Posts published during June, 2005

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June 30, 2005

Clean Up, Aisle 4

After work I stopped in at the ‘Gay – that’s my special name for the cheerful, cherry red shopping mecca known as Super Target. At the checkout stand, as usual, the poor little price check girl was completely flustered as she failed to correctly ID my bokchoy, turnips and watercress.

Today I watched, unabashed in my amusement, as this cashier, eyes wide with panic, began a mad, twitchy flipfest through her laminated vegetable code book. In her mind, ran thoughts like: What the f*&% is a spaghetti squash? Who the F*&% buys organic parsnips? Why in holy hell is this health nut, miscreant customer ogling me and laughing like some ten-year-old-boy whose just snorted pixie sticks? F*&%, Sh*t and Santa Maria!

Yes indeed, when I buy vegetables, the cashier is my bitch. A master of all things organic, I am the pimp of produce.

Yeah, today I enjoyed the requisite failure to recognize the garden fresh items in my cart. But sometimes this blatant ignorance by supermarket employees – who often can’t tell asparagus from their ass – really cheeses me off. I mean, I’ve had checkers ask me what freaking green beans are!

In instances like these, where it’s obvious that I’m dealing with someone who has ganglia for brains, I find it very difficult to restrain myself, to squelch my overpowering, animalistic desire to reach across that conveyor belt, grab “Darlene” by her shiny, shellacked hairdo, and at the top of my lungs scream, “YOU! OUTTA THE GENE POOL!”

But I digress.

Despite the checkers’ vegetable-induced theatrics, or rather because of it, I had a very delightful shopping trip this eve. The grand finale at this event: as Darlene was bagging my goods, I heard a loud crash behind me and some gurgling noises. I turned around just in time to see a Mr. Mom do an amazing, though not successful, juggling act wherein New Bouncing Babe was on one bicep, a bag of nappies was on the other.

Just like it was scripted, just like a bad supermarket sitcom, I watched as the pampers, an open container of Johnson’s baby powder, a tube of ointment, and tub of wipes went ass-over-teakettle, falling from the stroller to the floor in a glorious, discordant cacophony. Like fine morning mist over the moors of Ireland, talcum powder rose in a cloud around me as I made my exit from that wonderful place that I call, the ‘Gay.

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June 29, 2005

Three Cheers for Sweet Gerard

I confess. I have a new man in my life. His name is Gerard, and he likes wearing makeup and talking about gun play. Gerard Way is the lead singer of goth-punk band, My Chemical Romance, and in my mind, is a rock star of the most drool-worthy variety. Sickly Pale and dark in demeanor, there’s just something about a wispy screamo emo boy that this gurl can’t get enough of.

Can I get a Hallelujah, Lock and Load? (tm MCR’s Thank You For The Venom)

So while I don’t hang out with these types of boys in Real Life (whatever that is), I find myself strangely attracted to them in fantasy rock n’ roll world. I guess I’m like a moth to a flame, a goth boy to eyeliner, or Tom Cruise to the study of Psychiatry by way of Scientology. (Matt, don’t argue with Tom, because you don’t know the history of psychiatry. Tom does.)

But yeah, I like boys who wear makeup – but only to a certain degree.

My darling friend SORM says the fact that I get all hot and bothered about My Chemical Romance means that I’m reverting back to the teeny bopper (or rather, teeny rocker) years. SORM thinks that Gerard is only for 16-year-olds, but I disagree. I was at the MTV taping on Monday and there was a fair amount of 10-year-olds in the audience too! And also there were Moms. Lots of Moms. Cool Punk Rock Mom’s wearing pleather pants and twin sets – no joke!

Because I’m somewhere between 5th grade and June Clever’s mid-life crisis, I figure I’m just the right age to be an MCR addict. Just because nobody likes your music SORM, (techno is sooo 2002), you don’t need to bust my balls about mine. You can’t just say nasty things about me and Gerard.

It’s Not Okay (I Promise).

Teeny Rocker out!

P.S. Rockstar Brother is now officially out touring with the Warped Tour. I read on the NothingLess MySpace blog that they are hanging out with The Ataris and playing pingpong with The Starting Line. How cool is that?

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June 22, 2005

Free Katie

Although I typically “stick to the script” and write about those things I know best, (I.e. my cats, my armpits and my office), there are, on occasion, world events that, by their sheer enormity, warrant their own post. And I?m not talking about run of the mill stuff. The fall of communism – ehhh, who cares? And who, prey tell, really gives two figs about the capture of Sadaam or the runaway bride? I’m talking about important stuff folks here. Today, I’m talking about Tom and Katie.

