Shock-o-late Cake

Tuesday, May 31st, 2011 – Knees are bastards, mad love, I kill plants, the thirst that won’t die

Is it really a week since I last posted an entry? I’m getting lazier by the day it seems. I have no strength to do much at the end of the day but rock in a corner and drool on my shirt. Which, to the keen observer, is pretty much like an ordinary, less busy day for me, except with more apathy and less enthusiasm.
It’s really no wonder I drink.

I’ve tried, tonight, to catch up on my creaking Google Reader, valiantly straining under the heft of all those unread entries of yours. It’s like a losing battle though. I waded through a good, pleasant, cockle-warming pool of them, managed to leave a few comments – not nearly enough, but I’d still be here next September if I left them on every entry I read – and ended up getting nothing else done at all, except concocting a makeshift pizza out of some garlic nan bread and various oniony, peppery, cheesy toppings, which, if you ask me, is time well spent.

Time substantially less well spent was an hour that seemed like five weeks, entertaining my friend’s five year old, who insisted on riding me around the living room pony style, while I got rug burn on one knee and exacerbated the one that was already blaring at Defcon 1 with the yoga injury. Plus you all know how I feel about small, young, fast-moving, loud humans. I’m so not jiggy with them. If I had one of my own I’d be a full-on babbling alcoholic by now. Instead of just a full on babbler and part time wino. Luckily, for me and the world, I’d rather roll my pants in horseshit then eat them than have a brand new life-form spring forth from my loins.

I’ve also gotten really vexed that work is full of cake. I should probably have asked you to sit down before telling you that because, really, what position could possibly be better for me than in a place that deals in cake all day, every day and that requires that I sample said cakes and give opinions on texture and taste and chocolateyness on top of my more usual job description? Is it heaven or hell? I don’t know. All that sugar has confused me. It feels like heaven. My pants however, squawking in terror, are insisting it’s hell.

If that shocked you, you might want to move away from any sharp objects for this next sentence. I think there might really be a thing called “too much cake”. I know, right, what the hell?

There, you can open your eyes now and back away from the ledge. You’ll get over it.

Still no Ohio. Jesus Christ, people, I FAIL AT LIFE.

The One Where My Hair’s a Bitch

Wednesday, May 18th, 2011 – lunch is good blogging time

I decided, a few weeks ago, before starting the new office portion of my life, I should probably tame the wild beast that lives on my head, because usually my idea of a good hair day is one where it’s clean and I manage to not find families of wild animals or twigs living in it.  With this in mind I’d set out on an intrepid expedition to a local hair salon to have them try to “fix” it.   After viewing my head from all angles and making some most discouraging  clicking sounds, the lady with the scissors  said she was pretty sure she could do something with it that didn’t involve shaving it all off and plopping a paper bag over my head.

Of course she never once mentioned that the “something” might be making me look like I’m not entirely on top of matters, but I guess it was my own fault for not asking the right question.  The right question being, “Can you do something that doesn’t make me look not entirely on top of matters?”   

It’s not that it’s a bad style – it isn’t – it’s just not…..well….me.  Whatever that means.  Stupid hair.   I hate salons anyway.  They never make my hair look good . It only looks good weeks later when I’ve messed with it in some illegal manner hairdressers disapprove of.  Besides, it doesn’t matter what the hell you say to a hairdresser, they’re strong willed.   You can show them a photo, give them a description in vivid detail and you’ll still come out of the place looking like you said, “You know what?  Just get shitfaced and put a lawn mower on it!”  

So yes, I hate my stupid lady hair and am praying it grows out fast.   This might be the millionth time I’ve complained that I hate my hair after hair salon visits.  This visit happened weeks ago too and it’s only now starting to look like I might not be demented after all, just the owner of an ever so slightly “exuberant” personality.   And people wonder why I usually cut my own hair…

So how are you guys?   Want to have some mental wine and cheese with me?    Come back end of the week for some really riveting stuff on the great state of Ohio.   Why Ohio?  Why the hell not?  Rock on good buddies.

Can We Please Have an 8 Day Week?

