Posts published during February, 2006

February 28, 2006

Freezing In the 49th

I was supposed to be here in December, but a little something called Mystery Malady sidelined those plans. Instead of being home with Maaa and Popi, communing over cocoa, I spent my holidays confined to a sickbed in Florida –my only respite from which was to visit a doctor who put her finger in my kiester.

…Because nothing says holiday cheer like a pointer in the patoot… at least that’s what I kept telling myself.

So finally, and at long last, I’ve made it north to Alaska. From sunny state to snow state, when I left Orlando it was a comfortable, 80 degrees. When I got to Anchorage, it was slightly colder at 6-below-effing-zero(!).

In case you’ve never experienced 6-below-effing-zero(!), it’s really cold. Like boogers-freezing-in-your-face cold. Like having-an-electric-plug-on-your-car cold. Like the-critics-reception-to-Mariah-Carey’s-Glitter (AKA “the crapperpiece”) cold.

So yes, having had this bone-chilling experience, I can safely say that it is only by the grace of God, and the Buick’s butt warmers, that I am here typing today, and not sitting on the tundra somewhere, a frozen organic-raisin flavored popsicle.

God bless the bun warmer –I may be little in the middle, but I got much (freezing ass) back.

Mariah Carey displays twinkie chic at the Marie Claire photo shoot.

So speaking of the Divine Miss Bovine – (I’m talking about Mariah Carey here, not my booty) – I was tickled when, standing in line at the grocery, Popi pointed to a mag with the Singing Diva on the cover and immediately began mocking it.

Indeed, dressed in a body-hugging lemon-colored shift, Mariah Carey looked so lardaceous, I can’t believe it’s not butter…

But I digress.

Anyway, for a minute or two, Popi and me, we had a grand old time. But then, as is his check stand custom, Popi felt the need to do his patented two-step-rip.

…And then fun and games were over, the cashier and several innocent bystanders left gagging in the wake.

You see, like Pavlov’s dogs salivating at the sound of a bell, any time – and I mean any time – Popi is at a cashier station he will inevitably rock back and forth on his heels, first lifting one butt cheek, then the next.

When Michael Jackson does this kind of fancy footwork, it’s usually followed by a crotch grab. When Popi does it, the finale is the firing of a stink torpedo.

When I was small, this heinous hoe-down was awfully embarrassing. Even on Mother’s day, his arms piled high with cake and confections, every year Dad somehow found a way to tip himself up and toot one out for an unsmiling teenager in a supermarket smock.

Because I’m grown, I can appreciate Popi’s eccentricities, and I wanted to laugh at his oh-so-predictable public blast of the trouser trumpet. But the thing is, it wasn’t very funny…

Mostly because I was standing downwind.

Oh man, it’s good to be home. ________________________________________________________

Wanna see some mountain pics from my AK Vackay? Click here.

Want to join my map? I will love you forever. Click here.

3 comments

February 25, 2006

Phone a Friend

I usually get boring stuff like “Call me, k?”, “Love u babe”, or “I’m totally there!” text messaged to me on my phone. Last night, however, I got something that was totally unexpected, entirely delightful, and quite possibly a little explosive in nature.

As I was heading home from work, from my darling friend Christoph, I received this:

How kind of him. I guess, post gut-busting lunch at Cheng’s China Buffet, Christoph was a little concerned.

Christoph, in answer to your text, no I do not “got trots.”

The veggie lo mein I had for lunch *did not* barrel through my bowels faster than an athlete at the Olympic luge.
I have *not* made penance to the gods of gastrointestinal distress and general tsao.
I *do not* have the Orient Express coursing through my arsehole.

So yes, rest easy darling Christoph: I have no intestinal adventures to report…

But if I *did* have diarrhea, I’d totally blog about it here at the haus. Because that’s how we do (doo doo)… but I digress.
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OK. Enough of this tom foolery. I’m on my way to ak vackay and I need pack. And if you haven’t done so already, dear hannihaus readers, join my map. (I’m sorry. That was bad.)

19 comments

February 23, 2006

Planet of The Gapes

I don’t get it. You’ve got fame. You’ve got money. You’ve got a stylist who does all your fitting and primping…

And yet, during an appearance on national TV, you still manage to look like Cornelius from Planet of the Apes.

Paula Abdul, for displaying the best helmet hair this side of Chewbacca’s Wookieefied forehead, we salute you:

For all the Idol fans at the haus: straight up now tell me, Paula *did not* look like a hot mess Tuesday night.

