Posts published during August, 2005

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August 16, 2005

Key West Chronicles

As a nice first anniversary surprise, Angelface got us a flight to the Keys and a room at the Doubletree. Consistent with most of our adventures, it was pretty fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants. I got Key West gorgeous (in a flesh-bearing, flower print halter) and had my bags packed within two hours. I wasn’t sure if I’d love the Keys, but I did know one thing: I’d been to the Doubletree a time or two and they have the Best. Cookies. Ever. If nothing else, I was pretty sure I could spend two days in a hotel room, sitting in my skivvies, giggling from a sugar high, yelling, “bring on the tooth decay beyotch!” as I gulped down cookie, after oh so delicious cookie.

I’m sure my dentist would be pleased to hear that.

But anyway, it turns out Key West is da bomb. Even before you leave the airport, you’re having fun. A Rastafari and his bleach blonde companion adorned my neck with mardi gras beads and welcomed me to the island right away. As I got out to the street I saw pink taxi cabs and steel drummers. Everybody was talking about the night’s big event – The Lobster Festival.

The Lobster Festival is this crazy downtown street fair where – you guessed it –you can find lobster done up twenty different ways. They had lobster pastries, lobster dumplings, lobster kabobs, lobster tempura and lobster tails cooking on big makeshift grills positioned, literally, in the middle of the street.

That night I also saw:

* A man, slumped over his folding chair, wearing a funny hat, but looking rather gruff holding a sign that said “Dirty Jokes $1. (I need beer).”

* A dog, wearing fuchsia running shorts walking a tightrope. At the same time his trainer, an older gent in a tie-dye t-shirt and ten gallon cowboy hat, tried to get pretty girls to tie him up.

* More Rastafarians. One band featured five guys with dreads down to their ankles. The keyboardist looked suspiciously like Jerry Garcia, and I wondered if it’s true that deadheads never die, they just fade away… and join a reggae band in the Keys.

* A real-life Harry Houdini. He heckled Angelface and then made the ‘Face bind him up in chains and foist him into the air upside down!

Seriously, I can’t make this stuff up.

On our way to breakfast the next morning I saw two nuns on vespas waiting at a stop light. As I got closer I realized those weren’t really nuns, just two gay men dressed in habits. As the light turned green, the Ambiguously Gay Duo sped away, their habits flying behind them as they shouted, “Circle the wagons, ladies!”

And that’s when I knew… Key West is my kind of town. I highly recommend it and can’t wait to go back for the kooks, conchs, and keylime pie.

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The Secret is *not* that I’m wearing my underwear inside out, because I am. So it’s not a secret anymore.

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August 15, 2005

Our First

I know I’m a day late on this, but happy anniversary Angelface! For all the 365 times you begged for an evening back scratch only to hold me down and gleefully fart on my face if I didn’t give you one, thank you.

Love you B!

Aren\'t we cute?

———–
God willing, we’ll be sharing secrets this week! Stay tuned.

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August 11, 2005

Filched Milk!

There is a thief among us at Very Hip Software Company. It seems that said sticky fingers has a predilection for pasteurized victuals and milk-stained mustaches. Monsieur-Steal-Some-Stuff, he likes his vitamin d-enriched cow juice pilfered – not stirred.

I got to work this morning only to find an e-mail with the subject “You Should Be Ashamed” staring me in the face.

Oh crap, I thought. What have I done now?

I racked my brain for reasons to be ashamed. I’m a decent tipper, kind to animals, really fantastic at my job, good about brushing teeth and wearing clean undies, so it couldn’t have been any of those things.

With pounding heart and sweaty brow, I opened the e-mail.

What was contained therein was a scathing communiqué, sent company-wide, but really only directed to one filcher of ¼ gallon of baby-cow-grow. This milk, the e-mail asserted, was for the e-mail author’s grandkids.

This bastard took milk from the mouths of babes.

