement to Wreak Havoc; Lounges."
Mo: Well, that's it exactly. This is a great place for fluff, for the odd bits of funny flotsam jumbling up my head. But I don't seem to have any of that floating around up there just now. Do you see?
Moville: Not really.

Mo: Well, um...OK-Have you ever felt so dully resigned that all of the glittery fragmented possibilities of "what is" and "what could be" sort of fade out of focus and die?
Moville: Resigned?
Mo: Yeah. Resigned to your crappy job, to your ugly car, to the fact that you took the turnpike instead of 309 but it's too late to turn back, to you whole dusty life, slowly grinding forward day by predictable day? Resigned-when you thought there would be more, but have accepted that there is not, and don't even really think about it anymore?

Moville: ......

Moville: I am an imaginary bit of stationary whose sole purpose is to record and serve the thoughts of a single sniveling human animal. A human animal who, by the way, is a terrible speller. Who might step in front of a bus tomorrow, leaving words everywhere more correctly spelled, but also leaving me alone and adrift in a soup of impulses and unfriendly spammers, or worse, erase me on a whim because I don't "reflect her, you know, creatively." I am a few pages of electronic code that is sustained by and dependant upon the competance of programmers and disinterest of hackers. I have no mass. I'm not even speaking right now. You are just talking to yourself and pretending that I exist so you can feel like you told someone who cares. No. I know nothing about resignation. Why do you ask?

Mo: I don't know. I thought maybe you'd understand.
Mo: I guess not.
Mo: You don't have to be a jerk about it.
Mo: I know you are, but what am I?
Mo: All right, I'll be back soon with some pithy scrap of nothing to justify your world.
Mo: Don't force it. You'll just embarrass yourself.

Monday, September 19, 2005

I'm just talking 'bout Harry.

Cause he's one bad mother-

-Shut yo mouth!

He's a complicated man!


I just saw the new HP movie trailer last night. It happens to be coming out on my birthday. I know they did this just for me, because I am awesome. Thanks, HP people. I love you so.

Tuesday, September 13, 2005

Won't Someone Think of the Red Beans 'n Rice??

I've listened to a lot of the talk over whether or not to rebuild New Orleans. There are many compelling reasons to just declare it a dead zone and move on with reality. I mean, the billions and billions of dollars it will require for the clearing of rubble, the demolition of ruined buildings, the restoration of power and communication lines, the complete overhaul of water and sewage systems, it goes on and on... And all of that is only after the water is pumped out, the bodies carted away, and protective measures taken against the city flooding again.

Not to mention the contamination that is seeping into the earth as it sits in a soup of human waste, oil and chemical spillage, and god knows what else. That stuff doesn't go away with a few good rains. I read somewhere that there are places outside of St. Petersburg, sites of old villages and such, where people do not ever go because they can still catch the plague.

Not that I really have a say in the matter, but I had been in favor of everyone just cleaning up the disaster area the best they could, caution-taping the whole place off, and walking away for a few decades. No rebuilding. Let sleeping dogs lie. Until.

Until I was made aware of the fact that Zattarain's is actually based out of New Orleans. It never really occured to me that such a delicious company would not have outsourced it's production to somewhere less voulnerable, say, Chicago. Kansas City. Detroit. ANYWHERE ELSE!

I mean, how could this happen?? One minute we are all munching on jambalaya with chicken, shrimp, ground beef or sausage, and the next minute, realizing that we never really appreciated this versatile, mouthwatering food of the gods while we had it!! So much better than hamburger helper, yet so convenient!! A one-pan, two-step meal for three or four people for under $5, in only 25 minutes! And the spanish rice! SO GOOD FOR STUFFED PEPPERS!! I can't even tell you how many nights we ate the dirty rice in college and were so sooo happy! Some of you were there! You know!

Ok, people, I do not know for a fact that the Zattarain's company was actually affected by the hurricane. For all I know, the factory or plant or whatever is perfectly dry, still churning out boxed rice deliciousness as we speak. But on the off chance that my jambalaya supply will be interrupted in the slightest, I vote yes. YES on the rebuilding of New Orleans. Toxic wasteland be damned! This is America! We have billions and billions of dollars! Who's with me?? Zattarain's...I mean New Orleans forever!!

Thursday, September 08, 2005

Rated ARRRRRRRR!!!!!!

Everyone needs a pirate day. On this day, I pimped it, pirate-style.

Monday, September 05, 2005

My Baby

Jaimie's (my) baby turned one on the 25th. With all the Pennsic hangover and whatnot, I haven't gotten around to sharing the cuteness until now. But oh, the cuteness.

They got a cake all for him, just so he could rip into it. It was a big fish (I don't know, they like fish) that said "JR." Frosting. Everywhere.

It was a big day. It's been a big year. I mean, he discovered his fingers and toes, learned how to clap, learned how to say "dadadaDaDaDADADADADAD!!!" whenever mommy is simply not satisfactory, learned how to kiss mommy because she is actually the light of his life, and became entirely self-propelled, willing and able to seek out every bite-sized floor crumb and dust-covered couch flotsam and furniture staple forgodsake in exsistance.

No wonder he's all tuckered out.

Saturday, September 03, 2005

if I have to be on a wagon...'s going to be of the "band" variety. In particular, the "outrage" bandwagon.

