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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).

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May 26, 2005

Gay or Nay?

It’s probably wrong of me to do this: I’m sure the karma police are gonna come kick me in the butt – but I simply can’t resist!

So I was on MSN today enjoying my nifty new update with all its fancy features, when I happened to notice you can now post a buddy icon for others to view. I posted my requisite cutie cartoony Hänni, and then scoped out everybody’s profiles.

Imagine my delight and horror to see that a certain Canadian from my past had posted this to represent his image to the world:

And now I’m kind of confused. It is true that in the 2.5 years we dated he spend approximately 2.25 of those years in the bathroom styling his hair…. (His motto: Gel, never leave home without it). And it’s also true that he probably doesn’t own a pair of jeans…. (I’ve never seen him sans snow white, starchy, pressed pants)… And yes, he is waifishly thin, but toned (thanks to hours of unmitigated time spent admiring his pecs and lifting weights at ye olde gym.) But really?

I always thought maybe he was just metro.

But recently, I’m starting to see things a little differently- Perhaps, I’m seeing things in a rainbow-colored light, or rather he’s seeing things in a rainbow-colored light.

Well, I can’t blame him. I mean, after losing me – well, it’s enough to turn any man gay, knowing you’ll never find such a perfekt gurl again.

But I digress.

In all seriousness though, Canadian From The Past, I salute you. For picking a boyfriend who so closely resembles Nick Lachey, you get two snaps and a circle.

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May 15, 2005

But I did Not Shoot the Dep-u-ty

Last night Sphynx was running around yelling for absolutely no reason. Loud and persistent, Mr. Kitten’s one-meow opera was really getting on my nerves.

I picked him up and cuddled. I poured him some delicious kitty kibble. I even donned ye olde fully encapsulated gas mask in order to clean his oh-so-stinky litter box.

But alas, Sphynx would not go quietly into that good night.

Well, there’s only so much a person can take. I’m not proud of what I did, but I had to do it. Last night, in sheer and utter desperation, I picked up the nearest piece of produce, which happened to be a banana. I yelled Sphynx! And as soon as I got the little devil in my sites, I pointed my potassium-rich pistol and then I shot him.

I shot the Sphynxy.

And then there was peace – or so I thought.

This morning at the unconscionable hour of 6:00 am, I was awoken by an abrupt thud. I quickly jumped out of bed, and fast a June hare, I saw Sphynx dart in my direction. In his mouth, and just as big as he is, was the aforementioned banana.

He dropped it at my feet and ran away. It was mangled and had a gray tuft of fur stuck to it. It wasn’t a dead fish wrapped in newspaper, but I’m sure the sentiment was the same.

What I learned is:

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March 10, 2005

McRib: A Grand Sandwich for Grandiose Women

I read today that McDonalds is considering outsourcing it’s drive-thru orders That is just too crazy. What are they trying to do? Hire robots to run the fryers? What if they outsource to an Indian call center? Instead of fries, will they say “would you like a squishee with that?”

What the freak?!

And speaking of bizzaro McDonalds moves, what?s with McRib? That famed sandwich is so popular it warrants its own encyclopedia entry and has inspired countless followers to pay homage to the pressed meat by creating fan sites that proclaim McRib as king of sandwiches.

Myself, I?ve never partaken of that forbidden mystery meat wrapped in its carb-laden scarlet sauce. In fact, I really don?t know anyone who has, except Rosie O? Donell, who swears by them, and a couple secretaries I used to work with. Coincidently, all the McRib fans I know are ?big boned? women.

And speaking of bones, that?s something that really freaks me out about McRib. It?s supposed to be ribs, but it has no bones. That is wrong. I liken the production of McRib to the building of a house from manure. Sure it can be molded and manipulated to look like a grand mansion, but at the end of the day, all you really have is a heaping pile of crap.

Shaping meat byproducts to look like delicious ribs is downright unnatural. It?s like what they do to those marshmallows at Easter ? They take marshmallows, mold them into chicks and call them ?Peeps.? I prefer my marshmallows the way nature intended, melted on graham crackers, squished all snuggly-like next to chocolate?

But now that I think about it, the whole Peeps thing makes sense. I mean, eating baby chicks that are made of baby chicks is far too messy when you?re wearing your Easter finest.

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January 26, 2005

Beef Bourginon or The Wino-Smelling Apartment

I am a health nut. I do yoga every morning, drink Evian water almost exclusively, and eat only those foods that are most beneficial to me, according to my blood type. I eat very little grain, dairy or sugar because they make me achy. My lifestyle is unorthodox and so are my adventures in the kitchen.

Beef Bourginon, the French call it. This seemingly tasty dish is the French equivalent to stew. Instead of tomatoes and potatoes, they cook their beef stew with wine and onions. Everybody knows wine and onions are way more glamorous than tomatoes and potatoes, so I thought I’d give it a try.

And it wasn’t a bad idea except – because it seemed so European to do so – I tripled the most powerful ingredient and left the rest at their recommended level.