The e-mail ended by letting this mystery mooch know that he/she should be ashamed for “consumer” something they weren’t given permission to “partake of.” I cringed, but not because I am the milk bandit and, therefore, had reason to be shamed – far from it. As part of my homeopathic, hey noni noni, new age fervor, I make it a point to avoid excess consumption of dairy, unless of course, it comes in the form of a gigantic, brownie sundae.

But I digress.

No, I’m not one to consume, or even cry over filched milk. Really, because I am a writing nerd, the most distressing part of this whole ordeal was the milk missive’s blatantly bad grammar.

In other news, my team won a very cool award today that will do amazing things for my resume. It was a real underdog feat. I kind of feel like the ugly girl who just won prom queen, despite having buck teeth and a Farrah Fawcett hairdo.

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Can’t wait to tell more good news when The Secret is revealed!

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August 10, 2005

Just For Kicks

These are my toes...

They are black like my soul.

If not a black soul, what can explain my inappropriate behavior last night when I found myself chortling gleefully at a little boy and his weary-eyed mother?

I’m sorry, but I found it entirely hilarious when, Little Jr., playing leap frog outside the Gay, miscalculated his enthusiastic hippity hop, and ended up racking himself on Target’s cheery, red statuary.

That had to hurt.

And I was thinking, it probably wasn’t nice to laugh at that little boy and his royally racked family jewels. I got to thinking, maybe I was laughing, not because it was so entirely amusing, but really I was laughing to mask my personal pain.

You see, I’ve been in Little Jr’s place many a time.

My first recollection of getting whacked in the nether regions occurred when I was nine. I went joyriding on my brother’s huffy, which was all fun and games until I hit that rock and ended up falling, full-force on to the bike’s “boy bar.” You know, it’s like boys have that long bar that slants down, whereas girls bikes have that bar that goes straight across horizontally? What’s the point of these different bars anyway? I’m pretty sure both of them hurt like the bejesus when you get a direct hit to the lou-lous.

And then there was the time when I was fourteen. Rockstar brother was taking karate and had to practice his mugu-gai-pan-something-or-other technique and decided to do a high kick to my delicates. He was really good at karate – it was a direct hit. I wanted to be proud for his skill, but mostly I just laid on the carpet and whimpered.

And who could forget that one time in college, where – wham – out of nowhere my best friend Switzy lobbed her wallet into my crotch. The best part was, when like a deer in the headlights,I looked to her face, bewildered and maybe a little bit hurt, and she started laughing. I believe her exact words to me in my time of shock and confusion were “Ha ha, I just hit you in the junk. That’s just how I imagined it!”

What kind of gurl hits their friend in the junk on purpose? Well, probably the same kind that laughs at little boys outside the Gay, I guess…

———————
Secret is coming and it is *not* that my college roommate calls me “horny hans.”

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August 8, 2005

This One’s The Worst

For those of you who doubted that perversion was alive and well in these most sanctimonious of Bush administration-run times -(God tole gdub to run this country all christian-like, never mind that pesky thang called sep-ration of church and state)- somebody found my site by googling:

“diapered bride”.

That’s just nasty.

But you know what’s not nasty and actually very cool? My secret. And guess what? I just might reveal it. Very soon. Til next!

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August 7, 2005

Poolside

Yesterday was Saturday, and since I didn’t have much else to do, (save chasing Sphynxy around the house, pulling purloined collard greens, razors, and rubber bands from his sneaky little paws), I headed to the community pool.

One thing most people don’t know about me is, I had never owned/worn a bikini until the ripe old age of 19. It’s not that I’m weird about my body, (not any more than any woman is), but it’s just that I grew up in Alaska where you would look like a damn buffoon wearing anything less than two sweatshirts, a full body leotard, one set of down snow pants, and three layers of wool socks to the local watering hole.

But actually, that’s not true… you don’t need two sweatshirts to swim in. All the cool kids just wear one.

