- Flunkies For The Elimination Of Awkward Office Birthday Parties
- Peanut Allergies Are Actually A Form Of Darwinism, Duh!
- My Cell Phone Is My Night Light
- Metro Commuters Who Advocate Pushing Left Standers Down The Escalator
- Blair Waldorf Versus Brenda Walsh: The Final Showdown!!!!!!
- The Good People Of Ohio Who Support Giving Michigan To Canada
- Has-Been Glittery Jellie Shoe Weareres
- I’m Only On Facebook For Purposes Of Internet Stalking
- I Used To Eat Paste And Secretly Miss It
- Hipsters For The Eradication Of Bootie Shoes
- I KNOW My Mom Is Hotter Than Your Mom
- I Raved In Columbus, Ohio Sometime Between 1994 and 2001
- The Few, The Proud, The Crocs Lovers
- Carmen Sandiego, Waldo and Dick Cheney Are All Hiding Under My Bed
- The Pigeons Around Farragut West Are Freakishly OK With Human Interaction
- I Still Collect Action Figures And Secretly Act Out Battles With Them
- Caution! I’ll Defriend You If You Send Me Another Stupid Meme/Note/Chain Letter/Green Patch Invitation
- Facebook Pictures Are Like The Webbernet’s Version Of Beer Goggles
- I Wish I Had Thought Of The Snuggie
- I’m Afraid To Publicly Admit I Watch Battlestar Galactica So I Joined This Secret Group Instead
- “Is…” Is Not An Appropriate Status Message
- Drunken Text Messages: Poetry Of The 21st Century
- I Turned Out Better Than My Third Grade Nemesis And Know It Thanks To Facebook
- Holler! A Facebook Group For Urban White People
- How To Use Facebook: A Tutorial For My Mom
- Milk Duds, The Silent Killer
- 28 Reasons Why I Defriended You
- Drank Vodka, Puked On My Phone, But Still Don’t Need Numbers Because I’m Cool Like That!
- Official Petition To Revoke George W. Bush’s Citizenship
- The Ancient And Mystical Society Of Unicorn Lovers
- Pickles – Yeah!
- I Big Pink Puffy Heart Tetris!
- I Am Currently Doing Kegel Exercises
- We Weren’t Friends In High School So Stop Asking To Be My Friend In CyberSpace
Archive for the ‘Uncategorized’ Category
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101 Upsides of Astro Glide
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The Durable, Effective, Easy-To-Use Birth Control Designed For Over-Breeders Everywhere!
A One Stop Shop For DNA Testing, Finding Your Local Child Support Enforcement Agency, And Nailing That Bastard Just Like He Nailed You!
Looking back at my Personal Dating Timeline, I realize there are distinct eras. But instead of Mesozoic and Jurassic, I have “Binge Dating: The College Years” and “The Great Law School Drought That Was Only Relieved By A Mediocre Sex Buddy And, Mercifully, Graduation.” There are also the men who have become the milestones of my dating history. The first shiny star was Russell Arnold, who married me under the monkey bars and sealed the deal with a saliva-heavy kiss placed half on my lips, half on my cheek. And there’s the guy I made out with on the back of the high school ski club bus. It was an awkward introduction to male genitalia and led to my shortest relationship on record. We clocked in 14 hours of coupledom before I dumped him, citing the classic “it’s not you, it’s me.” Over the years, the guys have been many and diverse but each interaction has taught me something. It’s been a string of important dating lessons, like pubic hair waxed into a star shape is a massive, red warning flag and that I like guys with a suppressed geek side.
It seems it’s time to officially add another dating era to the Timeline. The eCrush Chronicles have ended. It all went down in the wake of a girls’ night. After the last leg of our martini spree, I found myself a few blocks away from eCrush’s apartment and thought I’d take advantage of proximity for a booty visit. I taxied over and pulled out his apartment key. Many moons ago, when eCrush gifted me with that little piece of metal, I thought it represented more than the ability to physically get into his place. In my head, it meant he had nothing to hide; that our relationship was honest and trusting and transparent. I felt like he was essentially sharing everything. That was the point where I buried our past issues and began to trust him again. Little did I know that damn key didn’t just unlock his front door; it also opened Pandora’s Shit Box.
I made it about two steps in before I saw eCrush standing in his living room, sportin’ his birthday suit. There was something surreal about walking in on my boyfriend totally naked. His wanker suddenly looked less like a Pleasure Inducing Man Appendage and more like something awkwardly comical. I was trying to mentally adjust to eCrush’s nudist status, when I looked past him. A little further into the room, on his couch, was a woman wearing nothing but a tank top and butt-floss. Every single, solitary body-related insecurity I’ve ever had was suddenly embodied and magnified in her size four thighs. As I envied her skinniness, I knew there was no explaining this situation away. It couldn’t be like last time, when I gave into love and faith by accepting a far-fetched explanation for a mysterious pair of lacy panties. The Ghost of Underwear Past was literally sitting on eCrush’s couch, giving me the once over. In an instant, my dreams of being Mrs. eCrush and producing a handful of Republican eCrushletts were gone. At some point, I must have shifted my gaze and looked eCrush in the eye. That silent glance was the most profound conversation we ever had. It said everything. Without knowing what else to do, I fled. And as I sprinted towards the stairs, the Earth literally shifted. But it could also have been the force of me slamming the door. All in all, that was undoubtedly the longest two minutes of my life.