A petite sophisticate in my 50s-style housewife apron, I poured a little red wine into the crock pot… and then, because it wasn’t covering the vegetables, I poured a little more red wine into the crock pot and then, because it was a French dish and the French love wine, I poured a little more into the crock pot.

This continued for about two minutes, until I had fairly drowned the beef and veggies in an intoxicating soup of Wal-Mart wine.

And I don’t even like wine. In fact, I hate the taste. I hate the smell. For me there’s not too much to like about fermented grapes, except I heard it’s good for your heart.

And that’s the problem.

Silly me, just because something is good for me doesn’t make it delicious. Take for example, prune juice, cod liver oil, or seaweed. This stuff is all very healthy, but let’s face it, after eating them you feel a) crappy about having stink cod liver oil breath and seaweed in your teeth, and b) a dire urge to run to the toilet.

Long story short, after slow cooking my precious bourginon for 10 hours, the end result was a pot of swill so ripe with alcohol I got a buzz just taking the lid off the thing.

Angelface laughed as I tried to eat 1, 2, 3 slices of the tender beef saturated in its intoxicating broth. I wanted to show him, it wasn’t as bad as he thought. I swore I’d eat the whole 6 servings of alcoholic meat and mushrooms myself. Then, late at night, I dumped it all in the trash, because that’s where my bourginon belonged.

C’est la vie.

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January 22, 2005

Live Strong

Fancy scratching post to keep kitty’s claws off couch: $28
Plastic donut purchased b/c kitty seemed depressed: $5
Barbie mice to put in kitty’s Christmas stocking: $8
Realizing that in the course of a year kitty has destroyed all expensive toys and has found the greatest, most indestructible and long-lasting happiness with a rubberband that came off a head of lettuce: priceless

In related news, Bella recently celebrated her one-year adoption anniversary with Angelface and I. Angelface purchased a lovely cookie cake for the occassion. Belle didn’t seem to mind that the cake had SpongeBob on it and read Happy Birthday.

Of course Bella doesn’t eat cake, as she prefers a vegetarian diet of Purina One and scraps of sweet potato, so Angelface and I did very well, eating the entire 14 inch chocolate chip monstrosity ourselves. The neon blue frosting stained our mouths for days. We looked like we had eaten a bowl full of smurfs.

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September 12, 2003

Tales From the Bedside

Well many of you must be dying of curiousity. What does Hänni do at work all day? What fabulous first day outfit did she buy? The answers are as follows: a) I can’t really tell you what I do all day and b) One outfit? I had the best shopping day and spent $300 on a whole new fabulous working wardbrobe!

Have I gotten to wear more than one outfit from my fabulous wardrobe?

No.

Why? Well it all stated that Monday morning. When I woke up that day I felt slightly naseauted, but no biggie. I did some yoga, got a job and went shopping. Everything was great until around 6pm when my stomache started aching like Oprah’s sweet tooth for circus peanuts.

Just a little gas I figured. Again, it was no biggie.

Before I went to sleep that night I told angelface I wasn’t feeling well, and hoped my tummy would be better for my first day of work the next day. We discussed, and decided I had maybe just pulled a muscle in my stomache. I laughed bitterly. How ironic that excercise should be the very thing that makes me feel like crap!

I was up all through the night and made it through a half day at work before going to the clinic. Although I had been fairly good beforehand, as soon as I got to the clinic I turned into Linda Hamilton from the Poltergeist and spewed something that looked like oyster crackers and mountain dew all over the lobby. I didn’t feel guilty about it though. Truth be told, I wanted the secretaries to put a rush on getting a doc for me.

Well, the doc tells me after a brief inspection that he can’t help me. He thinks I have appendicitis. I cry and vomit some more.

I am rushed to the ER where I am forced to wait (yet again) to see a doc. When I do see the doc she thrusts an object in my delicates (yes I am vomitting and crying, and the doc decides to give me a pelvic exam – brilliant idea I’m sure). After the doc removes her finger from my buttcrack (yes, this really happened), she tells me I need a Cat Scan of my abdomen and must drink three cups of this chalky, unnamed swill.

I tried once. I tried twice. I tried three times, but I couldn’t keep the nasty CT liquid down. Finally, after someone realized my white cell count (read: infection count) was *through the roof* did they go ahead and start the appendectomy.

So that’s what I’ve been doing the past few days – crying, vomitting, eating hospital swill. It’s funny how things can go from “Oh happy day” to “Oh crappy day” with a little stomachache.

The good news is, my employers are sympathetic and I do indeed have a job on Monday when I plan on being at work. The good news is, I am no longer at a hospital watching basic cable, giving myself sponge baths. The good news is, my family and angel’s family have been calling and checking up. The good news is, I’m gonna make it after all kids.

Stay tuned!

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July 27, 2003

Zebra Chic

You know you’re not awake when
you butter your toast… with the butter knife’s handle and not the blade

you know you’re not awake when
rockstar brother calls from california, starts speaking… and you promptly hang up on him for no reason

you know you’re not awake when
in an attempt to crack your boiled egg, you slam it your plate… right into the huge mound of steaming sausage gravy

So that has been a brief recollection of my morning thus far. Am slowly waking up, and have come to the conclusion that I need to sleep more… and I need to avoid steaming mounds of sausage gravy.

