That’s kind of beautiful, I think, of the trees. But then I notice a sign stapled to one of the stately oaks, and I am bitch slapped back into reality. ATTENTION RESIDENTS, it reads, THERE HAS BEEN A SERIES OF BURGLARIES AT THE COMPLEX. PLEASE KEEP YOUR DOORS AND WINDOWS LOCKED. KEEP VALUABLES IN A SAFE PLACE AND BE AWARE OF ANY INDIVIDUALS WHO ARE UNFAMILIAR TO YOU—THX, MANAGEMENT.

“Ahhh, home sweet home,” I utter aloud to no one at all. And then I heft some boxes into the trunk of my corolla. After two years living amongst criminals, and craggy, pockmarked pavement, I am finally moving out … and thank God for that.

—-
The last moments spent in my dingy apartment—number 3201, with its sagging ceiling and weathered wooden façade—I am hunched forward, furiously running a whirring vacuum over threadbare carpet. In the front closet, dead leaves and detritus cling to the baseboards. I bend to my hands and knees for a closer look and see it—a black pepper army, their legions scattering and popping like water tossed into boiling oil. Fleas. Hundreds of them hop inches from my face. I recoil in horror, straighten up, step outside, shut the door. I put key in lock and walk away, fast. I never once look back.

And as I drive away that one last time, my tires grinding over rutted concrete, I accelerate a little more than usual. I need to get the HELL out of here, I think. And though it’s been calm all morning, suddenly a breeze kicks up, catches in the leaves of the apartment’s ancient trees. Their shaggy crowns tremble and shake, and I imagine they are nodding their heads in agreement.

(Photo credit: Zevotron@Flickr)
—-
OK, so it’s been three weeks since the move. What–pray tell–have I been up to? Andrew and I, we’ve been nesting. The new apartment is gorgeous with 12-foot ceilings, beige walls, white moulding, walk-in closets, and a wide-mouthed garden tub. Apricot tiles line the entrance hall, and plush, light-colored carpet (devoid of creepy crawlies) blankets the living and bedroom areas.

Some of you have asked for pictures, and though photography isn’t really my medium, I’m eager to please. Sneak peak coming soon, yo. Get stoked.

BTW, it’s nice to be back. Xoxo.

Post from: Hannihaus

Tree House

I can’t imagine why anyone would say either of those things …

Oh well.

****HAPPY THANKSGIVING****

****FROM HÄNNIHAUS****

Post from: Hannihaus

Happy Thanksgiving!

We are Almond Joy and Mounds. Because he has nuts. And I don’t.

Isn’t that sweet?

HAPPY HALLOWEEN

FROM HANNIHAUS!

*Psst! We wanna give mad props to our awesome photographer Derrick Villamayor. Thanks dude! —->Peep the rest of our photoshoot here<-----

Post from: Hannihaus

Happy Halloween: The It’s-Just-Biology Edition

What’s this all about?

Post from: Hannihaus

Is This Thing On?

A HAIKU ABOUT THE CONTENT STRATEGY SUMMIT
Corp. Writer’s Workshop
Dude’s like, “This class is bullshit!”
Teacher is angry

—-
AND AS AN ADDED BONUS: During my participation in a mandatory workshop wherein the instructor has asked us to write haiku expounding on our experience, I decide to memorialize the result of a participant’s request for salad in addition to pizza, as it consequently slowed delivery time.

This is my other submission.

A HAIKU ABOUT FOOD AT THE CONTENT STRATEGY SUMMIT
I’m freaking starving
Stupid dumb-ass veggie heads*
Delayed our free lunch

*[read: me]
—-
Clearly my talents are not wasted in the workplace.

Post from: Hannihaus

At Work I Am Currently Participating In Mandatory Workshop Wherein The Instructor Has Asked Us To Write Haiku Expounding On Our Experience

I never wear green on Saint Patrick’s Day, partly because I’m not Irish … but mostly because I have a pinching fetish.

Enjoy your green beers and frosted lucky charms,

xoxoh

—–

Do you twitter? I do. I want to stalk follow you, so get on board with this. Need more info? Twitter in plain english here.

Post from: Hannihaus

Hello My Little Leprechauns

1. Although my nickname is Hannibear, if I was reincarnated, I would want to come back as a house cat. They are cool. 
2. I love the name Clementine but think it might be too old fashioned for a baby. Momo, which means “peach” in Japanese is modern an still adorable. I told my sis she should name her newborn Momo but she told me she wouldn’t because in English, it’s slang for “homo.” Apparently I have a thing for fruits.
3. I cut my hair last fall because people kept saying I looked like Ugly Betty. Now I just look like a bitch.
4. Last week I got my first-ever traffic ticket. I was pretty disappointed. Not so much because it cost me $295 and 2 points on my license, but because when I turned on the water works hoping to evade the ticket, the cop blinked twice and walked away. Apparently crocodile tears don’t work on pigs. Bummer.
5. Duing WWII my German-Jewish family converted to Catholicism and escaped to the US where they adopted an American-friendly surname, Horn. Our original family name was Von Dietrich. In Europe names with “von” in them denote royalty. This confirms my suspicion that I am not a garden-variety pain in the ass, but rather a ROYAL pain the in the ass. All hail the queen.

I had to get up at 5 am to find time to write this (thanks again Erin Cooks!) It’s only fair i pass on the torture fun. Leigh, CZE, Kerrianne, MRTL, and Amber you’re it! 

Post from: Hannihaus

Fine Erin. You Win. I’m Freaking Blogging!

Happy Halloween Y’all

xoxo Britney, bitch.

Post from: Hannihaus

Happy Halloween Y’all

1. Michael Jackson is a pimp
2. I might be a lesbian

Halloween is only two weeks away and in the spirit of scary shit, I’m taking a hip hop class. For anyone who’s seen me dance (re: shuffle sideways, shoulders slumped, booty bobbing), you know this is truly frightening.

I am learning the choreography to Michael Jackson’s Thriller.

I’m not really good at most of the moves. The body-roll bewilders me and my monster stomp is seriously shameful. I can barely kick left, lunge right and my twitch leaves something to be desired.

But it’s not all bad. I am exceptionally good at this:

Basically all it requires is that I shuffle sideways, shoulders slumped, booty bobbing.

And that’s a beautiful (albeit visually disturbing) thing).

So that’s how things are in hop hop class.

And oh yeah! I totally have a girl-crush on my instructor. She’s got a real hot bod, and I hope she wears spandex to class next week.

Me, I will be wearing … my ass out!

Hip Hop—like life and my boney butt–is hard. (Just ask Prince Reggie K.)

Post from: Hannihaus

Hip Hop Hooray?

“Undercover”, aged 40-49 had the following to say:

Further reviews praised the panties as being “a real good fit for men” and “the best panty I [a man] have ever worn.” “Men, try them,” enthusiasts urged, “you’ll like them.”
…

You know, sometimes when I buy underwear I think to myself, “Men would really like these.” But when I say men would really like these, I mean men would really like to take these off… not put them on.

The lesson of the day, dear hannihaus readers is, granny panties are out. Quite obviously—according to men who shop at Macys—tranny panties are in.

God love the grape smugglers,

xoxoh

Post from: Hannihaus

Let Me Be Brief