I'm not a self-hating American. I am a bleeding-heart liberal Bush-basher. It's different.


I am having a real hard time with the reporters and commentators who, upon viewing the aftermath of a hurricane and the very human reaction people are having to being homeless and hungry, proclaim with a touch of horror in their voices that they cannot believe they are seeing this on American soil. This, of course, encompasing the natural disaster, the destruction of a beloved city, and the frightening chaos of human desperation in the aftermath. This happens to darker, poorer countries that have no infrastructures anyway, right? This affects exotic faraway lands, and probably is a direct result of those people not speaking English. Didn't everyone get the memo? This is too common for Americans to have to endure. This happens to Indonesians and Chinese and Africans, not us.

We are Paris Hilton at a Supreme Court ruling, stamping our stiletto in protest; "What do you mean I don't get to vote? Don't you know who I am?!?"

There is a great line from Terry Pratchet or someone that goes, "civilization is only 24 hours and two meals away from utter barbarism." I believe that the average American has no idea what we are supposed to do in times of crisis, or what a relief effort even looks like up close, because for most of us, a crisis involves Starbucks running out of caramel drizzel for our machiattos. I am not surprised that relief efforts have been slow and disorganized. We have resources, but a massive disaster is still a massive disaster, even if it happens on the sacred soil of our forefathers. Imagine how slow and futile relief efforts must be in places without mighty American resources.

We can't just give some lip service to UNICEF, donate five bucks to some unfortunate foreign tragedy and go about our business with this one; we have to actually do something, a lot of continuous something. I think the sensation of actual responsibility is shocking to the American system. Responsibility compounded with the reality that for so many, even our best efforts would not be enough.

Monday, August 29, 2005

Posting is for squares

Ok, so here I am, in full post-Pennsic pout mode. This is my sixth year, and post-Pennsic has yet to go smoothly for me.

The whole Pennsic thing is kind of a re-set button. I come out of it every year like I'm being born into a brand-new world. My perspective significantly and delightfully askew, I come floating back into reality as if I will never have to worry about another thing as long as I live. None of the mundane, petty things about my life can possibly bother me after the sublime alternate universe from which I have just emerged. And then all the pointy, crunchy, hard bits start edging their way in.

The student loan, cell phone, and credit card bills that are all aready past due, or soon will be. My paycheck waiting for me that is a magnificent $68 because I only worked two days in the pay period before I left. The yearly appointment (the girly one) that I have to make very soon. My instantly stressed b/f, back to face his own reality of bills and childrearing. The aunts and friends and everyone else on god's green earth who wonder if I've secured a teaching job for the school year. (I have not.) The Fall Victoria's Secret catalog and my coveting covetousness over the h.o.t. fall skirts and jackets that I have never really been able to afford.

I don't want to come out! It's all SQUARE out here!! Put me back in!

The stupid real world can lick it.

The stupid real world can also suck it.

Saturday, August 06, 2005

Um...What exactly would a "Wompenog" be?

Yes. In the hustle and bustle of a Friday night in the pizza kitchen, as saucy pizza boys flick saucy pizza girls with wet towels and playfully drop pepperoni down the back of each other's shirts, one of them will yell, "I need a large thin sausage and mushroom, an indy tradish Hawaiian, and a Col. William Widewees!"

Thank you, K-Dawg, but they are not Pizza code names. They are all streets that I deliver to. And you all breathe a sigh of relief, for I know you were waiting anxiously to learn the answer. Alas, no one gets the prize. But it was going to be good. Maybe some other time.

Anyhoo, I'm off to Pennsic tomorrow or the next day. I haven't packed shit yet. And I don't mean that in a gay-sex kind of way. I mean it in a 'my stuff is exploded to all points of the house and most of it isn't even clean, let alone ready to travel across the state' kind of way. I have laundry to do, boots to track down, a few items of clothing to mend, and what am I doing instead? Blogging.

I did make a list. A list of stuff to do before I leave. Blogging is not on that list.

I'm getting a ride out there, because, ideally, I will be driving back in Cheryl's Ford Explorer with which she is paying me for working this year. YAY NEW CAR!! Well, new to me. And five or six years newer than the car I have now. Of course, Blaze the Amazing Thunder-Blazer has been on her best behavior since I mentioned this deal in front of her. The speedometer is working, the brakes are ok again. Yeah. Shameless hussy.

I'll try to update from Pennsic, but you know, no promises. I'll at least try to bring back interesting picture of penis parades and large men in bondage outfits. It will be everything you knew it could be and more, I promise.

Ok, I think I lost my list. Now I have to make a new one. Crap.

Wednesday, July 27, 2005

Hardcore Trannies Suck the Big D!!!!

Ok, I lied. Although, I'm sure some Tranny somewhere is sucking the Big D in a hardcore fashion. It is statistically probable, anyway. I wonder who gets paid to sit there and come up with spam subject lines. Cause I could do that for money. I could do that all day. Ahem.

"barely legal hotties in their first orgy ever!"

"Bisexual housekeepers get kinky on the kitchen table!!"

"Mature MILFs show the young guys how it's done while donkeys watch and munch carrots! Caught on tape!!"


