Posts published during November, 2005

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Girl’s Night Out

The other night Violette and I went to see a play at the Mad Cow Theater. As these things happen, our seemingly innocuous and artsy fartsy evening actually turned out to be quite eventful. For reasons I will explain further, Vi and I ended up lurking the streets of downtown Orlando with the hookers and homeless until the wee hours of the morning.

The Play
Was called Bus Stop. A rural-themed romance, it originally played on Broadway in 1955 and later was adapted for the screen. In the movie, the lead character, a night club singer was played by Marilyn Monroe. Sounds good right?

Yeah, that’s what it ended up being, good… for me to poop on. (Interesting Triumph-related aside: I got googled for “Did Ritchie feather his pubes?” and I’m the #1 result. Jealoussss?)

But yeah, the Marilyn character was a twig, and the cowboys all had bald spots. The girls behind us kept laughing loudly at things that weren’t funny and the old woman to my right kept repeating things she’d read in the playbill.

In summary: play was not so great. The after party, however, was unbelievable.

The Drama
After the play ended around 9:30pm V and I walked out to the street where her Jetta was parked. To our dismay the lights had been left on, and guess what?

The engine wouldn’t start.

So this is how we spent the next couple hours:

9:35 – 9:45 pm: Attempt to start dead engine by repeatedly turning key in ignition. Realize that even though the engine isn’t starting, the alarm works just fine. Each time the key goes in, a cacophonous, ear-splitting siren resounds, and said sonorous blasts wake the homeless man living in the corolla parked in front of the Jetta. The alarm will be jarring this man, packed in amongst his TP and television, for the next three hours.

9:45pm: Call 9-1-1 and tell the cops you have an emergency.

10:00 – 10:15pm: Schmooze with po-po. They can’t give you a jump, but they bet Geico can. Borrow officer’s cell phone (as yours has been temporarily blocked, because that’s what happens apparently, when you dial emergency phone numbers.) Talk to lady at Geico with heavy southern accent. You can barely decipher anything she’s said, but you think she’s sending roadside assistance.

10:15 – 11:15pm: Get inside vehicle and wait for Orlando Pop-A-Lock. Notice that with the cops gone, bums have started descending on the scene. You don’t worry, because you realize that in addition to placing the key in the ignition, opening the door also sets off the clamorous, post-apocolyptic shrieking of the car alarm.

11:16pm: Start getting worried because a) you’re suddenly hungry, b) you’ve got to pee like no other, and c) there’s no indication that anyone’s coming to rescue the damsels in distress.

11:20 -11:40pm: As previously locked phone is now working, call Geico back. Learn that roadside crew attempted a rescue, but could not find the vehicle. Figure it must’ve been difficult what with there only being 10 cars on the street, ours being the one making the ungodly racket. Consider locating a flashing neon sign to post on the vehicle, so as to make it that much more obvious, but instead give Geico dispatch a street address and wait for roadside service… again.

11:40pm: Gotta pee real bad. Decide that maybe roadside isn’t coming and backup would be a good idea. Call friend who is sick and sleepy and who lives thirty minutes away. He is a nice guy and has agreed to come out.

Midnight: Roadside assistance shows up, but we feel bad about our friend coming out for no reason, so we do the “smart” thing. We send the roadside folks away. (In retrospect, this is a big mistake.)

12:10am: Friend shows up, jumper cables in hand. Twenty attempts at engine turnover fail. Uh oh.

12:20am: Call Orlando Pop-A-Lock and learn they can not be re-dispatched without going through Geico. For a third time, talk to southern lady at Geico. She says pop-a-lock people will be by in one hour.

12:25am: Call a second friend. You had to wake his parents to reach him, but he’s agreed to drive downtown, pick up Hänni and take her home, while Violette and Friend At Scene wait for the roadside guys.

12:35am:
Roll down windows. Even though it’s winter, it’s still freaking 75 degrees out and the Jetta is a wee bit uncomfortable. Recoil in horror as man from the street literally sticks his head in said unrolled window and asks if we need help. Instead of foisting him off, saying we’ve got things under control, (as we’ve been telling bums all night), we spill the beans about our engine trouble.