I have been irritating my friends and coworkers for weeks with my incessant ranting about this most heinous of unions. But I guess we can’t call it union. More like an agreement. More like a publicity stunt. More like the most fake, desperate, and vomitious spectacle to have ever assaulted my senses – or at least the most fake, desperate, and vomitious spectacle to have assaulted my senses in the last six weeks.

Prior to operation Ruin Katie, there was that matter of the ever-shrinking, pasty-faced Lindsey Lohan. I just want Lindsey to know, you’ve got boobs somewhere. Don’t waste ‘em. As a woman who?s never had the opportunity/cup size to use her boobs as a table from which to eat a bowl of ice cream or frosted flakes, I want you to know that you’ve been blessed. Don’t let Betty and Wilma shrink away. For the love of all that’s good and busty, do not let Betty and Wilma go quietly into that cold, flat night.

Free Lindsey’s Boobs.

But anyway, yeah, I’ve got beef about Tom and Katie. As a devoted Dawson’s Creek fan my loyalty lies with little Joey Potter. I believe she has been kidnapped and brainwashed by the cult of Tom. And so do these smart folks.

That guy is a wack job! What other straight man would dump Nicole “hot as my nuts” Kidman after multiple years of having his oatmeal served warm by the charming Australian? Why, the very same straight man who would hold hostage impressionable, young 26-year-olds in order to satisfy some midlife crisis and sell a few movie tickets.

And therein lies the rub.

This is just a facade. It’s so obvious what’s going on here. Let’s “hook up” in Rome. Let’s get “engaged” in Marseilles. Let’s jump on Oprah’s couch in Chicago. Tom is going for world domination, and he won’t stop dragging Katie around like a dog show poodle until he’s achieved this.

Free Katie – oh please Tom, free Katie.

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June 17, 2005

And I’m Spent

So, we’re moved in and mostly unpacked, thank the good and gracias Lord. My body is suffering, as I have been living off the likes of pizza, donuts, milkshakes, tacos and french fries for the past few days. I have endured extreme cold (accidentally set new thermostat to “sub-arctic freeze”) and then extreme heat (in response to said freezing, accidentally shut a/c off altogether on 94 degree day!). I have had no sleep, no yoga, no peace and quiet from needy-ass kittys who have been – to my dismay- leaping, like frantic deer over boxes and bedsprings with wild abandon.

My appearance over these last few days, I admit, has been skeezy, to say the least. Without access to tweezers, my eyebrows are reaching epic proportions. Additionally, my hair style is currently a flatish, greasyish, mishmash. Despite all this, or rather because of it, yesterday a small child mistook me for a celebrity – told me to be nicer to Big Bird.

I’m a little worried. Apparently, I’m starting to look like this:

Hopefully normalacy will soon again ensue. I need vegetables, relaxation, and a hair-do that’s not reminscient of early-nineties Don King. I need sunshine, tranquility and time spent dwelling on the important things in life -gay ex-boyfriends, sweaty pits and celebrity gossip.

Here’s hoping my next post finds me in fitter, happier, more productive spirits than this one. Til next, adieu!

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June 14, 2005

Trading Spaces

Urgh, am frantic. Tomorrow is moving day, and thank goodness for it. Pretentious Condo Digs is just getting ridiculous.

Yesterday, sick of sitting amongst my half-packed hovel, I woke up early, put on my nikes, did some extensive stretching and headed to the gym for a nice relaxing run.

I got there, dodging landscapers all the way, only to find that the gym is now locked until 10am each morning. Thus, if you’d like to workout at said facility, you may only do so between the unreasonable hours of 10-5.

Nobody goes to the gym between 10 and 5. Nobody.

I’m at work from 10-5, and anyone who isn’t at work is likely busy watching soap operas and eating bon bons. Who really wants to break out the old sweat suit when General Hospital is on? (My father-in-law is a rabid GH fan, and you’d think that show could walk on water, he likes it so much.)

Anywho, to make the running sitch worse, as I’m standing at the doors to the gym looking angry, dejected and sweaty, (humidity was through the roof at 7 am!), who rolls up but Community Enforcement. The faux cop gave me a little glare and waited for me to skulk off before continuing to do laps around the complex.

After lap two he pulled off to the side of the road to ponder if the addition of a handlebar mustache and a pair of dark-tinted pedophiles (shades) would make him look more intimidating. Then, because he wants to be a real cop, he headed to Dunkin Donuts to bore the morning shift girls with stories of staring down runners, kids on bikes, and the old man from 4C who rolls around the complex in his wheelchair.

As much as the Pretentious Condo Digs are downhill, man I hate moving. Yesterday, during crisis packing, I found myself humming Frank Sinatra songs, wearing a ballroom-style skirt and a shirt that said “I *heart* nerds”. On my head, a single shining tiara read “Happy F*ing New Year”.