Wenkwuss Update: Since last I blogged, Wenkwuss has been very polite to me. Exceedingly polite. Heartbreaking, tip-toe-ing, doesn't-want-to-be-kicked-again polite. The other day, he politely let it slip that he has spent time "in the joint." I heard him asking this waitress if she likes bad boys. I don't know whether to laugh, or laugh harder.

So who can guess what the things on this list have in common?

  • Char Mar
  • Butternut
  • Wompenog
  • Sparkleberry
  • Menonite
  • Col. WIlliam Widewees

The first person who guesses correctly gets a prize!

It's Like Shooting Fish That are TIED TO YOUR GUN

Round 1

Phone: Ring ring ring ring ring ring ring ring ring ring ring ring ring ring ring ring!!!!
Me: (*fixing a salad*) Hey, could you get the phone?
Wide-Eyed New Kid With Underdeveloped Social Skills: HAHA! Not it!!
Me: Actually, I think you are it.
W.E.N.K.W.U.S.S.: nope! (*walks away*)
Me: fine. (*answers phone*)

Round 2

Pizza: *is being cut by Wenkwuss*
Wenkwuss: *walks away, mid-cut*
Me: *picks up pizza knife to finish cutting abandoned pizza*
Wenkwuss: *meanders back several pizzas later* Oh, what?!?! Now you're stealing my job? Bitch!
Me: Excuse me, Wenkwuss, but you do not know me well enough to use that word with me. If you did, you'd know it wasn't a good idea. (*chops pizza, drops knife*)
Wenkwuss: Whatever. bitch.

Round 3

Me: *sweep sweep sweep*
Wenkwuss: Yeah, that's right. You do that so I don't have to do it later.
Me: *sweeps cheese and meaty bits into the laces of his new white shoes*
Wenkwuss: ....You don't like me all that much, do you?
Me: As a matter of fact, I don't.
Wenkwuss's Elaborately Erected Sense of Identity: *is shocked beyond the point of inteligible speech, has not faced this sort of rejection since the night of Junior Prom*
Wenkwuss: What? Why?
Me: *sweep sweep*
Wenkwuss: Do you think I'm annoying?
Me: Yes. Extremely.
W.E.E.S.I.: *has heard this before*

Round 4-28

Wenkwuss: How am I annoying?
Me: Take an educated guess; Ask someone else; It's mostly your face; Leave me alone; etc.
WEESI: *is scorching brain cells trying to figure this one out*

Round 29

Wenkwuss: Oh yeah? If I'm annoying, you're a BITCH!
Me: That's a snappy retort you have yourself, there. Use it often?
WEESI: *thought he was being clever*
Wenkwuss: Well....I'd rather be annoying than a BITCH!!
Me: Opinions vary.
Wenkwuss: *shoots his best 'now you're on my list' glare, stalks away*
My Brain: *has already thought of seven things more threatening than Wenkwuss*

They're both mulch, no one wins the race.

This is Carl's John Deer.

He rides it around the yard, mowing things, whenever he gets the chance. The other day, I walked up to him while he was sitting on the mower. I glaced down and saw this:

And I said, "what, do you flip the switch and put down the heavy turtle blades when you're not mowing rabbits?"

Monday, July 18, 2005

In Other News

This is our pickle. Or, more accurately, our cucumber.

Long and girthy, no? We came out to the garden one day and found the cucumber plant gesturing rudely at the other plants and the neigbor children with it's new growth. I should have really posed it next to a porsche, or a monster truck with inappropriately large tires, or a hot blonde so as to demonstrate the extreme...adequacy of our cucumber.

If it weren't for all the sharp nubbly bumps all over it....never mind.

Ahem...A Post.

Bethany regarding War of the Worlds:
"It was totally worth it, just to see Tom Cruise sucked up the inverted alien space-anus."

(and I concur.)

Jason, regarding Charlie and the Chocolate Factory:
"I can't wait to see how Depp plays Micheal Jackson...I mean...Willy Wonka."

(as a creepy jerk with an eye-twitch, bad-daddy issues, and flashbacks. It was pretty cool, even though it might as well have been MJ.)

George from Live 8, or as Carl calls him, Shaven Yak Boy, regarding Episode III:
" was awesome...but what I really want to see is a flash animation pitting Yoda against Gandolf. Cause that would totally kick ass. Like, no one has ever done it!! Like how no one has ever written a script with a vampires-vs.-dragons scene! That is, no one until me. Want to read my script?? Why don't you call me sometime? We could go see Fantastic Four...?"

Yeah, so at my mom's house this past Friday night, I was drinking a bit and having a loud good time with her friends and some other folks. My mom's friend Rose comes out with my cell phone, which had apparantly been ringing, and hands it to me, saying, "it's George." What the crap, Rose.

Don't you know that I have been avoiding his phone calls ever since I came down off of the Live 8 buzz and realized that I really don't want to talk to geeks who write Magik the Gathering scripts in thier spare time, no matter how nice thier abs, not to mention thier pecs were? That I have since gotten over whatever cloud of drugs I walked through before I started chatting this guy up and got his number? I don't want to talk to George!! Especially while half-lit! Especially after I haven't returned his phone calls in over a week! *sigh*

So I talked to him. And appologized for ignoring him. And let it drop that I have a b/f. I think I might have actually said "b/f." And I slid it in all casually, not blunt at all, like "I shouldn't talk to you. I have a b/f." Smooth, huh?