12:35 – 1:00am: From the passenger seat, watch Man From Street as he tinkers with the engine. Notice his white shirt is not buttoned all the way down. There’s a weird, greasy stripe down his left arm and his pants are way too big. He doesn’t have a belt, so he’s rolled his khakis a few times at the waist. He seems like he might be drunk, but he’s doing a great job! Why in only ten minutes he’s disabled the annoying alarm. And wouldn’t you know it? He knows a way to start the car without calling roadside service. “This is how we do in South Carolina,” he says, and asks us to get out of the car to push. He will put the car in first and pop the clutch once we’re rolling.

1:05am: Man From The Street gets the engine started. He slowly turns the corner, and it looks for a second like he might not stop. As you watch the strange man continue down the street, you wonder if insurance will cover vehicle theft.

1:06am : Man From The Street exits Jetta. *Whew*. Stranded girlfriends literally jump up and down, and then say thank you to the man. Man From The Street responds, “Hey I helped you out. Why don’t you help me out? I just got out of the 33rd street jail.” We give the man some cash, and then, because we’ve been waiting hours to do so, we get the eff outta dodge.

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You Scream, I Scream

I really should feel bad about how I cranked up some emo tunage for three eardrum- busting hours this afternoon. Emo is an acquired taste, you see, and it’s likely that my neighbors do not appreciate the sad, screechy vocals of skinny, floppy-haired, 17-year-old boys as much as I do…

But come to think of it, maybe I’m wrong.

I mean, judging from the ruckus going on upstairs at the ungodly hour of 1 am this morning, my neighbors are HUGE emo fans. I don’t know if skinny boys were involved, but I’m fairly certain there was some disheveled hair, as a libidinous lady, and her (apparently very skilled) lover participated in a high-pitched hootinany.

Yes, Suzy GetSumBooty was at it again…

and again…

and again.

Seriously, I couldn’t get to sleep until like 2 am, and even then I felt like I needed a shower and some cuddling first.
_________________________________________________________
In other news, I nearly cut my off my finger while slicing a butternut squash.

It has been bleeding for hours.

That means, if I do not write tomorrow, I am a) dead from loss of blood, b) having a difficult time typing with the stumpy remains, or c) am pissed off and pouting because I am on a veggie fast, which is what landed thumbkin on the chopping block in the first place.

Durr.

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Retail Madness

Someone you all know and love hasn’t been writing so much lately, because this special (and very beautiful) someone has, in the past week:

a) worked lots of extra hours at A Very Hip Software Company,
b) had Angel’s maaa and popi in town for Thanksgiving (hi MIL and FIL), and
c) took a second, seasonal job at a place that rhymes with “cold gravy” and is famous for a little something called performance fleece. Yeah, working at McDonalds rocks!

O.K., I’m kidding about McDonalds, but I’m 100% for real about working retail. I’ve never done it before, but like being a rock star, librarian, or grocery store clerk, it’s just something I’ve always wanted to do. Even though I’m busier than a one-legged man in a butt kicking contest, busier than Tom Cruise gone sonogram shopping, if you will, (TomKat you’re killing me!) I decided to try my hand at hawking apparel.

Just call me a masochist.

So far I really like the work and I’m learning tons of things. For example, apparently my folding skills are crap. This is not a problem however, because five hour shifts of lather-wash-repeat type folding, (or fold-watch in horror as shoppers destroy, within 30 seconds, 30 minutes of work-refold) provides plenty of practice.

Also, if you play Jamiroquai’s “Canned Heat” at 7 am on Black Friday, people will spontaneously burst into song and start dancing with their hoodies in the middle of the aisles… and sometimes even customers get in on the action. Heh.

I had canned heat in my heals that night (er morning), baby.

Alright, I gotta go get gorgeous. My next shift at “mold daily” starts in two hours. Til next, dear hannihaus readers, adieu.

$29.95.

Because kids in America just aren’t fat enough, various retailers throughout the country are marketing the shiny, happy Hostess Snack Oven as the toy to have this holiday season.

