Posts published during July, 2002

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July 23, 2002

A Little Cheese With Your Whine, Jackass?

I AM SICK! I am sick of adults – in their thirties, and forties, and fifties becoming crybabies right before my very eyes. I’m sick of complaints about pillows, and people, and light fixtures. I am sick of these retards looking in my windows late at night, hoping I’ll unlock the building to let them in. I’m sick of the adult students and their professors, aloof bitches, with no apology or apathy for the service I, and my employer provide.

I curse the day that the Spanish Teachers came to my M.egg. They came, balding and greasy, foreheads dripping with sweat. They came jeering, and complaining, angry at the four-hour drive they all endured. They projected their angst at me, the red-headed girl in the black “Summer Conferences” polo.

And I basically bent over and took it. Call me backdoor H䮮i.

This one guy, we’ll call him A.C. for “AssCrack”. AC complained the very first day he was here. He invaded my privacy, by knocking on my door at 11:30 p.m. complaining about the noise from the quad. Admittedly, the kids next door are straight delinquents. They’re at-risk kids from the ghetto or something. I caught them trying to steal the maintence golfcart last week.

Anyway, i told AC that there wasn’t much i could do. The quad is a public space after all. AssCrack made sure to let me know he wasn’t happy and wouldn’t be sleeping with all that noise. I said, “don’t let the door hit your candy ass on the way out.”… well i didn’t really say that verbally, but i was sending the message telepathically.

And I didn’t think anything more about AssCrack until today when I got a message. Apparently, Mr. Crappy Pants called RDP leaving a message, “Re: noise complaint. Assistant in the hall won’t do anything. Please call. Am very upset.” Although he wanted a call from my boss to ease his burning diaper rash, I decided to take charge.

I made him come to my room to have a face – to – face where I rather cattily let him know he was blowing everyting way out of proportion. I mean, he complained about the kids outside, and he complained about bugs in the rooms and dirty linens. Where did this guy go to college? The Marriot?

Bah.

I can’t wait for Friday. The Spanish mafia are finally, and at long last, leaving M.egg for the summer. All I have to say is F- you and adios whiny-asses!

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July 22, 2002

The Yolks on Me

Combined hours typically spent working Friday, Saturday and Sunday: 6
Combined Hours worked this weekend: 26.5
Hours spent wishing I wasn’t working: 26 (I actually did enjoy the half an hour spent driving the golfcart into the highway median late at night.)

Alert the karma police! They say there’s no rest for the wicked, and I must’ve been a very bad girl in a past life. It’s SUUSI weekend. The Unitarians – the cult who knows how to party – are here, and I’m a slave to their whims. Not a kinky S&M- type slave. Just a garden-variety type, plebian slave. A paid slave – but what price dignity?

In answer, about $7.50 an hour.

I?m a slave for you (SUUSI). I cannot hold it;
I cannot control it. I?m a slave for you (SUUSI).
I won?t deny it; I?m not trying to hide it.

Saturday night I didn’t go out and party. You see, I was up until almost 2 am driving a catywompus golfcart across the vast expanse of Tech’s academic/residential/dairy quarters. I guess the best/worst part of the night happened early on. At about 10 p.m. I remarked to my “duty-buddy”, Jen, what a lovely night it was. The air was cool, the sky milky-black, a handful of stars were scattered about.

Everything was perfect. Then – sudden as summer storm – a hoopty emerged. And from that hoopty came the soft wooshing of an egg ripe for mischief. The hoopty headed southbound, and the hapless golfcart heading north passed quietly in the night. The only sounds were a soft crack, some jovial laughter, and the sensation of yolks and whites dripping down my legs.

I think i’m the first person in the history of summer conferences to get egged while riding a golfcart. Rest assured, Mom and Dad are proud.

The rest of the weekend was thoroughly uninteresting. It was spent it being a runner for people wearing fuschia flamingo hats, and tie dyed socks. This is supposed to be the highlight of the summer, as far as conferences go. I’m serious. And I’m scared.

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July 20, 2002

It’s Naked Day

Welcome to the first naked hannihouse blog of the summer. as i’ve mentioned before, i only blog when inspired. during my morning lather in the M.egg bathtub i suddenly got the urge to share my voice with you, the viewing public. although i’m wrapped in a towel, rest assured, I will make no attempt to properly clothe myself during the writing of this entry.

by extension, and in the spirit of naked blogging, i would urge you to free yourself of your oppressive garb – right now. Naked blog-reading is not only acceptable, but is highly encouraged at my house. I wannaseeyounekkid.

the topic doujour at hannihouse is body hair. yesterday i got into an interesting conversation about men, and back and chest hair. i’m not sure what prompted the whole thing, but I do have a few things to say about it:

1, Everybody has body hair – i’m no exception. i’ve got hairy hobbit toes. Hair is nothing to be ashamed about people!

2. Chest hair on men is cute. Hairy men are lucky, because even when they take their shirt off they still have a little warm sweater to cover themselves with.

3. Conversely, shaving your chest hair is almost perverted. The exceptions: models, sexy gay men, and male employees in the shirtless velcro-testing facility.
My beef: if God blesses you with a lambswool sweater, you don’t trade it in for a naked molerat suit .