On the plus side, I got to see the new Zorro trailer this weekend. I wonder if the theater would consider muting all the parts where Antonio Bandaras or Catherine Zeta-Jones is not speaking. I would actually pay money to see it then. It looks as good as Mr. and Mrs. Smith, insofar as it is cast entirely with hot people and has something for everyone to touch themselves over. Not that I do that. In movie theaters. Before nine pm.

Thursday, July 07, 2005

And You Fell For It, Sir.

Beligerant Old Man: (opens door) You see this coupon? It's for two dollars off the pizza you don't make anymore.

Pizza Delivery Girl: Yes, I see.

Beligerant Old Man: Well, I don't think you should advertise pizzas you don't make on coupons you can't use, so this is the coupon I'm using.

PDG: You see sir, it's called "bait and switch." We lure you into believing that you can order the barbecued chicken pizza, but then at the last minute, foist some other, inferior pizza upon you. It's all an elaborate scheme to trick you into taking less desireable pizzas off our hands.

Beligerant Old Man: Whatever, this is the coupon I'm using.

PDG: You could just use the "two dollars off anything over $10" coupon right next to it...

Beligerant Old Man: No. (*hands me the entire coupon sheet anyway*) Oh, and there's a delivery charge, too, isn't there?!?

PDG: Yes, sir. $1.25.

Beligerant Old Man: IN THAT CASE, I'm not tipping you.

PDG: Ok, don't.

Beligerant Old Man: I'm not.

PDG: Then don't.

Beligerant Old Man: I don't think I should tip you if there is a delivery charge.

PDG: Well, you see, sir, I don't really see a cent of that delivery charge. Every penny goes to my company's Anti-American Anti-Freedom Communist fund. When you called us up, your phone number and name, along with the names of your children and immediate family, were all automatically listed in our system alongside other Anti-American Anti-Freedom Communists in the area. Your information has been sent to some of the top Communist leaders in this country and abroad. Fidel Castro is probably reading your file right now. Someone should be contacting you shortly with a roster of Anti-American Anti-Freedom events, and literature on how you can help the Anti-American Communists fight freedom in your neighborhood. Thank you for you contribution, commerade, and have a nice day.

Sunday, July 03, 2005

8 Best things about Live 8

8. the two guys who saw the Green Day show from Berlin being played on the big screens and proceeded to elbow and climb their way as close to the stage as possible, getting pretty darn far before someone informed them that Green Day was not actually there...they were in Berlin. Idiots.

7. The fact that every one of the million people there knew every single word to the "Fresh Prince" song, got inordinately excited when Will Smith started singing it, and proceeded with a million-person rendition, most while dancing "Fresh" little jigs.

6. The amazing Greek food that has not yet given me food poisoning.

5. a. The crazy Scientologists handing out fliers with "War of the Worlds" scenes on them.
b. The crazy communist hippies handing out "End the Bush Regime" stickers. (Who wore one on her arm all day? this guy.)

3. I went somewhere by myself and did something cool. And met new and interesting people. And got this hot guy's phone number even though he's a "script writer"/insulation man from Glenolden who waxes his chest "because he has to, for work."

2. The cause, duh.

1. Maroon 5 doing "Keep on Rockin in the Free World." Totally kick-ass.

Friday, July 01, 2005

Peasblossom Cute

Carl and I have been working on a garden at his house. I am completely amazed at the growth taking place before my eyes. I am learning so much about plants and dirt and worms (Idontlikethem)...I mean, did you ever think about what broccoli looks like before it gets hunted down in the fields and smashed into your Lipton Cheezy Rice and Broccoli packet?? I hadn't. Each plant has a different personality, a different way of asserting's just so interesting. Take the turnips and zucchini, for example. If the punky turnips

and the lumbering, but muscular zucchini

ever got together, we would totally be getting 3am knocks on the door from disgruntled vegetation looking to score some beer and broads. Which they would promptly make away with. However, they would probably be mugged ten minutes later and left for dead by the wiley tomatoes.

Don't fuck with the tomatoes. One of the littler tomatoes decided to fuck with the alpha tomato, and now it swiftly on its way to being dust under the alpha's studded alligator boots.

I find the cucumber blossoms pretty, yet terrifying with their terrantula stems...

and we are all very proud of the beets.

But my favorite plant of all is the snap-pea. The peas have delicate little tendrils that creep out and snag anything within reach, which usually means they snag each other and hold each other in an adorable, tangled-up pea-hug. They have the most beautiful, tiny white blossoms...

and delicious, vivid green pods...

and I don't think we've managed to cook one yet. They go right from the garden to our bellies.

For some reason, I didn't think that any of this gardening would work. My logic-box didn't believe that the simple act of sticking an inanimate seed in the dirt and pouring water on it would produce recognizable etables. I would have just as soon believed that the bread and wine is literaly transformed into the flesh of a 2000 years-dead man. I am completely floored that the turnips and peas and tomatoes that I helped put into the ground as insignificant seeds are now living, writhing, food-bearing plantlife. As far as I'm concerned, I've witnessed a major miracle.