It’s fairly ironic that I made this discovery while sitting on the toilet; Flipping through sales circulars, I stopped when I saw the pint-sized artery-clogging contraption. My immediate reaction: this is straight up, crap.

“Bake your own twinkies and cupcakes!” the glossy ad commanded of me.

“Yes, let’s!”, I thought, “And hey, while I’m at it, I could also swallow some razor blades, shoot my eyes out with bb guns, or drop trau and light my farts on fire!”

…Because nothing says good clean fun like childhood obesity … and singed butt fuzz.

But I digress.

captain cupcake

Makers of the Hostess Snack Oven, the Nutrition Nazi wants you to do what’s right for America. I implore you, if not to help ease the fast-increasing fat-bastardization of our youth, for Gods sakes remove the finking oven from the market before Richard Simmons is forced to (inevitably) create a Sweatin’ to the Nursery Rhymes series.

Seriously, I die inside a little just thinking about a grown man in sequined booty shorts screaming “Crunch! And crunch!” while the Itsy Bitsy Spider plays in the background.

With Thanksgiving drawing near, I feel it is important to grouch less and give thanks more. Yes, dear hannihaus readers, tis the season to reflect and be grateful for those things that make life worth living –Things like God, family, and The O.C.’s nationally-televised nip slip. (God I love that show! And I love you too Mischa Barton, even though you don’t really have any boobs to expose.)

So yeah, Thanksgiving. This year as I gather with family and friends around the holiday table, I will be giving thanks for the following:

1. My iPod –My favorite toy since February, I have scarce spent a day without plugging her in and tuning out. I love the thing so much. Seriously, I haven’t had this much fun with an electronic device since 1998 when I stole CG’s camcorder to film a re-enactment of the Trojan War for English class. We spent six bucks on rubbers for the battle scene, and still only got a “B.” We were robbed.

2. Chrismas music –Call me a freak, but I live for the stuff. From October 1 to December 31, I listen to Christmas tunes almost exclusively. You can imagine my horror then, when just last night, I realized there was no “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen” on the old iPod. Reacting quickly, I visited my favorite Russian mp3 download site, picked out a couple cds, and for three bucks (or 86.423 rubles), I had a nice digital chrismix going.

3. Shame –Yes, I’m glad I feel remorse for downloading, as part of my (perfectly legal) Russian purchase, the Jessica Simpson Christmas album. What was I thinking? That little yuletide monstrosity set me back $1.83. Damn! I could’ve spent that money on something that’s actually entertaining, like rubber bands, a generic toothbrush, or a 20-pack of panty liners, for instance.

4. Joy –While perusing the Web for the available offerings, I was pleased to see that Britney Spears was not included in the Mariah Carey/Christina Aguilera/Clay Aiken holiday CD club. As of yet, Mrs. Spears has not released Merry Xmas Frum Me 2 U Baby, and I personally hope she never does. On a related note, it seems Britney’s hubby, Kevin Federline might be doing a project for the Special Olympics… well, at least that’s what I figured after hearing his rap, because it was straight up retarded.

I’ll probably also give thanks for a few other misc. things like, you know, WINNING THE CHRISTMAS JESUS DRESS UP MAGNET SET (eff yeah!), clean underwear, Chipolte vegetarian burritos, the cool Bright Eyes DVD Maaa is sending for my birthday (Dec. 2 – and yes, I do accept gifts from adoring hannihaus readers), pink nike arm bands, boys who wear makeup, and sparkly silver belts.

So, dear hannihaus readers, let’s talk about the good things in life. What are you thankful for?

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Happy Birthday Baby

Dear Spanky,

Today you’ve reached a milestone. Already legally permitted to drive, smoke, and apply for credit cards, now you get to throw down some hooch whenever it tickles your fancy.

I can’t hardly believe it, but today baby sister, you turn 21.

Happy birthday babe, and a word to the wise: avoid drinking anything tonight that ends in “er” (I.e. BudweisER, GoldschlaggER, JägermiestER, etc.). Failing to head my warning will probably cause you to throw up a lot… at least that’s been my experience with these sorts of things.