I mean, I’ve seen better hair on Don King … and that’s not sayin’ much.

Although her public appearance was entirely frightening, I guess Paula needn’t worry too much. After all, not *everyone* in America watches her show. I’m pretty sure my grandma doesn’t peep the ‘Idol…

But guess what? Everyone else does! Yeah 30 million people witnessed the Hairdo O’ Horrors.

…And then we went online and blogged about it –just to keep grandma in the loop, of course. Heh.

Thanks Manuel for the Paula pic
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Hey you! I can’t hardly stalk you if I don’t know where to find you. Join my map.

14 comments

February 22, 2006

Sexier Than Barry White and A Box Of Organic Dark Chocolate-Covered Raisins

At A Very Hip Software Company, every once in a while we hear the Voice of God. Booming and nebulous, an announcement from the Voice of God plays through our cube farm speakerphones and is always prefaced by a loud BLEEP and some static.

Yes for some, their arrival is heralded by Pomp and Circumstance. But for the Voice of God, we do it with a BLEEP. It’s anti-climactic, I know.

Anywho, the Voice of God, (which really sounds a lot like the executive assistant), announced over the PA that sexual harassment training was starting in the middle lounge, and if you were scheduled to go, get there now.

(‘God can be kind of bossy.)

“Why do I have to go to stupid anti-harassment training?” I whined. And then, because I am an exemplary employee, I sucked it up and hot-footed it to the Hall o’ (anti) Harrassment….But first I was sure to exit the Boob Scotch video playing on my desktop.

Heh.

So, the meet was actually o.k. I learned a lot about respecting others’ rights in the workplace. And I also learned that Manuel – because he announced it to our instructor – felt he had been sexually harassed at the company Christmas party.

Apparently he was uncomfortable with the fact that someone grabbed his waist during the congo.

“But Manuel,” a co-worker responded, “It was kind of hard not to pull you into the line, especially when you had a maraca in each fist, yelling ‘let’s congo!’”

“That’s a good point,” Manuel replied thoughtfully. And the he was quiet … save for a jarring outburst of “cha-cha-cha-cha-cha-CHA!”

OK so here’s the deal. Now that I’ve been through my training, I’m not sure if it’s insensitive of me to say this, but I’m gonna put it out there:

I’d have sex with this hair. Wouldn’t you? (Don’t worry Mom and Dad. You don’t need to chime in on this one.)

I got my hair did (at Angel’s infamous Bit O’ Charm) . I look like a rock star. That is all.
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Hey, all the cool kids are doing it. Click here to join my map, Hannihaus Rocks!

16 comments

February 19, 2006

T & A On The Grocery PA

Whilst cruising down the grocery store aisles at Publix, I heard a funny announcement. A sleepy voice, employing a dead-on Ben Steinesque monotone called out over the intercom:

“Rolls to bakery… rolls to bakery.”

Upon hearing the call for crusty bread, I began to snicker. And then guffaw. Eventually I started snorting… very loudly. So loudly in fact, that a small child, upon hearing the supersonic noises emitted from my left nostril, exclaimed “Mommy! Mommy! That’s the sound a pig makes!”

Indeed.

And he didn’t even need to see me in front of a carton of Edy’s Double Fudge Brownie to know that. What a smart kid.

Mariah Carey in a bikini: I don’t think I’m ready for that jelly.

Anyway, because I love playing Nancy Drew, and because my brain is so fantastical, I immediately began creating scenarios to explain the roll sitch.

The obvious first response –the one I employ when *anything* goes missing, be it socks, shoes, belly button lint, etc – is that Mariah Carey ate them. Anyone who’s seen Mimi in a bikini that’s four sizes too small knows that this is a perfectly plausible explanation… but I digress.

A second possibility, (and in my mind the more logical one), is that fresh out of the oven, the Publix hot cross buns, overhearing a conversation betwixt frat boys, misunderstood when HornyJoe said “I’d like to squeeze those melons.”

Taking the melon thing quite literally, the bite-sized dinner breads quickly made haste to the produce department. Once there they got all snuggly-like with the honeydews and cataloupes, in hopes that they’d get a feel up.

This is not too crazy when you consider most buns like a little squeeze every once in a while.

*ba dum bum ching*

Anyway, and in a disappointing turn of events, after staking out the bakery (having found a cozy niche adjacent the lemon meringues and layer cakes), I located the person to whom the “rolls to bakery” page was made. A moon-faced mama in her mid-50’s, the employee whose nametag said Rose, well she had a hairnet and predilection for pastries.

