Oh Baby!

It has been a week since I wrote last. Again, I’m on duty and in possession of the golf cart. Am somewhat nervous, but will remember to keep the keys on my person at all times. I think I can, I think I can, I think I can…

In other news, has anyone else caught that new MTV show, Brandy: Special Delivery? Yeah. Probably not. Who wants to watch a show about a knocked up -wannabe – VH1 Diva? I think Brandy was like “hey I can’t perform on stage cause I’m all fat now. I know what I’ll do! I’ll have a reality show about the trials and tribulations of a childbirth.” Eww. Childbirth.

Hey Brandy, TLC called. They want their show back. Hello Lady! Ever heard of A Baby Story, and who hasn’t been visually assaulted by soggy, blooddrenched infants being ripped from their cursing mother’s womb during commercials for Labor and Delivery?

Baby’s alone are frightening – They’re like little aliens. They can’t talk. They can’t walk. And they smell weird. Their barf glows, they’re bald, and their heads are abnormally HUGE – so freakin’ huge compared to their little doll- bodies. Baby’s are creepy, so pair them visually with the nitty-gritty birthing biz and you have a recipe for the ultimate gross-out experience.

Hey I know how to reduce teen pregnancy – show Mrs. Brown passing her ten pound bundle of joy after 20 hours of sweaty, greasy, tissue-ripping, gut-wrenching, crapping-herself-publically labor. That would scare me if I was 13. Hell, I’m frightened right now just writing about it. Must stop now.

Anyway, the Brandy show wasn’t all gory – just totally lovey-dovey, like “look at me, I’m pregnant and I’m the greatest!” The only part of the show that I did enjoy came during a restaurant scene. I chuckled maliciously when Brandy, obviously in hormone overdrive, bitched out her husband for no apparent reason. Haha. Serves the bastard right for knocking her up in the first place.

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June 23, 2002

Oh Snap!

Today is a day for listening to metal – not hair metal/butt rock, but more like P.O.D., Linkin Park, etc. Today is a day for blaring metal at eardrum shattering decibles. I don’t do drugs, I’m not really freaky, so this music (and a glass of cold lemonade) is my release.

Why in need of catharsis? Well it all started last night… I was on duty and around 1am I got a call that someone was locked out of their room. This is no big deal – when duty-ing you get to drive the golfcart wherever the sitch is happening.

So I took the cart up to the desk and got the dude in his suite. Crisis solved… for now.

I’m not sure why- my brain must’ve been on autopilot – but I locked the chain to the stearing wheel, but left the keys in the ignition. Consequently, new crisis occured.

So I decide to get to bed around 1:30, and was deep in dreamland when I heard that sound – the sound anyone who’s on call dreads – the phone. I got a call from the front desk. I was told there were three police officers at the front desk, and they had my cart. My head was spinning. I wasn’t sure if i was really awake or still dreaming, as I tried to imagine how the po-po had the GC I locked outside my front door.

Apparently two drunk kids saw the keys in the ignition, and decided to take it bar hopping downtown. The golf cart was stolen!

I was very ugly – in my pajamas and wild hair at 3:30 am, but met with the officer and got the specifics. One kid ran away, but the one they caught was wrecked out of his mind and was in the clink for Drunk in Public. They couldn’t really charge him for larceny, because the keys were in the ignition. Bah.

So after that fiasco, I had only three hours of sleep before waking and driving the (now recovered) golf cart through campus for morning rounds. I got to sleep again for about an hour before I got a call from the desk. I went back to sleep… for ten minutes. Yeah, I got called again. Consequently, I spent my morning on emergency linen crew hauling sheets and mints and soaps around campus.

All the while I’m chanting “this job rocks” – who cares if it’s not true at this particular moment? You gotta have mantras to make it through when things are in FUBAR-mode.

File this under: Sunday, bloody Sunday

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June 21, 2002

Social Season

Everybody I know has a birthday in June, and I think I’m going to be broke from all the present shopping I have been doing. Of course, I’ve never been one to complain about shopping.

So here’s a few people I know that have birthdays in June: Mom, CG Dad, Step Mom, Larry “who let the jew out” Leventhall, Aunt Sue, Aunt Janet, Angelface’s Daddy, Angelface’s sis, and Angelface. Back home in the 49th state my parents host something we call the “June Party.” Since the ‘rents and all their friends were born in this auspicious 6th month, we bring out the tables and folding chairs for one huge birthday celebration. It’s good times. Last year it was the June/Garden/Hänni’s going back to school Party. I made fruit shikabobs, meatballs, punch and cake with real pansys stuck to the top. Last year’s party was actually in August.

Again, it looks like the June party will be held in August. CG’s doing a lot of work fixing up the house, and mom has done some serious garden revamping. In short: things are a little chaotic on the home front, and party postphonement will occur.

So, Larry turned 21 last week. Happy Birthday LLCoolJew. I’m so proud. He-who-never-drinks-more-than-a-bacardi-silver actually had about 15 shots that night and didn’t end up peeing his pants, or vomiting on anyone. (of course his roommate Besser wasn’t so fortunate, and hurled all over his sleeping girlfriend at 3 a.m., but that is another story.)