Yeah happy f*ing new year. Happy f*ing moving day.

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June 11, 2005

Almost Famous

Well it’s just the biggest thing since sliced bread, and I can’t believe I haven’t mentioned it before, but welp, big news for Rockstar Brother. His most excellent band, Nothingless, is heading out on Warped Tour this summer!!!

Yes, you read that right. My very own Rockstar Brother is going on the Warped Tour. Yes, the legendary Warped Tour – Like the very same Warped Tour that will be headlined by rock’s favorite geez, Billy – effing – Idol!

What a nice day for a white wedding. And for reading the blog of a gurl whose bro bro is somewhat of a celeb. Look he?s even featured in the Anchorage Daily News! Now if that aint the bees knees, I don’t know what is.

(Incidentally, the other band mentioned in the article, Jupiter Sunrise -I’ve met them too. I saw their show one Friday night when my the girls and I, on a whim, decided to pop into the Worst, Skeezy, Townie Bar in Blacksburg, Virginia. Maybe it was 2002? Impressed? Yeah, I may be a little bit crunchy, but I’m also a little bit rock n’ roll….)

Yes Rockstar Brother, you’ve come a long way baby. I remember when you were a 60lb weakling with a side part and penchant for Sears polyester suits. Shy by nature, you used to be such a sweet, quiet little boy-

But then you joined a band.

And now you spend your time doing rock squats, sleeping until the crack of noon, going “it’s gig time what kind of shirt do I wanna wear.” Oh, and sometimes you do things like this to your band mates for fun:

I’m so proud – that Tommy’s the one giving the wedgie and not receiving it. I guess all those wedgie wars, waged against each other when we were children, have really paid off. Not only does Rock Star brother know how to write a kick a$$ anthem, but he also has the skills needed to yank some tightey whiteys off the most rockin’ of drummers.

And to that I say – Cheers Rockstar Brother!

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June 10, 2005

No More Free Massage Fridays for You!

One very nice perk of working where I do, is that on Fridays, if you’d like, you get a free 15-minute massage. The Masseuse is a shortish, protein-bar chomping, magic-working saint. I’ve been taking advantage of the Masseuse’s services since January, and may I say my back is like buttah – it’s all flexi and malleable.

What a change from the first massage, when Masseuse asked if I had a board shoved up my derriér, my back was so stiff. “No silly”, I said, “I only do that sort of thing on the weekends”. He didn’t know what that meant, but there again, neither did I. It just sounded right at the time.

Just as in war, there are rules of engagement, so in the office, there are rules of massage. First, if you want a massage, you have to get on the list. The nice girl in Cust Serv sends an e-mail announcement Friday in the a.m., anytime between 9:50 and 11:15. The rules state, that if you do not respond within 15 minutes, you will not get a massage. That’s why rolling in after 10 is a dangerous game. You decide to sleep in, ’cause it’s TGIF -and oh holy crap! No massage for you.

The second rule of Massage Club, is that there is no Massage Club…. But seriously, the second rule is that you must be on time for your scheduled massage. If you “forgot” and went to lunch instead, or felt that trivial things like work were more important, well too bad. No massage for you.

And if you fail to follow the aforementioned rules, and try to sneak into someone else’s spot, the third rule clearly dictates that you must have a masochist massage. That is, the Masseuse is aware of the clearly delineated timeline, and if you try to switch it up-steal The Copywriter’s prescheduled massage, for example,-you will receive a hard-style, turn-your-hair-white, brass knuckle, behold-my-wrath massage.

Palak Paneer is the reason this rule was written. Consequently, he walks around a bit hunched up, permanent grimace on his face, because of all the painful massages he received care of self righteous pilfering of coworkers rightly-scheduled timeslots.

But I digress.

So today is Friday, but it’s a black Friday dear hännihaus readers. Turn off the sun, because free massage Friday is dead. I was just informed by the nice girl in Cust Serv that the Masseuse is not coming today, and we don’t know when/if he will return.

Damn, I really need a massage too! I had an unfortunate kitty yoga accident yesterday – but that’s another story.

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June 7, 2005

2 Little Piggys

Yesterday I wrote all about Sphynxy’s vet trip and forgot to mention what we did about his itchiness. He got a nice cortisol shot and a shiny, new germ-retardant food bowl.

And speaking of retardant – you know what’s really retardant in all this? During Dr. Fruitcake’s speech about animal nutrition, I’m thinking “This guy is a nut. My baby Sphynx only weighs 7lbs, and he’s overweight? My left buttcheek is probably more than 7lbs”. Then the indignation started in, and I thought “Who is this man to tell me how to raise my children?”