Thursday, June 23, 2005

...or there might be a tornado. Or a plague!

Bethany: I don’t suppose you would be interested in vacuuming the second floor? It really needs to be done before it gets hot again.

Me: …because the heat will really bake the dirt in?

Bethany: Nooo, I just won’t be able to stand the heat up there for more than five minutes, is all. Vacuuming will be right off the list.

Me: I love how you relate the possibility of cleaning to geological movement and large-scale weather patterns.


Me: "Once monsoon season hits, cleaning the basement will be totally out of the question."

Bethany: Look, a butterfly might be flapping its wings in Japan right now!

Tuesday, June 21, 2005

Don't Step on My Cats

Ok, I'm not parking in the apartment parking spots, like the ticket says. What do you mean, "around the back?" There's a fence back here, and it's all overgrown with weeds, and where am I supposed to-oh. There's the gate. Held closed by a bungee cord. Right.

Crazy Old Lady: (from rocking chair on back porch) UP HEREwheeze!!!

Me: Oh, hi! *wrestles with gate, approaches porch*


Me: On the street. *hands her the pizza*


Me: Um...the ticket said not to park in the parking spots. So I parked on the street.

(Dude, if I knew there was a dumpster, I totally would have parked near it. Because that is where all the cool kids park. Duh.)

C.O.L: IT'S NOT FUNNYwheezeTHE FIRE DEPARTMENTwheezeIS ACCROSS THE STREET!! *takes forever to sign slip* *does not tip me*

Me: I see.


(I have in no way parked the fire department in. Or out. Or parked illegally in any sort of way.)

(this lady obviously is preoccupied with fire fighters. I hope they appreciate her efforts.)

Me: Right. Well, have a nice day.


(Okay, she didn't really say that, but it would have been funny.)

I Don't Want This Kind of Blog.

The kind of blog that bemoans the boringness of my life. Those kinds of blogs make me sleepy.

But, man. My life is boring. I want it more fun. POOF! BE MORE FUN!!

*squeezes eyes shut*
*crosses fingers*
*waits for elephant-of-fun to run me over*

Damn. I don't want the grown-up kind of fun, where I'm challenged intellectually by my career, or where I pick out towels to match my bathroom curtains, or where I make car payments on a moderately-priced Dodge four-door something-or-other and feel gratified as a person because I own a real live new car, yee-ha. Do you think I'd be delivering pizza if I actually wanted any of that?? I want the other kind of fun! With drinking and carousing and whoring and being generally irresponsible with the wellbeing of my property and yours. Where'd all of that fun go?? I want it back!! *whine*

*is suddenly sleepy, takes a nap*
You know what's great?

Money. I love money. I love making it, I love saving it. I love spending it even more, but I can't have all three of these things at the same time, so making it and saving it will suffice for now. I have actually opened a savings account. My "total assets" slot is now a sum of two numbers, not just a redundancy reflecting the thirty-eight cents that I have left in my checking account after paying my cell phone bill. How great is that? Very.

The inherent drawback to all of this is, of course, that I actually have to save it. That I take the wad of tips in my pocket and stick it in the bank at the end of the day, instead of blowing it on nine fruit-and-walnut salads, a matching seat/steering wheel cover set from Wal-Mart and a Victoria's Secret shopping spree, like I want to. And I have to keep my grubby mitts off of e-bay. And out of the yarn store.

It also requires that I keep working. Having a small stash of cash totally gives me all this false sense of security, which in turn makes me all beligerant when work is especially slow. I start thinking things like "I could be at home, reading my book right now," or "I could be frollicking through the park with my nephew, or my boyfriend, or...or...that girl's dog. What a cute dog. Here, puppy, puppy!" Especially this week, as I am working 11-8 every day. (thanks a lot, boss.)

Yeah. It seems you can either have time or money, but not both.

Monday, June 13, 2005

I will write these on postcards and mail them, someday.

Dear Pizzaman Joe,

Look. I know delivering pizza is your full-time gig, and this is not exactly where you saw yourself at 40, but I really don't care whether or not you get that extra two dollar tip so you can cover the rent check that you already wrote your mom, so get out of my face.

What do you mean, "Don't just run out of here with orders like that?" I thought that was our job! What the fuck are you talking about, "your turn??" There were like, four other orders up when I left! You could have had these two that I am taking out now, as you are cursing at me, but no! Pizzaman Joe had to make sure we all know who's the biggest fish around here, so you waited around just to yell at me. And instead of missing one delivery, you've now missed three.

Well, guess what. I'm not going to wait around for you to get your shit together, or to ask you which pizza you'd like to take out.

I'm pretty sure niether of those things are in my lofty job description, you sandy little butthole.

Dear Sarcastic-Instructions-Giving-Guy,

Dude, how the fuck was I supposed to know that Linfield Ave was once called Main? I didn't grow up here, and I certainly wasn't around when the Kaiser decided to change all the street names on us! There is no need to describe to me again the whiteness of your house and the red camero in your driveway. If you keep telling me to turn on Main, and there is only Linfield, I will never get to your driveway, and you are simply not going to get your damn pizza. I KNOW IT'S ALMOST AN HOUR LATE!! WHO'S FAULT IS THAT???
*deep breath*
You know what?? KEEP your stupid money! I'll take it out of my tips and...and...THAT will show YOU!!