Since the unexpected nuclearization of my relationship, I keep examining every point on my Personal Dating Timeline and reliving every moment of my relationship with eCrush. It’s like rubbernecking at some tremendous accident, but the wreck is actually my life. I search for reasons to explain what happened with us, trolling for answers in each of our conversations and from the archives of my dating history. But after hours spent over analyzing and crying, I know there are none. Well, at least none beyond him being an overly horny fucking tard-faced jackass.
After the initial hysterical crying jag, the sudden and complete breakdown of our relationship has left me emotionally numb. I’ve been existing in a form of quasi-blissful emotional denial. My brain understands that it’s over, but all other types of comprehension are in deep freeze. The real legacy of eCrush will hit later, in the form of a walloping dose of neurosis that’ll take months of therapy and a heavy investment in Kleenex to resolve. Until then, I’m investigating the logistics of a drive-by Zipcarring at the dog park.
This morning, the Grand Poohba of the Universe broke out his Uncle Sam impression, pointed at me and said, “YOU!”
Ever since, it’s been Shit City around here. The day kicked off around 4 a.m. when I woke up and noticed it was a wee bit chilly in my apartment. Clutching my down comforter, I crossed the arctic tundra that had taken over my living room and checked the thermostat. 42 degrees. As if to confirm my apartment was unexplainably Frozen Monkey Balls Cold, I could see my breath.
Suspecting the HVAC was acting up again; I opened up the utility closet and frowned threateningly. I have a theory about computers, machines, and other stuff that runs on electricity and/or has parts. It goes like this…
If semi-technological things develop an attitude, the best way to fix them is to:
a) kick/hit/shake some non-important section, like a handle or a door;
b) jiggle wires, cables and cords until it turns back on or beeps;
c) cuss at the object; or
d) glare menacingly.
Usually, some combination of the four will fix the situation. But not this time. As I gave the HVAC a few love taps with my foot, it made a sputter-sputter-pop sound. Even with my limited Miss Fix-It knowledge, I recognized that as a Death Groan.
I was at a loss about what to do until I could make this my landlord’s problem. So, I put on a hat, layered up and googled the warning signs of frost bite. After I was sufficiently paranoid about losing toes, I constructed a blanket fortress on my bed. The cats and I huddled for warmth until dawn, when I felt it was reasonable to call Landlord.
The cavalry, in the form of the building’s Engineer On Call and his assistant, arrived at about 7:03. Chez Apartment has two walls of floor-to-ceiling single pane windows, so the cold pours in until it turns into a really big cryogenic chamber. Upon arrival, the ever helpful EOC told me my 900 square feet was down to 38 degrees. I would have cried, but the tears icicled on my eyeballs. There was 20 minutes of intense pounding and cursing in Spanish before the EOC admitted the HVAC was in appliance heaven. My thoughts immediately turned to cold-weather survival methods and how many space heaters I could carry home on the Metro.
By 8:30, Landlord had secured Saturday instillation of a new HVAC system. But that was not good enough.
Me (shivering like Mr. Freeze): Can you come any sooner?
Unsuspecting HAVC Installer: Um, no.
Me (determined to win this one): Look Buddy, I have the worst case of THO on the planet. My cats are huddled under a bathmat because I won’t share the blankets and I googled hypothermia. That’s not how I want to leave this world. Now, what time tomorrow can you get here?
We settled on 4:45 p.m. I’m literally counting down the hours.
Friday night at 10:00 EST Battlestar Galactica returns (that sentence is followed by twelve exclamation points in my head). I am doing my best to contain my squeeing fangirl excitement.
In honor of this momentous occasion, how about a little Battlestar Galactica: Catch the Frak Up!
(Stella, this one’s for you!)
Hmmm… So that didn’t work. I am a technophobe and clearly, Hulu is defeating me. Since the pretty video didn’t display, how about just clicking the link? And a hearty special thanks to Urban Bohemian for his attempts at technical assistance! I am Queen of the Incompetent and the lack of picture is entirely my fault.
It’s like this…The Bloggerational Ball Committee has gotten elevenity nine emails from people saying, “Wish we could come, because we heart the Obaminator, but we are broke-ass due to these rough economic times.” And guess what? WE HEARD YOU. The new POTUS and his administration are all about Hope and Change and Egalitarianism and Saving Your 401K. And we’re on board. So, we thought, why not be the ultimate embodiment of that message? Why not show our support of El Presidente via booze and a party that’s open to everybody and most importantly, FREE? As in COSTS YOU NO MONEY!!!!!!