I went home and whipped up a 1/2 c of organic kibble for the kitties and steamer pot of veggies for me. The darling cats swooped into their bowl, ate reasonably and walked away. “Ah ha! Take that Dr. Frankenfurter, my cats know when to say ‘woah’”, I thought.

Just as I reached into the pot to pull out some steaming greens, a little gray furball went flying past. In one stealth move Sphynxy had targeted, and latched onto, a beautiful, plump greenbean. He promptly deposited the goods in his gullet. Belle, meanwhile, took the diversion as an opportunity to go dumpster diving in the sink and found a nice apple core for her snack.

And that’s why my cats are fat. *le sigh*.

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June 6, 2005

Pet Med 9-1-1

In addition to being stinky, darling Sphynx is also extremely itchy. Day-and-night night-and-day he’s got his little sharpy claws out, scratching his ears, neck and chin. It’s constant – perpetual even. I don’t know that Sphynx could go 60 seconds without scratching. That’s bad, ’cause even God rested on the Sabbath.

This extreme, relentless Olympic-style scratch-fest is what landed darling Sphynx on the vet’s, (we’ll call him Dr. Fruitcake), stainless steel examination table this afternoon.

Dr. Fruitcake, bless his heart, provides free initial consultations to animals who’ve been adopted through the Superior Mutts program. Fit for an older fellow, Dr. Fruitcake was a nutritionist in his previous life, before becoming a feline physician. I found Fruitcake to be very engaging and pleasant. I think he got off on the wrong foot with Sphynx though. Apparently, cats don’t like getting thermometers shoved up their ass.

In any event, Fruitcake did a careful, thorough examination of the Sphynxinator, determining the quality of his fur, teeth, and tail. At the end of his examination, he tossed his head back in a dramatic fashion, fluttered his hand over his face, and sighed in a tragic, woe-is-me fashion.

“Uh oh”, I thought, “this is gonna be worse than the time I got that bean stuck up my nose and it fermented”.

Dr. F. wrung his hands, paced a bit, and then, as if spent, he quietly asked, “How do I say this?”

“Uh oh”, I thought, “this really is worse than the bean thing. And maybe worse than the time I hit myself in the eye in the tragic bouncy ball incident of 1998″.

“There’s no easy way to say this, so I’m just going to come out”, said Dr. F. “Your cat is too fat – it’s a classic case of overeating. You see, when he was feral he didn’t know when his next meal was coming, so each meal was – blah blah blah.

Dr. F. continued to lecture on the fitness and fatness of my cat, his other client’s cats, his other client’s dogs, rats, mice and even guinea pigs. Truly, by the end of his literally 20-minute missive, I think I had gotten the point. Sphynx stinks cause he poos to much. He poos too much cause he eats like a piggy.

But I can’t blame my little babe. As far as food goes, I think we’re all a little guilty of excess every once in a while. Why then, if not for this very reason, did God make prune juice and pinto beans?

Regardless, Sphynx and Belle are going on the FAK (Fit-Ass Kitty) diet starting tonight. Here’s hoping we survive through the morning…. Adieu!

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June 4, 2005

Gay – Really!

So, it seems I have a super power I didn’t know about. In addition to my stellar ability to prepare excellent, organic parsnip purees, sweat on only one half of my body, and shoot domestic cats with banana-guns from fifty feet, I can also, apparently, turn boys gay. (Please see Gay or Nay for more info.)

And hurrah for that.

It seems that Canadian From The Past (CFTP) really is gay, and I’ve inadvertently outed him right here at haus. My bad.

So, this new super power thing is really exciting. Who knows what untapped potential lies dormant within. Perhaps I also have the power to curdle cheese with kinetic energy, maybe bend a few spoons, end world hunger, and maybe, just maybe, I can rid the world of ultimate evil by stopping Paris Hilton, or any member of the Hilton clan (i.e. Mommy) from filming any more reality tv.

But anyway, back to the main topic, it seems I am part of that club now – The girls-whose-ex-boyfriends-sleep-with-boys club. And I?m cool with that. I get it CFTP. I like having sex with boys too.

The only thing that really sucks is the wasted time. Just think, we spent all those years playing gf/bf, fretting over relational stuff that really, in retrospect, was quite inconsequential.

If we had put all that aside and done what we really wanted to, then we could’ve spent less time being awkward, and more time shopping, doing our hair, and gossiping about other girls.

It could’ve been glorious. But, them’s the breaks, I guess. It’s just kind of too bad, ’cause we could’ve had much more fun (TM Alanis Morisette, Unsent).