Before You Were Born
I told Maaa I wanted a baby sister, and not just any baby sister. She had to have blonde hair and blue eyes like Charlie Brown’s sister, Sally. In retrospect, cooking you up to my specifications must’ve been quite a feat, because the rest of us (Maaa and Popi included) are fairly brown.

Good thing we lived in the sticks and didn’t have a postman. The neighbors might’ve been suspicious.

Our Special Bond
Before you came into my life, I’d never had anyone pee on me before (I guess Pampers weren’t as leak-proof in the 80s). And I’d never had anyone steal my clothes, my makeup, or my best CDs –Thank God my high school boyfriend was gay.

Yes Spank, before there was you, I’d never known the beauty of choreographing and performing, as a duo, an interpretive dance to the Spice Girl’s Two Become One. I think it’s only mildly embarrassing that we performed a sexually-charged, estrogen-equivalent-of-boy-band-schlock number for our parents… complete with pelvic thrusts… on the day of the birth of our Lord and Savior…. Because nothing says Christmas like:

    I need some love like I never needed love before
    (wanna make love to ya, baby)
    I had a little lover, now I’m back for more
    (wanna make love to ya, baby)

Wish I Was There
Spankylou, if I was home, I’d bake you a rainbow chip cake with strawberry frosting, because that’s your favorite. And just for the hell of it, because it always seems to make you so happy, I’d go ahead and let you knock me over like a sack of potatoes. You could then drag me around the house by the legs of my Levis, de-pantsing me in a painful manner, while you laugh maniacally over my screams of “Maaa, I’m getting some serious rug burn here!” You see, darling Spank, along with your mutant blonde hair, you were also blessed with hulk-like strength, a fact of which I am reminded of at every family gathering when you inevitably bend me up like a pretzel for the amusement of others.

Loving you muchly, on this, the day of your birth,

xoxo,

sis

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It’s Cold Out

At least that’s what the weatherman said. He advised all Central Floridians to take the proper precautions, because today, he warned we would experience an – oh snap! – cold snap.

When I got into my car, the temperature gauge said 67 degrees. “Unbelievable,” I thought, “The weatherman calls this cold? What kind of crack is that guy smoking?”

And then, feeling chilled, I zipped my sweater up to my throat and began an internal debate on whether or not I should make coco when I got to the office.

I can’t believe I grew up in Alaska.

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WTF White Trash?

So remember when I told you that my neighbor, not-so-white White Trash Woman had moved out, the smell of urinal cakes in her wake? We all bid her adieu, saying good riddance to bad rubbish.

Well guess what? Like Martha sprung from the clink, she’s ba-ack. Or rather, I guess she never left.

In the weeks since her (assumed) decampment, I hadn’t noticed anything that would suggest the presence of White Trash, astroturf doormatexcept maybe the placement of a new, tacky-ass astroturf doormat on the landing. I shrugged that off –thought it was something the leasing agents put out front as a “homey” – if not gas station restroomesque – touch, to make up for the nastiness that potential renters would, undoubtedly, find inside.

Pizza bones on the patio anyone?

So the other day I found a stack of crap outside my door. I instantly thought of White Trash, because she was so expert at leaving her bunk in the breezeways.

“White Trash Woman,” I thought, “this one’s for you babe.” With that, I took the crap, which was four phone books, (who the eff uses paper books anymore anyway?), and carefully positioned them, not in front of White Trash’s door, but rather next to the door. You see, that’s the little hovel where WTW used to stack Barbie accessories like a house of pink paper cards.

Later that night I was doing very important things (I.e. reading blogs, eating veggies) when I heard someone rap, rap, rapping on my chamber door. Peering out the peephole sans glasses, I couldn’t make out much, save a blurry shape dressed in purple. “Oh my God!” I thought “Alert the presses. Freakin Madonna’s out front.”

Imagine my disappointment then, when I opened the door and found – not the Material Girl – but rather the Garbage Girl. Yes the Queen of Crap herself was staring me in the face, and boy did she look pissed.