Sunday, May 15th, 2011 – babbling, need coffee injection, wishing for silence and tequila

I almost fell asleep on the bus last night, as it trudged through the rainy streets, braking like a maniac when some errant pedestrian with the coordination and sense of direction of a newborn baby emu, would suddenly veer dangerously off the sidewalk and into its path, jerking me awake with a, “What the f…!”, at which time I’d be a little disoriented because my mind was on some tropical island pinging the elastic waistband of some unlucky man’s Speedos one second and stuck on a rickety bus the next.

You see, I haven’t been getting enough sleep. I go to bed feeling like I just spent fourteen hours body slamming The Rock, unable to utter a single coherent sentence through my exhaustion, then come about 5am I’m wide awake with the harsh morning daylight in my eyes, feeling hung-over. Which is really unfair considering I didn’t even get to drink anything! I also managed to fall asleep, Friday night, in an armchair, upright, in the midst of laughing at “An Idiot Abroad”. What the hell? Am I ninety?

Anyway, I’ve been attempting to sleep while wearing one of those ridiculous eye mask things they hand out in the posh seats on planes, that are supposed to block out the light. Only I must’ve been dreaming about bitch-slapping the living shit out of Lindsay Lohan or some such thing, because I still awoke at 5am, sneezing my ass off with seasonal allergies, only this time all my flailing around on my pillow (probably smothering the thieving, gin-soaked Lohan bint) had mussed up my hair and worked the eye mask around my head so it only actually covered one eye, leaving me look like a strawberry blonde Captain Jack Sparrow with pink eye. It was even more attractive than it sounds.

 If you would like to date me, as always, the line starts over there. 

It also made my eyes sweat. Who knew that was even POSSIBLE? So I slept a little longer, however, I’m not sure which is worse, being blinded by the light or the Swedish sauna, sweaty Buscemi eyes.

So yes, my weekend thus far has been spent, a) having a hangover (hi!), b) doing twelve hours of design work for gratis and c) being thirsty. I owe about 300 emails, have a ton of laundry to do, grocery items to acquire and some treadmill running to aspire to before tomorrow morning. Hmm.

Anyway, I must go now to try and find yet another lady item for my work wardrobe or be thought of as “the chick with one cardigan”. Jesus Christ.

I promise an insightful and very informative state essay this week. Anyone wishing to request states, do so in the comments and I’ll pick one and massacre do it justice.

So how are you guys? I’ll get to your blogs one day soon, I promise. For now, I’m going to schedule this post and get some goddamn shut eye. Hey ho!

Not So Manic Monday

Monday, May 9th, 2011 – Blah

I’m all full of the joys of Monday today for real, since I’m only working till 12:30, since I’m basically SUPPOSED to be part time, in order to leave time for my other job (being awesome!). So far today, however, I’ve been full-time crazy busy and the other chick I work with called in sick, so you know…it’s not looking great presently for my early exit. It’s amazing what knowing you’re leaving five hours earlier than usual (hopefully) will do for your mood. That and the fact you are smug in the knowledge that you still have half a stuffed crust pizza left in the fridge for dinner and enough Coke Zero to drown any sorrows you may have left. Oh yes please.

Obviously wine would be better but hey, I’m getting old, wine’s strictly for weekends.

A few gripes for today:

1) I heard that fairly horrible G-whine-eth Paltrow “Country Strong” number earlier and marvelled at just how much they have auto-tuned the living shit out of her voice. There were notes in it where she almost confirmed my long-time suspicions that she’s actually an evil, homicidal, android robot from a parallel universe. Who invented auto-tune? I’d like to kick them right in their fanny region and I don’t even care which “fanny” you celebrate, front or back. Right in the fanny with my boot. There’s no need for people to sound like robots. Not even The Paltrow. Don’t get me started on pop/dance music’s abuse of it. Really, don’t.

2) If you’re serving me in a store and you’re bagging up my item and getting me change, don’t yap to your friend at the next till about your weekend like I’m not even there. Because I AM there and so is my finger and girlfriend, I will poke you right in the eye. I like to interrupt with inane blurt-outs when this happens. “I HAVE SO MANY PENNIES, LOOK AT MY PENNIES!”, “YOUR CABBAGE IS EXTORTIONATE!” Drives them batty.

3) Not everyone wants a t-shirt down to their knees. When will this long top phase end, because I hate it and will not be ignored, damn you. While we’re at it can the pseudo eighties just fuck off now please and take their goddamn jeggings and tunic tops with them?

