33 comments

May 17, 2006

Notice

Today marks the third time in six months that I have, at other’s requests, removed a post from this blog. The Ghost Post—like its twin predecessors—was deemed to be “Too Hot for the Haus” by people I love IRL.

And while I may be good at quite a few things—Re: googling my own name, eating organic raisins, or fawning over boys who wear makeup, I’m really no good with apologies.

Because seriously, I *heart* every word I write. And I don’t know about you, but I think this blog kicks a$$. Plus it’s totally saved my life … like three times.

… But actually that life-saving thing isn’t true. But what is true, what is so very real, and what I would shout from the rooftops if I weren’t afraid of heights is this:

More than pixels and fonts and an electronic framework, this blog is a love letter. And it’s written to commemorate my life.

Even with all its shit-talking irreconcilable bitchiness.

And sometimes I include things about people I hold dear, my mother or father, sister or ex-boyfriend, because—like veins converging at the heart—their stories are often inextricably intertwined with mine.

And I’ve probably been insensitive a time or two or twenty. But it’s just that I don’t think what I write on the Internet should be a cause for offense.

The Internet is not the Real World after all; it’s simply the Real World Wide Web.

When people freak about something I post or tell me a story sucks, I take it personally. Seriously, I’ve spent many-a-sleepless-night wondering “did I go too far with that diarrhea diatribe?”(Undoubtedly, the answer to this question is yes.)

This worry about self-censorship, about always being so-funny-Haw-knee has made me wishy washy.

Sometimes, like today, I feel I should stop causing myself the grief.

I think maybe, just maybe, I should stop blogging.

And this thought makes me incredibly sad. I hope it makes you sad too.

So I’ve done some reflecting and I know I can’t quit this blog. It’s my retarded child—sure its kind of effed up, but I’m so totally in love with it that sometimes I just wanna cry.

Yes, I am that lame.

Now I’m not a big fan of making rules. After all, I’ve been a Rebel with a Clause all my life. But today I’m going to set some.

From here on out, anything that gets posted to the haus stays on the haus. Although I will attempt to exercise restraint for those folks who don’t want the world to know they hooked up with a Thai stripper (Hi G!), I will no longer remove any posts, period.

I won’t even remove the crappy ones … and there are quite a few of those.

If you don’t like what I’m posting, I encourage you to fight back. Start your own blog. You can call it “STFUHANNI!!!” and you can use it to berate me, via your keyboard, on a fort-nightly basis.

In concluding this post, I would just like to remind you, dear hannihaus readers, that my blog is meant to tickle your gigglebone and does not (typically) cause headache, nausea, vomiting, or oily anal discharge.

That is all.

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Update: OMGWTF!

Somebody who reads this blog is an evil genius … and he totally sent me that link.

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I don’t know about you, but after posting this shit, a drink sounds really good. Why don’t you pick one for me? AI Cocktail Countdown in the sidebar.

9 comments

You Probably Think You Saw A Different Post Here Last Night

And that post probably took me like three hours to write.

And that post was awesome, except for one thing—it didn’t exist.

Nope, you didn’t read anything here.

You’re just mentally confused.

(And that’s why you visit the haus in the first place.)

God bless you and good day.
—–
Drinks in the sidebar. You know what to do.

9 comments

May 14, 2006

Oh Mother, What a Day

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: I love Mom.

I just can’t say enough about the woman who bathed me, clothed me, and—advancing my lifetime fascination with flatulence—taught me to sing about beans, beans the musical fruit.

Yes, while other moms were singing oh-so-sweet lullabies to their four-year-olds, mine was trilling about tooting …

And that is so totally awesome.

But I digress.

So yeah, there’s a lot of things I need to thank Maaa for. For one, she passed me bald, breach, backwards and upside down through her petite little hoo hoo. Oh yeah, and she did this at home, without an epidural.

You think I’m a hardcore hippy? Meet my maaa.

Another cool thing Mom did was make me a daughter. I mean, that right there is entirely awesome. Because—while I am innately a jackass—I couldn’t be an offspring without Maaa making it so.

Unfortunately, while Mom made me a daughter, I didn’t make her a mother (at least not the first time). That honor falls on Maaa’s first born, my elder bro-bro, Nicky.
…

But actually, (and this just occurred to me), Nicky may *not* be the responsible party after all.

More than likely what made my maaa a mother was a six pack of Schlitz and some Ravi Shankar.

But anyway …

Happy Mother’s Day Maaa.

My gift is this blog, and this post’s for you …

xoxoH

mothers_day.jpg
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I’d also like to wish a Happy Mother’s Day to Angel’s mommy Kim, my step-mom MistressElida, my sister Spanky and all the other Mommies of the haus. You are amazing.

20 comments

May 11, 2006

The Show Must Go On!

Yesterday my baby sister, Spanky made a plea in comments that I *not* participate in the American Idol Cocktail Countdown.

And she’s right. As a New Age Mama/hardcore Nutrition Nazi, the *last* thing I should do is flood my veins with alcohol.

After all, I hear shooting organic raisins intravenously is much more fun.

But yeah, I love my sis so much. And I really value what she has to say.