Eh hem…

So, something else most people don’t know about me is… yesterday I wore a bikini to the pool and I DIDN’T SHAVE MY LEGS! Or my armpits, or my bikini line, or my toes, ears, head, neck, biceps, triceps… you get the point, I’m sure.

But what makes it all worse is this: stuck in a rut of laziness, I had not shaved my legs for six freakin days. Six days is a lot of time, especially when you consider God created the Earth in seven.

And I’m no fair-haired femme either. I’m predominately Grade-A Italian and Dark German made. This means that not only have genetics dealt me the hairiest hand, but all my nice lush growth, it’s very, very dark.

Am I turning anybody on here?

————————

And in a related segue, the Secret is…. not that I have hairy hobbit toes. Why, that’s common knowledge!

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August 6, 2005

Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha

Somebody found my site by googling “bubbly boobs.”

Apparently you can find me somewhere between Superbporno big boobs and sexblob mature boobs.

In other news, I’m still keeping secrets… Stay tuned!

1 comments

August 5, 2005

XXX Bible Translator

The other day someone e-mailed to ask, “Hey I noticed your last name is XXX. Are you by any chance related to the XXX bible translation company?”

I replied, “Not that I know of, but I could be wrong. XXX is my name by marriage.”

E-mail sender responded, “Oh, so I take it XXX is your husband’s name?”

Uhm, well typically that’s what “by marriage” means bonehead…

But after thinking about this question, maybe it’s not so absurd to request clarification about the status of a name. For example, if I had said XXX was my name by divine birthright, you may shake your head and wonder. If I said XXX was my name by order of the Royal Canadian Kilted Yaksmen, you might feel a little confused. If I said XXX was my name by the grace of a good and glorious circus chimp named Mr. Sweetcheeks, well you might want to delve a little deeper into that one… but more than likely, you would simply question my sanity and end the conversation right there, lest you be associated with someone who’s ¾ of the way to cuckoo and rising.

But I digress.

And by the way, what kind of person is intimately familiar with the brand names of bible translation companies? What kind of strange bird is so intimately familiar with the religious publication industry that he would feel compelled to take a few moments of his day to e-mail some gurl with a funny last name? And what the hell is a bible translator anyway? And should I feel bad about using “hell” and “bible” in the same sentence? What about using “gazpacho” and “marmalade,” because I think gazpacho and marmalade might be a good name for the mystery dish that occupies the fourth serving tray on the hot bar at Golden Corral on Friday nights. And speaking of Golden Corral, why not just call the place Diarrhea Corral, because that’s what happens when you eat there.

And another thing is… I’m spent. Happy Friday everyone! The Secret is still coming.

2 comments

August 4, 2005

3/4 To Cuckoo and Steadily Increasing

The Secret is starting to wear on me, and if it doesn’t get revealed soon, it just might ruin my life.

As the countdown to Secret Reveal 2005 draws ever closer, I find myself getting more and more manic. This is dangerous territory my friends, b/c, as anyone who knows me can attest, even without this mind-numbing secret prattling around in my brain, I’m already ¾ of the way to cuckoo.

Yeah, I’ve got a few screws loose. I’m missing a few marbles. I’m a fry or two short of a happy meal. I’m about 8 donuts short of Kristi Alley’s morning dozen. I’m a maniac, maniac on the floor and I’m kvetching like I’ve never kvetched before.

To give you an idea of the state I’m in, yesterday when Angelface suggested McDonald’s for dinner, I consented. How does Micky D fit into my health nut, wheat-free, reduced-fat, low-carb, lean-meat, pesticide-free, allergen-free, frankfurter-free, livin-la vida-lettuce lifestyle? In answer: It doesn’t’ f*ing fit at all.