“In an effort to keep good relations, I want to know why you have put these phone books outside my door, and I’m gonna have to ax you tuh remove them.”

WTF?

She didn’t even employ the proper small talk before going into her grievance! I mean, I’ve never said two words to White Trash, and here she is coming at me, straight out the gate, with a mouth full of nasty.

Note to WTW: If you want to bump uglies, you should really buy me dinner and roses first.

White Trash continued, “My daughter saw you put this bag outside our door. We already have phone books from last year. My son is throwing out these new books we got today.” She pulled a bag, identical to the one I’d left in homage, from behind her back to demonstrate.

How to respond, how to respond….I decided to use the good Samaritan gimmick: “Well, I saw multiple books in this bag and thought they were probably for distribution to everyone on the hall. You’ll notice I didn’t leave the bag outside your door, but rather more towards the hall. I don’t even use paper books anymore, and I don’t even know anybody who does…”

Except, apparently, White Trash Woman who probably uses the pages to wipe her greasy sausage fingers on after she’s finished chowing down on chicken wings…

But I digress.

Anyway, to appease the god of whitetrashiness, I picked up the damn bag and gave a Terrell Owens-like nonapology-apology. The next morning, as I left for work, I stood on my stoop facing White Trash’s place. I arranged my face in my best nasty-girl-scowl in hopes that White Trash Daughter had her snoopy-ass eye pressed against the peephole.

I am Hänni. Hear me roar. White Trash, it’s on.

“Hello,” I say.

“Hey,” he says in his sweet, southern accent, “hows it goin’?”

“Fine,” I say, “I’m just working on writing something. It’s an entry for a competition –I want to win a Jesus dress up magnet set. It comes with heels and hot pants.”

“Cool, cool,” he says, completely nonplussed by my irreverent activities. “Hey, what are we having for dinner?”

“Oh I don’t know… chicken? Spaghetti? Truth be told, I’m not very hungry. I just had some of your ice cream.”

“Oh yeah? How much?”

“Not very much.”

“How much?”

“Just a little bit really, like two bowls –but small bowls. Like lemon-water, finger bowl-sized bowls.”

“Hänni! Two bowls?! Is there any left for me, fat ass?”

“Yeah of course, there’s plenty. And hey, I did you a favor. Aren’t you on a diet or something?” …

I say this last sentence quickly, too quickly. Fearing the divine retribution of a man and his stomach scorned, I try to lessen the blow, but all that comes out of my backpedaling pie hole is a rather unspectacular, “erm…”

“Don’t worry about me,” Angel quips back, “I’ll lose weight alright. I’m gonna get a real good work out when I come home and whip your ass for eating my ice cream!”

“Ha ha!” I laugh.

Tub of Edy’s Double Fudge Brownie ice cream: $3.00
Number of bowls strategically stuffed at 5pm, (one hour before Angel gets home), to ensure ample time for unmitigated access to ice cream that isn’t yours: 2
Knowing he’d do the same to you: Priceless

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Cat Burglar

Inquisitive little things, all cats are sneaky by nature. And it’s not that my cats are any more prone to filch than say, Von Krankipantzen’s Yoshi for example, but they are a bit off the beaten path when it comes to the types of things they steal.

Sphynx loves stealing bananas, razors, tank tops and underwear. When it comes to missing bobby pins, bras, arm bands and electronics, Bella is the most likely culprit.

Seriously, sometimes I wonder if they’re setting up shop somewhere. I can just see them crouching on a corner in China Town, looking shady, hocking my crap for cheap from a suitcase.

“Fai dollah fo underpants – they’ve never been worn right side out!”

What really makes Hänni happy is the fact that when given the choice between snaking ocean fish or organic veggies, they will *always* go for the veggies.

Seriously, one time I dropped a bowl of salad on the floor and those cats were on that shit faster than Rosie O’ Donnell on free McRib – and you know that bitch loves her McRib.

Don’t believe me that the Nutrition Nazi’s cats are also quasi-vegetarian? Look here:
green beans

From my freaky, greenbean-filching family to yours, happy Friday dear hannihaus readers!