In changing this to a zero cost of admission event, we were unable to rework the arrangement with Bourbon, our original location. No hard feelings towards Bourbon and their management – they remain a great place to get your booze on and soak it up with bite of food – it just didn’t work.
In the Spirit of Obama, we tossed the old game plan and came up with a new one:
We are going to congregate on the second floor of the Reef in our dress up clothes (hells bells we still want you to wear your ball clothes). Katherine is still going to campaign for Ball Queen and will be taking photos for her drunkie documentary. LiLu will be brining tatertots from home and nomnomnoming away. If you can pry one out of her fists, you can have one. And Restaurant Refugee will be in a tux. And probably a Zoro mask to hide his secret identity. And drinking champagne. The only thing that has changed really is the cost and the location (and the perks, but whatever, the booze will still be flowing).
Come on out and BarRock the Party with us, kittens!
New Details for The Bloggerational Ball:
Sunday, 18 January 2009, 8pm
2446 18th Street, NW
Washington, DC 20009
Twelve Beers on Tap – 3 to 8 dollars
Pretty Tasty food – most items under 10 dollars
Celebrating the Obama Inaugural with a bunch of really cool people – priceless.
Please RSVP to BloggerationBall@gmail.com – it is only polite to give the good peeps over at the Reef a heads-up regarding the number of people attending. But the more, the merrier.
It seems I have brand loyal cats that refuse to poop in anything besides Fresh Step litter. And since I just bought five bags of Tidy Cat, this is a problem.
It never occurred to me that switching brands would be a big deal. I mean, litter is just little clay bits chemically enhanced to achieve magical clumping action. What could be so different from one type to another? As long as it was changed regularly, I assumed the cats wouldn’t care. So when I noticed Tidy Cat was on sale for half the price of Fresh Step, I stocked up. These are tough economic times and I figured cheap litter would be the feline contribution to the Household Booze Fund Fiscal Responsibility Savings Plan.
But apparently, my pets have delicate poop sensibilities. They will not go in the damn Tidy Cat. And by not go, I mean the two of them stand in front of the closet where the litter box is stashed, all, “Holy Moses, you expect us to go in that? It’s one step above generic. It’s like the Payless of the litter world. This is not a knockoff household!” Hours pass and they stand vigilantly. The darn things have got the tenacity of Norma Rae, but even more righteous because their poo facilities are at stake. And just to prove their dedication to The Cause, when the cats can’t hold it any more, they tinkle and turd DIRECTLY OUTSIDE THE CLOSET. ON THE WHITE CARPET. It’s the feline version of giving me The Bird.
So this is where the Mexican Standoff part comes in. Because I insist on using that Tidy Cat. I totally understand why, during my formative years, my mom adopted the mantra, “Your (fill in the blank) is perfectly fine. I paid good money for that and you’re going to use it. So? Deal.” Yup. I’ve become the economic version of my mother. Except over cat litter and not hot pink stirrup pants. As far as I know, the Tidy Cat gets the job done and is perfectly acceptable for feline bums to utilize. There’s nothing wrong with it per se. My particular pair are just brand snobs. Well, life’s tough kittens, and we don’t always get the hot pink stirrup pants designer litter we want.
As a result of this shit storm, I’ve spent the last week cleaning up cat poop and drowning my hallway in Febreeze, Lysol Anti-Bac and various smelly Glade products. Because no matter what, even if that Tidy Cat remains virginal and pee-free ‘til kingdom come, I WILL NOT BE DEFEATED BY MY CATS.
That is all.
Everybody has their weakness. Mine happens to be shoes. Expensive ones. Preferably those lovingly made by wee little shoe elves with pointy ears and French accents. Yep, I am convinced that back in the late ‘70s, a slew of elves migrated from Santa’s Workshop to Christian Louboutin’s because they had a foot fetish. And ever since then, there’s been shoe magic. So when I intentionally visited stumbled onto the Kate Spade site last night and saw the most perfect pair of heels ever made, I wanted them. And they are ON SALE.
But my sensible side has kept me from clicking purchase. I am afraid of these tough economic times and have recently instituted a Budget. To preserve the integrity of my excel spreadsheet, the money would have to come from my New Couch Fund, which was started at the beginning of the month and is still tiny and fragile. The shoe purchase would basically wipe it out; sort of like new couch infanticide.
On the other hand, the Kate Spades are glorious. And I want them. What to do, Interwebs? What to do?
I happened to glance at the clock and from nowhere, realized that seven years ago I had just watched the second Twin Tower fall. For over ten minutes now, I’ve been sitting in silence at my desk, remembering.
I had no idea that 10:29 a.m. – the exact time I watched the second Tower fall – was imprinted on my heart. I’m generally not much of a Prayer Person, but every September 11th, for a few minutes, I am.