4) Someone needs to find the person at Yahoo, who keeps insisting on taking ridiculous articles from “Cosmopolitan” about what women want in a man, and reposting them on Yahoo News, then take them out back and shoot them right in the tits.

5) I hate broccoli. There is no reason for it to exist. So it’s good for you, big deal. It’s nasty and looks like a lung that’s been coughed up and left to go mouldy. No one needs to eat that. Broccoli’s like the Ringo Starr of the vegetable world, only less likable.

There, whine over. I’m going to go now and pretend I’m doing something productive. Holy crap, if there was a non-busy Monday, that would mean the apocalypse is here.

Connecticut: Spelled Funny, Smells Funnier

Wednesday, April 27th, 2011 – leftover chocolate, knee squeaking, large albatross like bird projectile shitting on window

Howdy, my little jelly beans!  Are we all ready to learn something, humongously interesting about Connecticut?  Well get comfortable and let’s begin! 

What can I tell you, weary blogland, about the great state of Connecticut?  Connecticut has a ‘c’ in the middle just to confuse people.  Not me though.  I am a spelling God.  As most of you know, Connecticut is technically a state in the New England area, although we all know that really it’s just New York City’s bitch.  Some people would have you believe it has its own personality and awesomeness ratio, but it’s just a suburb of NYC, let’s be brutally honest here. 

Now let’s get down to business.  Connecticut was the fifth state of the original 13, and nowadays is a small, densely populated pudding of posh, hoity toity, wealthy residents and people who’d murder your granny for a sniff of cheap scotch and even cheaper ladies’ panties. 

The state’s name is an English bastardization of the original Algonquian name “quinatucquet” which translates loosely as, “big, superfluous suburb of New York” or I may be lying, but I don’t think so.  Its early settlers were Dutch and English and fights constantly broke out in the neighbourhood over who wore the silliest garb – the English with their powdered white wigs or the Dutch with their giant, comical wooden shoes.  Occasionally, an unfortunate interbreed would don both and be executed for witchcraft.   Or I could have totally made that up, I’ll let you decide.

The thing most people like to say about Connecticut, apart from the whole NYC thing is, “Yah, yah, I like…went to Yale, I am totally rich and ivy league smart!”  and then they recount the time they rented a mini bus in the dead of night to drive up to Harvard and play a totally bitchin’ prank on those Masshole losers by replacing their team mascot with a bald chicken or something equally, scorn inducing.  We’ll be impressed when you replace their mascot with a UNICORN, Yaley.

Ready for the obligatory heathen count?  Don’t get too excited.  According to Wikipedia, which incidentally will accept information from any clearly drunk and illiterate person with a keyboard, only 1% of Connecticutters (heh!) are heathens, but I’m inclined to not quite believe that statistic, especially since the list of percentages for all the different religious entities was suspiciously long and when I used my vast arithmetic skills to add up the percentages of Connecticut’s religious residents, it equalled 148%. Which, I don’t know about you, seems just a little fishy, when you consider THERE CAN ONLY BE 100%.

Which is what happens to your mathematical logic when you’re relegated in people’s minds from “state with its own identity” to “giant suburb of New York”.

Despite this impressive exploitation of the percentage rules, Connecticut is a fairly Democratic state and one of the few states in the US which not only recognizes same sex marriage, but never repealed this law.  Way to go, CT, recognizing our gay brothers and sisters!

Last, and very definitely least, everyone’s favourite fuck-up, George W. Bush was born in Connecticut, although luckily for the locals he was ejected because he couldn’t SPELL “Connecticut” and he exiled himself to Texas, got a cowboy accent and a big hat and proceeded to suck the life out of the English language from thousands of miles away.  Rumours that his first words after leaving office, were, “Laura, let’s git on with barbecuin’ and executin’ and we gots all the oil, LOL!” are unconfirmed at this time.

And that’s it for Connecticut.  Except, did I mention it was really just a suburb of New York City?