So that solved it. “Rolls to the bakery” was actually “Rose to bakery.” Apparently I need a hearing aid. And some crazy pills. And maybe a ThighMaster Gold, because – call me crazy – bun squeezing actually sounds kind of sexy.

Ooh la la!

16 comments

February 16, 2006

That’s One Delusional Diva

Oh Mariah, Mariah, Mariah. You’ve done it again.

I guess, dear MC, you’ve been so busy stuffing snack cakes into it, that you forgot it’s ok to keep your big, fat mouth shut every once in a while.

Media outlets all over the world are reporting that our favorite Pillsbury Dough Girl is blaming haute couture powerhouse, Chanel for an “imperfect appearance” at the 2006 Golden Globes.

Mariah Carey at the Golden Globes. Girlfriend has more rolls than a bakery.

After having her plunging, black, tootsie-roll of a dress likened to a “wine bottle opener” by fashion expert, David Evangelista, Mariah “fought back” by saying, “Satin is very unforgiving.”

And then – in an effort to comfort herself for all the wrong that designer, Karl Lagerfeld had done her – Mariah opened a twin pack of pizza-flavored Pringles and went to town.

But anyway…

Mariah Carey (inconceivably) blames Chanel Couture for making her look like a Jimmy Dean sausage.

I think she’s got it all wrong. Clearly Mariah Carey should be blaming Jimmy Dean sausage for making her look like Jimmy Dean sausage…. But I’m just stating the obvious here.

And in a related note – from the Unbelievable But True Department – a quick google for “Mariah Carey blames” shows miss Carey is not new to this kind of passing-the-buck tomfoolery.

In July, Princess Poppin Fresh said her phenomenal flop of a movie, Glitter failed because it was released around 9/11.

I know you’re like “oh no she di’int.” But oh yes she did. Mariah blamed Glitter’s supreme suckage not on her performance, but on the obvious culprit: terrorists.

WTF folks?!

We all know that if the terrorists really wanted to get back at us, then forcing us to sit through a screening of Glitter would be the *perfect* vehicle for torture.

But I digress.

Thanks Niccy B for the Chanel article.

15 comments

February 14, 2006

My Funny Valentine

I hope Satan’s staying snug in his parka and boots, because I got something in the mail. You’ll never guess who wants to be my valentine:

Yes, apparently Mariah Carey *hearts* Hänni.

I have to say, with all my name calling, the Singing Diva is the last person I’d expect to show me some love. So for your big-hearted gesture (which is not unlike your big “phat” ass), Mariah I admit, the twinkie thing was wrong.

I should’ve shown you with a handful of ho hos.

But I digress.
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To those who celebrate and have a date–*Happy V-Day* dear hannihaus readers.

And to those donning assless chaps in a last ditch effort to find a gurl who’ll partake of your Whitman’s Sampler, Happy D-day ScottyGee!

8 comments

February 13, 2006

If Dooce Can Do It…

then I can too-write a meme that is.

A lot of people are indignant about doing memes, and blatantly refuse to play along. I understand this, because it is difficult to relinquish control of your content when it comes to blogging. For example, I like writing about diarrhea. Is there a meme in existence that talks about the Hershey squirts? No. Instead, meme’s address “interesting” stuff like your favorite vacation spot, or favorite food – b.o.r.i.n.g.

Shhh. Don’t tell anybody, but one day I’m going to write a meme. It’s going to be gross and glorious and contain questions like

Favorite place to scratch yourself (body part and/or locale)
Last age at which you picked your nose and ate the boogies (I suspect some of you are currently doing this)
Location and reason for best barf-fest (w/ description of barf color and chunkiness)
Last blog you read that made you laugh and the wet yourself, just a little

But yeah, anyway, for the purposes of today’s discussion, I will be doing a regular meme, as requested by the lovely Erin. Without further ado, let’s talk about meme, myself and I:

Four jobs I’ve had
1. Landscaper
2. Intern in the US Senate
3. Server
4. Co-ed Resident Advisor (AKA baby sitter, policeman, and body spill investigator)

Four movies I can watch over and over
1. Four Weddings And A Funeral
2. Moulin Rouge
3. Major Payne
4. Empire Records

Four places I have lived
1. Alaska
2. Japan
3. Washington, D.C.
4. Lake Mary, Florida