Thankfully, whilst looking into the pimpled, dimpled face of a boy whose employee nametag said “John,” I had a moment of clarity. For a brief moment, the fog in my brain dissipated, and like the good little nutrition nerd I am, I had the state of mind to order a double cheese w/o the bun and side salad instead of greezy mcgeezy French fries. And because bunless double cheese does not a full stomach make, I rather (seemingly sensibly) decided to up the stakes in the game of Russian roulette that was playing out my gut, and dump some hot fudge sundae down my gullet.

Perhaps to atone for the sins of the sundae, my next stop was to Louise’s Pet Connection where I proceeded to purchase the most expensive (i.e. organic, antioxidant-infused, wheat-free, chemical-free, beef-free, lamb-free, herring oil and turkey neck-enriched)
cat food known to man. At $7.00 a pound, my cats better start leaving little golden nuggets in their box, instead of those smelly, lumpy, make-you-wanna-vomit stink bombs I found this morning.

I blame it all on The Secret. The stress is really getting to me. Last night I couldn’t sleep a wink. I’m cranky, crusty, and suffering from intestinal distress (thank you Micky mutha f*’n D). To boot, my cankles are swollen, I’ve got a horrific patch of backne, and Mt. Vesuvius is threatening to explode off the left side of my temple.

All I can say is, oy vei. And yeah, I’m sorry to have this Secret between us. But like a bad dream with a kick ass ending, it will all be over soon. For the love of all that’s good, great and holy, let’s hope it will all be over soon.

7 comments

August 2, 2005

Somebody Got Bitched Out At Work Today

It was me.

And boy, let me tell you, that ten minutes of verbal ass whipping, man I enjoyed it.

It’s four hours later and I still can’t sit straight… and that would probably be okay if I had a bony butt. But I don’t. I may have bitty Betty and Wilmas, but I tell you what, I’ve got massive junk in the trunk. We’re talking bootylicious butt cheeks. I’m not ashamed, I’ve been called h-lo a time or two…

But I digress.

Yes, dear hannihouse readers, you may be wondering, “Why, pray tell, did darling Princess Hänni, great blog genius, master of all things wacky, tacky, and crappy get a big old tongue lashing from the likes of A Very Hip Software Company Big Guns?”

The answer my friends, is blowing in the wind. The answer is blowin’ in the wind.

But really it had to do with this:

a) Suspected misuse of IM. (Guilty, as Manuel and Mr. Lover Can attest.)

b) Unnecessary e-mailing. (Not guilty. I think it is entirely acceptable to e-mail a freekatie.net link to the entire staff list, being sure to include a rant about why I love Dawson’s Creek and why I hate Tom Cruise for ruining Dawson’s Creek darling, Katie Holmes.)

c) Taking too many effing breaks. (Again, not guilty. I’m sorry, but smoking-ass Rex from product dev spends way more time on the balcony than I do. He’s outside puffing away on his Virginia Slims like 10 times a day, no joke! I admit, I did have to take many multiple “breaks” last Friday. But I had Taco Bell for lunch. And accordingly, my breaks were taken in the bathroom… and involved explosive diarrhea.)

On a happier note, it seems Sphynxy has decided to stop shaving for a while. My little gray cat has moved on to filching new and more exciting lady’s toiletries. This morning I found him flipping around a tampon with wild, carefree abandon. I wanted to take it away, but I thought, “Hey it’s got a tail. That’s just at ten cent mouse with disposable applicator.”

——–
I know you can’t wait. And I know the anticipation is driving some of you to drink… and vomit… and roll in said vomit… But patience is a virtue kids. I know it’s excruciating, but I just want you to think, WWRD… What Would Rivers Do? Rivers Cuomo, lead singer of fab band Weezer, has been celibate for two years. If a f*ing rock star can go two years without tapping some sweet groupie ass, well, I’m sure you, dear hannihaus readers, can follow suit. No, I’m not saying you have to be chaste in your relations. Please, make sweet monkey love with wild abandon! All I’m asking for is a chance here folks… stick with me. The surprise is that good.

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