4. Back hair is not very cute. a small amount is fine, but if you look like teen wolf it’s time to break out the hot wax strips.

5. Ammendment: i cannot wholly discriminate against hairy backed men, as it is natural. I mean, if you were to get implants in your shoulders, then i could complain. natural men, wear your back hair with pride – but be discreet.
my beef: those men whose back so closely resembles a gorilla, and who insist on taking their shirt off in public. case in point: the image of a shirtless, bigfootesque old man in D.C. four years ago is still sharply, and unfortunately, burned into my memory. i am shuddering.

file this crazy junk under: body hair – to wear, or not to wear.

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July 18, 2002

Ma Cheri Amor

So I’m hooked on the new reality tv show american idol . It’s totally cheese with it’s two corny commentators, a panel of judges including 80′s it-girl Paula Abdul, and a cast of quirky wannabe-popstars. My least favorite wannabe was Jim, who is a TERRIBLE singer. He’s got this fake looking spikey hair, and he just comes off as too sensitive. His parents are both deaf, which explains his singing ability, or lack thereof. Obviously as a small child he didn’t fully develop spoken communication skills.

Fortunately, Jim was voted off last night. I’m sure he went home and cried himself to sleep on his enormous pillow. Then the pillow became permanently attached to his spikey gel-laden cranium.

EJ was also voted off. That guy was a GREAT singer – he definetly beat everyone else. He also had a great body, and his clothing style was okay.. not hideous, not gorgous.. just okay. I’m kind of pissed about this, because it’s obvious why he was voted off. The problem: He looks like Gilgamesh. He has the caterpillar eyebrows and a little, weird nose. I mean, just because he doesn’t look like Justin Timberlake, the fickle american audience ditched him.

In more news.. Larry “who let the jew out” Leve has been dating. Yes, i’m for real. Larry has finally found himself a JAP who fancies his love of anime and sci fi. This could be it kids – this could be the one. I can just see it. In five years Larry and Girltoy will be attending Dungeon’s and Dragons conventions together, talking about their new home, and the Elf in the oven.

heh.

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July 16, 2002

Look Into My Crystal Ball

I just read yesterday that the Dawson’s Creek season 6 premier is 2 hours long! For a moment I thought I was dreaming, that I must’ve died and gone to heaven… Countdown to dawons premier: 2 loooong months. (the exact date has not been announced, but typically it’s the first week of September. Will start an official hannihouse countdoon in an upcoming blog!)

Right, so I’ve been thinking a lot about the future lately. For those of you who follow hannihouse, you know that the list of potential careers now reads: spy, feng shui master, mother to challenged child, medical experiment participant, naval officer, stripper, lawyer, and taco bell employee. But how do I plan to achieve such high and lofty goals as becoming a “medical experiment participant”?

This is the question. And I’ve got indigestion.

Well, the first step in this whole crazy job search process will be to read the job hunting bible, What Color is your Parachute. My advisor, Waggs, said I had to read this over the summer, so I wouldn’t be in her office freaking out in September. Waggs is a very compassionate lady.

In addition to my parachute book, Mom has also requested that I read Dale Carnegie’s How to Stop Worrying and Start Living.

I am worried about reading this book.

It’s just like the whole time management, book-reading/studying thing interferes with my laziness. I read a quote somewhere on blogger today that went something to the effect of “blogger makes editing so easy that even lazy people don’t have any excuses. This is very disappointing.” Well, I’m lazy, and I don’t blog every day. I will continue using my lethargy as an excuse. Laziness does not worry me.

Funny story. Last night angelface and I were talking about the future, as we sometimes do. I told him when i’m 60 he’d have to push me around, cause i’d be 300lbs and unable to walk. Angelface got a longing look in his eyes and replied “Hänni when we’re old, I’m going to have a french maid who’ll give me sexual favors.” I snorted in surprise.

Never one to be selfish Angel piped in: “Don’t worry baby. I will buy you a male nurse.”

He said it just like that. Like not even joking or sarcastic. You gotta love angelface.

And you gotta love the future.. whatever it holds.

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July 2, 2002

MTV, You’re Killin’ Me!

A couple days ago I wrote about MTV’s nauseating new reality show Brandy: Special Delivery. Just when I thought MTV couldn’t do any worse, I happened to catch an episode of Sorority Life.

All I can say is, like, totally gag me with a spoon.

So this show is really boring. Basically, it follows these Californian Sorostitutes who talk catty behind each other’s backs. I don’t need to watch MTV to get this sort of drama. I’d be better off just starting a rumor at work, and waiting for the back lash. Psst – Sarah slept through her check-in; Eh, George made out with a thirteen year old basketball camper; Did you hear Gavin found weed in the showers?; Oh my god, H䮮i got a call at 3 am from the police – apparently the golf cart was stolen!

heh.

And I am disappointed. Deeply disappointed in MTV. How can the people who blessed the world with The Osbournes simultaneously curse us with crap about singers and sorority hookers?

To cheer us from this dismal abysis of MTV-induced nausea and grief, I present CG Dad, by CG Dad.