Four TV shows I love
1. Dawson’s Creek
2. American Idol
3. Lost
4. Law & Order

Four places I have vacationed
1. Tokyo
2. Las Vegas
3. British Columbia
4. Key West

Four of my favorite dishes
1. Palak paneer (Indian spinach and cheese dish)
2. Chipotle vegetarian burrito bol
3. Black beans and rice
4. Mom’s chinese

Four Sites I visit daily
1. mrtl
2. Scottygee
3. Celebritysmack
4. Live Journal

Four places I would rather be right now
1. In bed with at least 24 hours until I have to be back at work
2. On a plane, traveling first class to some exotic locale with Angelface
3. In a coffee shop, a warm blueberry mocha cupped between my hands
4. Standing at the foot of the Egyptian pyramids

Four People I am tagging
I’m kind of a rebel, so guess what meme gods? I’m not tagging anybody! *Mwa ha ha*. If anyone wants to play though, tell me and I’ll link to you, cause I’m cool like that.

13 comments

February 11, 2006

Picking Favorites

My darling friend Violette called this morning. “Hey girl,” she said “what are you up to?”

“Well Vi,” I replied, “I’m in bed, laid back, chillin’. I’m not feeling so great.”

“What’s wrong?” my friend asked, concern in her voice.

“I have a stomach bug.”

“Oh no! Are you vomiting?”

“No, it’s um, not that kind of stomach bug.”

“Oh… so you have diarrhea?”

“Yeah, hardstyle.”

“Oh man,” Violette said, “diarrhea is your favorite.”

Although the comment was made in jest, this diarrhea-is-my-favorite thing got me to thinking.

First Thought
Diarrhea is *NOT* my favorite. Diarrhea – unless one is partial to the seven-layer burrito at Taco Bell – is *NOBODY’S* favorite.

Indeed there are many things I enjoy more than being hot-to-trot (if you will). For example I really have a thing for:

organic raisins (yay fiber!)
boys who wear makeup (yay eyeliner!)
those little printed messages – today’s being “We can learn from the trees how to exist in ecstacy” – that come attached to Yogi tea bags (yay nonsensical notes!)

… But even as I’m talking about these things that are my “favorites,” another dark thought is bubbling behind my brain.

Second Thought
If you’re into something, you talk it up.

Essentially these talked-up topics could be considered “favorites”, right?

Well, if favorites are tied to the amount of time spent discussing, or blogging about, a particular topic, then actually it could be said that diarrhea *IS* my favorite, that I am madly in love with it, and that, in fact, I want to be it’s baby’s mama.

Third Thought
What the hell is wrong with me?

Fourth Thought
No time to ponder that now. I gotta go!

Til next, dear hannihaus readers, adieu.

14 comments

February 9, 2006

Football Follies

A few weeks ago, in an effort to really rock this blog (as per my resolution), I announced that I would start talking about new topics here at the haus. While I am not ready to discuss Karen, my hemorrhoid, I am interested in working a little sports spielage into the discussion.

Now I don’t know a damn thing about sports, but fortunately for you, being ignorant about something has never kept me from commenting… or accordingly, looking like a giant jackass while doing so, but I digress.

Anyway, in previous posts we learned that the driving range is dangerous (re: divot stick + no skillz = armbone injury), and that the best thing about basketball is the buns (and arguably, after having seen pics of SORM in spandex, the same could probably be said for baseball … but let’s not get off topic.)

So yeah, golf and basketball – I’m not so good with that. But what about football? Because I’m a Virginia Tech alumni, (go hokies!), who had stadium seats for every game Michael Vick played in Lane Stadium, well I must know something about football, right?

Wrong.

The other day, I tried to have a conversation with Angelface about the Super Bowl. It didn’t work out too well, mostly because I was referring to the game as “The Finale.”

Re:

Hänni: “On Sunday, what did you think of The Finale?”

Angelface (blank stare): …

Never one to give up, I also tried to get Angel talking about the referees that have Seahawk fans up in arms. Again, the conversation flopped, likely because I referred to the men who’d made the questionable calls as “judges.”

Re:

Hänni (trying again): So I heard the judges may have been unfair to the west coast team.

Angel (blank stare): …

So, being that my foray into football talk wasn’t entirely successful, I thought it best to stop at two attempts. After all, you know what they say: it’s one – two – three strikes you’re out at the old ba- …

Wait. That’s the wrong sport, isn’t it?

Aye carumba.