Dear Blaze,

Um, the parking brake is not, repeat, not on. You can just stop it with that blinky "parking brake" alert. And...wait...whoa! What is with the sudden speedometer failure?? I need to know how fast-

No, no, it's okay! Don't get mad! You're right! We don't need no stinking speedometer! Just keep running through July! That's all I want! *crosses fingers*



Wednesday, June 08, 2005

Like, gross.

"Well, then Brynne was all, 'Sarah is a bad kisser,' and I was all, 'how do you know?' and he was all, 'cause I'm a pimp.' "

"Eww. He is so not a pimp. Like, he's not even cute."

"I know. But he's all up on anything with tits, so I guess he gets some play. Kelly said that Jess said that new-girl-Katie thinks he's cute, but I don't think he likes her."

"Awww....she's really cute too."

"I don't know why he thinks he's gods gift. She's way young for him anyway. Like, remember when he was with Victoria? That was gross. Besides, now he's trying to get with this one over here." *nods in my direction*

...working with the 15-20 set has it's entertaining moments, at least.

Tuesday, June 07, 2005

*Finally Gets Around to This*

Total Volume Of Music Files On My Computer: 7.68GB. Which is greatly in need of refreshing. Oh, how I miss you, campus-wide file-sharing. I didn't really appreciate you while I had you...le sigh.

The Last CD I Bought Was: Joss Stone: The Soul Sessions. It was nine or eleven dollars at Borders, and after seeing the White Stripes cover video, I thought there was no way a little sixteen-year old could be that smooth and awesome, so I had to find out.

Favorite song from the album (er, CD)? Yeah, I was right. Not that cool. "Fell in Love With a Boy," though cool enough, is the best the CD has to offer. Instead of skyrocketing herself into stardom and becoming the most sultry, soulful thing since Norah or Alecia Keys, she's hawking her second CD in some Target commercial right now. Lame, Joss, lame.

Song Playing Right Now: Stevie Ray Vaughn, "Little Wing"

Five Songs That I Listen To A Lot (Or That Mean A Lot To Me):
  • 311; "Amber." Because amber really is the color of my energy.
  • Bush; "Everything Zen." So angry, Bush! Everything zen around here? I DON'T THINK SO, BUDDY!!! I. Don't. Think so.
  • Tom Petty; "Angel Dream." This song is a very specific person and place for me. And it makes me sad.
  • Led Zeppelin; a tie for "Over the Hills and Far Away" and "What Is and Shall Never Be." You know, I only just recently realized that "Led Zeppelin" is a play on words? Like, a zeppelin is a big balloon-thing that flies, and if it were made out of "led," it wouldn't fly! You see, because, lead is heavy, and would not be a good material with which to build a something that flies...shut up.
  • Franz Ferdinand; "This Fire." I just like the way it makes me want to burn things. Or wave my arms around and do the booty-around dance with ~eve~, thus setting things on fire with our booties.

Tuesday, May 31, 2005

Actually, it's The Exact Opposite of Home Cooking

As I am currently recovering from a very pleasant, somewhat blurry camping weekend in Jersey, wherein the phrase "bone-nourishing nut-fruit" was burned irrevocably into my brain, I suppose I don't really mind that no one wanted pizza today. Probably everyone has had thier fill of party food, after all the barbecues and decadent Monday-off languishing. I mean, for all I know, these families have been eating ice cream and microwaved taquitos for three days in a row, because they could; because fuck it, I'm not going to work tomorrow or the next day or the next day!! What makes you think I'm gonna cook for you, suckas?? After such an extravagant junk food free-for-all bonanza, these families do not want pizza. They want something lovingly cooked by a caring husband, wife, parent, or state-appointed guardian. I'm thinking Hamburger Helper with peas or some such.

Anyway, I spent most of my seven-hour shift coloring pretty pictures with my manager's four year-old. There was also some throwing of pepperoni at co-workers. Somewhere in there, I made five whole deliveries. I celibrated this fury of tip-gathering by blowing most of my pathetic wad on some home cooking, myself:

Sushi and Rita's. Together at last.

Thursday, May 26, 2005

Ass, Ass, Titty, Pizza

So, I've been a pizza delivery person for a little over a week now. I've delivered to a guy in his underwear, I've delivered to a teenager wearing Homer-head slippers and not much else, I've delivered the same sandwich to little Eddy over on Woodly Ave four days in a row. (So, um, Ed...can I call you Ed?...I see you opted for the Italian Grilled sub with no peppers and Caesar dressing. Mixing it up today. Good for you. How's the dog? Did that new food give him less gas, or more?)

Anyway, today I delivered somewhere special. Today I walked back in from another delivery, and was informed that my fellow drivers had unanimously volunteered me for the job they didn't want. I'll give you two hints:
a.) it was on the seedy side of town
b.) I was paid with 27 ones


If you guessed the Pumphouse Tavern in Spring City, you were right! If you didn't guess the Pumphouse Tavern in Spring City, you must not be from around here. Or if you are, you are not a frequenter of titty bars with the word "pump" and "house" on the sign out front.

I'm not sure from whence the girl pulled all of those ones, because there is no way she had any pockets. None whatsoever.