That is all.

In other news, my sister Spank is getting hitched in a few weeks. I’m to be the M.O.H. (Mad Old Hippo – just kidding, Maid of Honor of course!) And my first task as M.O.H. was to buy a fabulous dress. As sis let me decide what color/type of gown to adorn, I had the “chore” of going on a hard core, full out, wind-in-your-hair, shopping frenzy.

Warning: what you are about to read is the true account of the mind boggling, booty baring events that conspired this past Friday during Shopapalooza 2003.

This past friday I tried on pink dresses. I tried on green dresses. I tried navy, baby blue and lavendar dresses. I tried on dresses made of satin, chiffon, organza, and polyester. Some of the dresses had beadwork, others had silk flower lapels. Most had zippers, but the one I finally bought you just slink into.

After calling Maaa several times to consult and driving my two co-shoppers batty, I finally decided on my M.O.H. dress extraordinaire. I call it “zebra chic.” I guess you can say there was a bond from the very beginning…

When I first saw the gown, I became enchanted. I lovingly fondled it’s ruffly hem lines and heavily draped neckline. With “So this is love” playing in my head I plucked the frock from it’s rack and swooned.

With bedroom eyes, I examined the black and white pattern. I thought this dress could be *the one,* but like sandals and sandwhiches, I knew I had to try it out first.

As previously mentioned, Zebra Chic has no zippers. The only way to don the gown is by pulling it over your head and adjusting, which is what I did. And it was love at first sight.

When it came time for me to free myself from this garb, so as to purchase it, I found I had a problem. And so began mission impossible.

I first tried to remove the dress in the manner I had donned it in the first place, by pulling it over my head. There was just one hitch: I’m extremely claustraphobic, so every time I saw cloth in front of my face I panicked in the manner of quasimoto at the hands of angry villagers – at one flailing desperate point I actually called out I am not an animal!

Eventually, with assistance, I was able to free myself from the oppression of the garb. Like a silly git I decided the problem was the dress size, and so I needed to try this dress on again, but in one size up.

Zebra Chic looked just as hot the second time, and predictably, was just as difficult to get out of. Again, I had to seek assistance. This time I wasn’t wearing a bra, so when my friend Laura came into the dressing room she got to see more than she had bargained for.

So heres how it went: after getting stuck in the same dress twice, Laura enters, sees the fun bags, averts her eyes, and asks me to bend over. While bent at 90 degrees the skirt goes over my head and tush is exposed. (Note: i was *not* wearing cute undies, but rather granny-looking things in a neutral color.) Laura tugs. I grunt. Laura tugs some more. I curse the dress.

And finally, i’m free enough to where Laura can make her exit before the glorious grand finale, wherein I actually get the dress off and am standing, exhausted, in my granny skivies. However, in order for Laura to make her o’hasty exit, she swings wide the dressing room door. As am hunched over with heavy black fabric obscuring my vision, all I can tell is that that door has been opened, I am exposed, and people are giggling (likely at the granny tush.)

Regardless, at some point I actually made it out of the dressing room and purchased the precious. Yeah, it’s a little crazy, considering I can’t even get out of the thing without someone else giving it a good tug, but this dress is not about freedom, it’s about fashion.

And at the end of the day, when you’re stuck in a hot looking dress, you realize that all is fair in love and ladie’s wear.

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April 22, 2003

WOW That’s What I Call Blogging

1 test, 1 quiz, 2 finals and a partridge in a pear tree. I’m almost a college graduate, baby! I’ve just got those four pesky test-type things to deal with, then it’s sayonnara hallowed halls of academia!

I went to visit my academic advisor, Waggs today. She always puts me in a fabulous mood. She congratulated me on my engagement to Angelface, and stopped to admire my gorgeous jewel. She told me to go through the “senior checklist”, and if i was a good girl and came prepared, she would read my name off the list at graduation. V. funny lady.

Today I turned in my final eval of internship-o-horrors. It felt *so* good that I decided to ceramonialize the event.

As I was leaving the old main street office I turned, and gave a symbolic salute. Graceful as a swan, I faced the old renovated townhouse. I decided to memorialize the “good times,” but then I remembered there really weren’t any, save the day manager Smitty was out of the office, leaving me to my own devices. Instead of working I emailed anyone I could think of, called Angelface a few times on the company dime, and ate stinky hummus at my desk – eating food in the back office is highly illegal, after all!

And so, with the memories of an internship not so far past, I gave the final hurrah. With palms out, head turned back, a look of serenity passing over my face, I presented my tribute. Carefully, concertedly, I pulled four fingers down towards my thumb. The middle appendage, straight as a flag pole, traced a line straight to heaven. It was glorious.

And I got an email today from my worthless office manager asking if we’d like to “do dinner” before our group goes off into parts unknown. I feel like I can’t go – like with that final salute, I had given every last bit I could give to those people.

However, as I am a very poor college student, I will probably go. It’s a sin to turn down free food you know?

Oh it’s so difficult having convictions!

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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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