Easter Spirit

Sunday, April 24th, 2011, Easter, chocolate, nom nom nom, brain filler

Happy Easter, peeps (see what I did there – topical relevance, although isn’t “relevance” kind of redundant in that phrase, I don’t know. Or care…)

I hope you all had a moment of contemplative silence today, to remember what Easter is all about. That’s right! Getting to the supermarket early to snap up those bargain, half price Easter eggs! I still haven’t eaten much chocolate in eons – well, I did have a piece of Tonka Bean chocolate the other day (effing delicious, incidentally, I recommend) – however, today, being Easter, means I have to BY LAW eat some chocolate or the holiday police show up and threaten to pinch and twist your personals till you scream (allegedly). So I’m endeavoring to go out later and buy as many Cadbury eggs as I can find, then eat them till I pass out in a sugar coma.

No one can say I don’t get in the spirit of Easter.

Talking of spirits, because “segue” is my middle name, last night I went out for Mexican food and margaritas and daiquiris. I contemplated writing this entry last night but wisely remembered the nonsense I write when I’m SOBER and figured that it was probably a heinous mistake to even consider more drunken blogging. See, I’m maturing. Like a good cheese.

 Anyway, the margaritas, served by the pitcher and made with fresh strawberries and enough tequila to pickle your innards, were superb, as were the daiquiris, also made from freshly mushed up strawberries and enough rum to ensure your brain was as pickled as your innards. And really, how could you have a bad night after that? You couldn’t. Well unless you got a blister the size of a quarter on the sole of your foot. And what’s more annoying than that, except a blister the size of a quarter on the sole of EACH foot (or Sarah Palin) which hello! I have. The blister I mean, not Sarah Palin. Damn boots. Ouch.

At least my knee’s doing better. Pretty soon I’ll be able to boot annoying people right in the ass again as always. I’m totally kidding, of course. It’s my right knee. I boot with my left. My booting abilities never actually quit.

Anyway, a thing about Connecticut is coming soon. Soonish. I know you’re on tenterhooks. Whatever they are.

Happy Chocolate Day!

Things That Are Wrong With Me Today

Tuesday, April 19th, 2011 – achey breaky knee, Tonka Bean chocolate is good, digging plaid

Hi!  Yes you!  Remember me?  I sometimes post nonsense several times a week then disappear without trace for a week then expect everyone to be all, “Hey, welcome back, we missed you SO much, OMG how did we live without you?"  Because you’re doing that aren’t you?  Humour me.

You’ll be enthralled and captivated to know that my knee is still being a giant asshole.   It was doing pretty well there for a while, then I got bored and walked around on it for two entire days straight and it was disgusted with me and decided to stage some sort of a military coup.  Only for knees. 

Even I don’t know what that means but it sounds impressive. 

Anyway, yes, it’s back to being painful and I’ve been swallowing prescription strength codeine and Ibuprofen and grinning a lot and falling asleep mid sentence.  Stupid knee.  

Oh, and I got in the bath tub tonight for a relaxing soak and couldn’t get out again.  I felt like I was 90.  But really, YOU try getting out of a little tub when you can’t put weight on one knee.  I did what any sane person in such an undignified situation would do and flailed about miserably, splashing water everywhere, sighing a lot and calling my knee “an inconvenient little fuck”.  Then when I did finally make it out and cleaned up the great flood of 2011, I limped around the apartment, sniffing a lot for emphasis. 
I smell really, really fantastic though! 

So how are YOU guys? 

You know what happened tonight?  A gigantic Daddy-Long-Legs (official species name: fucking flitty floaty interloperus thingus) got in the open window and proceeded to terrorize the life out of me.  If you know me, you know of my all encompassing Daddy-Long-Legs terror.

And this country is FILLED with daddy long legs. I can deal with spiders. Spiders and me have an understanding.  They keep the hell out of my bed or my dinner and I agree to let them live.  I will even rescue them from imminent death if they happen to be in my bathtub when I need to take a shower.  I’m not afraid of them.  We have a “live and let live” policy, spiders and I.

 Daddy-Long-Legs however?  No.  No such treaty has been entered upon and it never will.  Those things need to die.  There’s nothing quite as horror inducing as a floaty, skittish dot with giant spindly legs following you around and trying to float into your holes.  I’m having trouble even typing this to be honest.   It’s just too grim.  I’m going to vomit.  Tonight I will guard my holes with a violent passion.  No infiltration by floaty, flying things that can’t even decide if they’re a goddamn spider or a fly.  What do they even DO?  Apart from terrorize me, I mean.  Clearly.

Well, that got a bit ranty, for sure.  Sorry, but DLLs make me stabby.