I'm not going to say that I've now seen it all, but today, I definitely got an eyefull.

Tuesday, May 24, 2005

Guilt Dishes

I was scheduled for about eight hours today. I was bored out of my gourd for half of it and driving like a headless chicken for the other half. (Damn headless chicken drivers! *shakes fist*) As per the policy, I had my cell phone on "silent" while I was at work. Consequently, I missed a few calls from Carl, and didn't get the messages til I was almost done. His daughter did get ahold of me at some point, asking a favor, but she failed to: a.) put her dad on the phone, and b.) mention that her dad was laid out on the couch, back all out of allignment, unable to do much but flick listlessly through the world of crap that is Monday night television.

I called him back later, around eight, and learned about this, along with the fact that he had been trying to call me to ask if I'd come over after work and maybe bring dinner. But since I didn't call right after work, he'd been laying there for many hours, with no one but himself for company, and his daughter had to scrounge up some pretzels and a hard-boiled egg for dinner. Now, on the messages, he sounded fine. He did say he was hurting, but he sounded fine. I didn't realize it was that bad. When I talked to him, he sounded like he couldn't quite concentrate on what I was saying, because the Jolly Green Giant was standing right behind him, giggling maniacally and twisting his vertebrae upside-down with a rusty pair of pliers, one by one. After a while, he had to get off the phone in search of pain-killers.

Ok, I feel like such a jerk. I am the worst girlfriend ever.

In an act of self-flagelation, I agreed to go back in to work from nine til midnight when the closing driver called out. I didn't do much driving, but I did do a metric fuck-ton of dishes. Which were gross. And made my nice nails all raggedy. And did not tip very well.

Drowning my guilt in greasy dish water didn't really work; I still feel bad.

Wednesday, May 18, 2005

Something That is Both Awesome and True and You Wish You Were Here

I will be doing this tonight.

Whoop, there it is.

Things I Wish Weren't True But Are

When I told Carl that I couldn't be at his house at 3 this afternoon when his daughter would be getting off the bus, he asked why. I told him he didn't need to know, which proceeded to become a minor, amusing point of contension for the next 24 hours.
"I'm sure gonna miss you...."
"Oh yeah? Where am I going?"
"I don't know! *glare of consternation* You won't tell me!"
I did not refuse to tell him because I'm embarrassed to be this town's newest hot wing-slinging pie jockey. I mean, pizza girls can be hot. As per a conversation with R, I have seriously considered growing some dreds, slashing my competition's tires, and becoming a street racer after-no...during work hours. I will take no shit and hustle pies on these mean (ok, suburban) streets faster and with more sass than any of the grizzled vets. I'll start a pizza-driver gang and we'll call ourselves Chicks With Breadsticks, or Hot Pie.

...maybe not Hot Pie, but you get me. I know you get me. You are thinking Angelina Jolie in Gone in Sixty Seconds just like I am.

I didn't tell him because this might be the dumbest idea I've had since H & R Block. And the only thing worse than being totally wrong or failing miserably is failing miserably at something incredibly stupid. Which would be embarrassing.

But, so far, so good. In four hours I made about as much money in tips as I made by cashing in six months of saved change. And that's with being totally late to half of the deliveries, having to actually call one customer and get directions to her house, and only really delivering things for three and a half hours. I was sort of wishing that this would suck and totally not be worth my time, and I could just turn down the job offer and no one would ever know of my stupid stuuupid venture into the world of food delivery, but it actually seems kind of fun, so would anyone like breadsticks with that?

I also wish that it wasn't true that I watched the full hour of Britney and Kevin: Chaotic last night and found myself entirely mesmerized by the prospect of Britney Spears and her breasts boinking that skinny little punk like a coked-up rabbit in heat, but it is.

Thursday, May 12, 2005

Five Things I Did Today

  • I toddled out to my porch and found a that a magical pair of red mary janes had magically appeared on my doorstep. And magically, they were in my size! Just what I've always wanted! Thank you, oh mysterious bringer of shoes! Thank you ever so! (pretending that there is a shoe fairy helps aleviate my guilt about spending money. Its fun. Try it: "I was driving along, delivering Meals on Wheels, and all of the sudden, there was a new pair of jeans and new boots in my back seat!" "There I was, reading for the blind, and I turned to pick up my glasses. When I turned back, I was just wearing this bracelette! I don't know what happened!" "First there was no yarn, then I was just sitting in a pile of it! How did all of this get here??? Maybe it's because I'm a good, good person.")
  • I turned this bottle of metal

into this

modest pile of paper.

  • I took that modest pile and put it in the bank. All 46 clams. Rollin in it, baby. Oh yeah.
  • I sat in the parking lot of Genaurdi's, reading Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintainance, contemplating the definition of Quality and how it interacts with the archetypal modes through which we define ourselves.
  • I filled out an application at Donatos so that I can finally say, "Yes, I have an English degree. Your two pizzas come to $23.49."

Considering all the nothing I did yesterday, today was awesome and productive. Gosh, life is swell.

Wednesday, May 11, 2005

My Dearest, cont.

Dear eBay,

Ummm....What is this?