Angelface turns 21 Tuesday and we’re all very excited, especially Smug Ell who will be his drinking drill instructor. The Smug One is great for 21sts- she’s tough, she’s dedicated, and she won’t take no for an answer. I attribute the success of Larry’s extreem drinking to Smug who literally commanded him to drink his buttery nipple in three tries. There she was, lit cigarette dangling from one hand, the other pointed sharply at the mountain of drinks placed before little Lare.

God Bless you Drill Sergent Smug, H䮮iHouse salutes you, and looks forward to your participate at Tuesday’s Angelface Event of the season!

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June 20, 2002

Strawberry Crush

As frequently happens, I have gone into nostalgia mode. My new retro obsession: Strawberry Shortcake. And I’m singing The White Stripe’s Fell in love with a girl… fell in love with a girl… ah ah ah ah

Don’t get me wrong, I have always loved the Berry One. Gma used to make dolls from those kits where you knit the little body and attach a plastic head. Gma made me a Strawberry Shortcake, and for cousin Amber she made Apricot. I remember seeing Lemon Merangue with her white poofy hat and yellow hair; Huckleberry pie and his overalls, Lime Chiffon, her bird, and her birthday cake hat; Plum Puddin’, Crepe Suzette, Raspberry Tart and Blueberry Muffin – Gma made them all, and sold them at Aunt Barb’s antique shop.

Strawberry even figures into one of my earliest memories of my sister. When Spank was born we had to share a room. I slept under my little pink Strawberry Shortcake comforter in the big girl bed, and Spanky slept in her tiny white crib. Before She could even walk, my darling sister was given a gift that I wanted very badly. Just for being born, Spank got the pleasure of owning a plush stuffed rabbit with a strawberry shortcake sticker on the shoulder. When you sniffed the bunny it smelled like strawberries. I used to take her bunny and craddle it to my chest, pretending it was my own bunny. I figured she couldn’t fight me for it, so I was going to take it.

Consequently our relationship started out a little rocky. One day, in a fit of jealousy, or boredom, or whatever, I threw a softball at my infant-sister’s face. Spank had to go to the hospital, but I never confessed what I had done – until I was 15 or 16 when I knew mom wouldn’t punish me. I’ve always felt guilty about that, especially when I remember about that strawberry bunny. Spank never cried when I took it from her.

Anyway, I am again, full-on infatuated with Strawberry Shortcake. I used to have nightmares about the Peculiar Purple Pieman of Porcupine Peak, but now I think he’s cute.

Also, just to let everyone know so they can be at once jealous, and then sad for my loss, I owned this very lunch box when I was in the second grade.
Where it went, well that’s something nobody really knows. The important thing is, for that brief moment I owned a little metal peice Strawberry history.

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June 18, 2002

Roach Motel

Don’t tell anyone I said this, but dude, this place has roaches.

It just reminds me of Joe’s apartment – the MTV movie where the guy lives with talking bugs. Well, as I’m checking all these rooms I keep singing “baby, I got the love. Baby I got the power! Come on girl and rock my world…” That’s the song the main roach sings while doing water ballet in Joe’s toilet.

While plugging in phones (i know, such a menial task for such a sophisticated lady), I came across approximately 7 roaches – of course this wasn’t in my particular building. I have only found 2 in good old “Megg”, as the kids who really live in this place call it. I’m talking about those hardcore individuals ~ people who *gasp* inhabit this building for more than three months at a time.

While I enjoy living in newer buildings that are roach-free, I gotta say there are some cool things about Main Egg. For example, while the building only holds about 250 people, the laundry room has six washers. That’s a lot of freakin washers for only 250 people. I remember living in Lee where we had maybe 8 washers for 800 people! Also, in the kitchen, which I call the “haunted kitchen”, I found this mixer from the forties. It is a handmixer, but is so heavy it has it’s own stand. It’s shiny and metallic, and probably has been here practically since the building opened in the mid thirties.

Why do I call the kitchen haunted? No reason really. It’s just like one night I was cooking some pizzas in the oven when this torrential down pour started. There was thunder and lightning, and the day had changed from a sunny, magical day to black and gloomy.

While i was making pizza I kept hearing this beebing coming from the hall – like from those autocheck detectors the newer buildings have. This building doesn’t have that, so I couldn’t imagine what the beeping was. I imagined it was the ghost who haunts the kitchen trying to make a phone call, or warn me to quit making Diguourno or something. So I quit. But the hallway still beeps whenever I’m on that second floor.

My first residents have moved in. Three people in their forties who are hear to study some crap. I don’t even know what! I heard one of em’s a fireman. What do firemen study anyway? How to be a Hoser 101? Of course, this class is not to be mistaken with the Canadian version which has more to do with how to be a whore, than how to water down a burning building.

Interesting fact of the day: Saying “Hey hoser” to a Canadian, is like calling them a slut.

file this under: roaches, ghosts, and hosers, oh my!