What is it? I thought we had a talk about this. I thought I explained my position on things like this

pretty thoroughly. I thought I got through to you. I thought-*sigh*

Never mind what I thought. $1.99? Well....that's not that bad. Ok, you are forgiven. This time.

Dear eBay salespersons,

Where's my stuff? Is it here now?
*runs to check mailbox*
How bout now?
*checks again*
*sigh* You've had my money for days now. Don't you know that I have nothing better to do all day than to wait for the mail?? That my entire week will now revolve around the possibility of shoes or yarn magically appearing on my doorstep? What could you possibly be doing with yourselves aside from getting your kiesters to the post office and mailing me my stuff? What!?

Dear Mo,

Get a job, you ass.


Monday, May 09, 2005

CO trip; Misc.

Hark! Mountainous beauty, with pillar!

Behold! Mo rides the pony all by her ittle!

But Soft! Representin' MU down at SPC, y'all. (You can barely see it, but the plaque says "South Park." What was that? Christmas cards with Mo and Mr. Hankey this year? Surely not!)

Friday, May 06, 2005

My Dearest,

Dearest Nephew of Mine,

I love love love your 8 1/2-month-old sense of humor. The sly look on your face after a dramatic fit of fake coughing is To Die For. You grin at all of us larger humans and sneak looks out of the corner of your eye as if to say, "I am charming beyond all reason. Bow to my cuteness now and I may punish you less in, oh, say 8 years, when my idea of humor may involve cats, fire, and a bound and gagged younger sibling." I heart you when you screw with us.

Dearest H & R Block,

No, I do not want your stupid life insurance policy. You'd probably find a way to kill me and cash it in yourselves. I quit you. I don't want to talk to you any more. No, I don't think we can work this out. Stop calling me, you asshole.

Dearest eBay.

Look. You and I have to stop meeting like this. I know that this

will be really really fun to knit and support women's shelters in Nepal. You don't have to remind me again that these

are totally cute and only cost $6.83 (that's only $6.83 for red Steve Madden mary janes in my size). None of that really matters. Yes, we are both very cool and we get along great and neither of us has anything to do during the day, but honestly. I don't have a job, and you are taking advantage of me at a very volnurable time. You know how much better shopping makes me feel in the heat of the moment, and who gets to feel guilty afterwards? Certainly not you. You get to stroll away, happy as a clam, on to your next conquest. Seriously. We need to call this off. Or at least go on a break until I'm in a better place, you know, emotionally. Do you understand?

Dearest Taste-of-Thai peanut sauce,

You were delicious last night. I brought the chicken, pasta, and sugar-snap peas, you brought the love. I will be having you again as soon as humanly possible.


Monday, May 02, 2005

Spring, She has Sprung

It's not even April any more. It's May. That means the petals have already mostly dropped off of this:

It also means that Sunday will be full of the promise of summer, one whiff of the light breeze bringing to mind barbecues and water ice and inappropriately skimpy speedos on inordinately misshapen beachgoers. And then Monday will arrive chilly and wet and leave one feeling really stupid about joyfully cramming all of one's sweaters and cozy socks into one's underbed storage. Happy Monday, everybody.

But let us not dwell on the depressing gray skies. Let us rejoice at the receiving of tax returns, small as those checks might be for some of us. Let us rejoice at the prospect of viewing those scantilly clad beach studs in all their resplendent glory of rolls. For it is they who shall make us feel great about whatever "Winter weight" we might have put on. I mean, what is five, ten, or twenty little pounds, compared to the wooly mammoth in the rubber band? And finally, let us rejoice at the return of Ritas and her delicious, delicious gelatti.

Bethany's flowers are wicked bad, non?

Thursday, April 28, 2005

Ok, fine.

This is me and the backseat of the van and the strap of my dress on the long drive from the wedding to the reception.

This is me and the top half of my dress, both of us bonding with the friend that I hadn't seen since eighth grade.

And this is the only clear shot of me and my whole dress, with a nice picturesque background, and the blowing wind and my weird posture conspiring to make it look like I'm smuggling a beachball to the reception along with my huge fat ass. As someone so aptly put it, "Hey, can I get the sack in cinnamon?"

(actually, I really like the dress. In 3D it looked really nice. It just doesn't photograph well. Especially with a beach ball shoved up it.)

Ok, so, the day of The Wedding.

Rather than tell you all the endless details about just how pretty the bride was and what a beautiful ceremony and how they cut the cake and why did they make strapless bras so uncomfortable, I'll show you some pictures. It was quite simple, really. We took This Girl

and enveloped her dazed self all snug and fluffy into This Dress.

The bridal thong was thoroughly inspected

And after much arrangement and brides-maiding

and product-applying and lip plumping

we crammed all the chiffon and satin and tulle that was the bridal party into a van and drove to the Garden of the Gods.

We then married off this bride

to this groom. (That's his brother and best man to the right.)

There were happy glowing moments

and weepy touchy moments ("What a Wonderful World" set my dad off)

and my favorite man in all the world.

Since I was actually in the wedding, I couldn't take pictures of the actual wedding. But gosh, what a beautiful ceremony, I mean, the bride was just so pretty and the setting just so perfect and the tourists passing by were just so nice, and I had to get a strapless bra at Target, so it was only eleven bucks, but man it was not comfortable....