Sure I was jealous of her when we were small. Back in 1985, when we didn’t have running water, I had to do it like they do on the Discovery Channel and drop trau in an Alaskan outhouse. My sister, on the other hand—the baby of the family—got to do her bizness indoors.

That’s mostly because she was always crapping her pants in the house.

… But she was in diapers in 1985 so I digress.

And it’s true, as we grew older there was some division between us. Although she always wanted to, I didn’t hang with Spank much when I was a teenyrocker.

When I was 15, she was 10 and her little jacket pockets were just too small to hold the amount of contraband needed to effectively toilet paper a high school parking lot. Because you don’t wanna squeeze the Charmin, I had to hang with kids my own age—they had roomier pockets.

These days, now that we’re adults (don’t laugh), Spanky and I are like lemon and lime. And I don’t wanna do anything she doesn’t want me too…

But there again, I do remember the time I made her eat dog food. Sis *definitely* wasn’t into that…

but I’ll be damned if I didn’t enjoy it!

That being said, you know I love you sis, but the Internet has spoken. Every day thousands, hundreds, ten a couple of you vote in my poll. And I appreciate that. Plus, I rarely miss an opportunity to do something that will likely result in me freak dancing with strangers.

AI Countdown to Cocktails is oooon. The finale is May 24th and I hope you all will join me in my debauchery by playing at home. Game details will be posted soon.

15 comments

May 8, 2006

There Is No Modern Romance

The other day FancyPants and I were talking about how marriage is the new dating. We decided courtship is dead—society stuck a knife in its big, bursting heart and served it cold with some fava beans and a nice Chianti …

mariahCakeSmall.pngM.C.: ruining romance for everyone

And then, as her big ass is used to doing, Mariah Carey ate it.

…But I digress.

Anywho, it’s sad to say, but kids these days are slipping right past getting-to-know-you-ville and are advancing directly to man-and-wife town.

They are not passing Go.

They are not collecting $200.

Hell, many of today’s couples aren’t even making it through second dates.

It’s a shame, but it’s no exaggeration. I’m willing to bet that all of us, dear hannihaus readers, know someone who has made their way to the Chapel of Love (and lust) way too early.

Call me old fashioned, but I miss courtship.

I miss the idea of one soul seeking the affections of another.

I miss the good old days. You know, those antiquated times where instead of getting married right away, you got to know someone first …

by having kinky, deviant sex with them—sometimes incorporating strangers, sometimes incorporating sheep, and oft times inserting large inanimate objects in to dark orifices.

Forget love, sweet love, what the world needs now is more boobs and fewer “I dos”.

Am I right?
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So, I’ll admit it. I’m down with the brown. I like me a little greasy Mexican action. I wanna give a shoutout to blog superstar, Askheychris. Not only does his writing kick my writing’s ass, he also has been known to paint his nails, which means he’s a—*gasp*—boy who wears makeup. Rock! Check him out.
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Wanna get me wasted? Vote in the sidebar. Another drink gets kicked off the AI Cocktail Countdown tonight.

11 comments

May 5, 2006

Cinco De May—Wha?

Billions of people today will celebrate Cinco De Mayo.

Here at the haus, however, I will be celebrating Cinco De Salsa.

Why?

Because salsa is a much *cooler* condiment. Case in point: when buying fresh, salsa comes refrigerated. You can’t say the same for mayonnaise.

Plus, salsa has better hair. Look:
SalsaHair1.jpg

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Have you picked your fav. today? AI Cocktail Countdown in the sidebar. Go vote!

32 comments

May 3, 2006

Who The Hell Reads This Crap?!

I am an ASS. And I’m not even a garden-variety ass. No, dear hannihaus readers, I’m hardcore. The extent of my assiness is so HUGE, I’ve got to capitalize the damn word.

Indeed, I am all about the (capitalized) ASS.

And I hope you are too, because I want you to join me in my jackassery.

Today, dear hannihaus readers, it’s all about getting to know you. And I want all the lurkers—the shy little violets of the haus— to stand up and say “allo!”

Baby, I blove you
More than boys who wear makeup, Chipotle vegetarian burrito bols, and bulk bins of organic raisins, it’s you dear hannihaus readers that I adore. You keep me writing and that keeps me ridiculous.

And I want to know, what do you love? Let’s play a game.

Here’s how we do. I want *everyone* who reads this post to leave a comment. The comment you leave will be addressed to the visitor who comments before you. I want everyone to start their comment with:

“[visitor’s name], I love you baby, but all I can think about is …”

You fill in the blank with whatever you like to do.

For example, if Dima left a comment right before FancyPants, FancyPants’s comment would read “Dima, I love you baby, but all I can think about is styling my hair like it’s 1982.” (Because FancyPants is really into new wave).

Easy right?

Okay lurkers (and old friends too), let’s get retarted in here. 1, 2, 3 … comment!
—–
Christophe’s French 75 has been deep sixed. Now there’s only four drinks with which to get Hänni wasted. AI Cocktail Countdown in the sidebar. Vote!
—–
Oh and for a laugh… me and stinxy

16 comments

April 30, 2006

My First Time

I was 19 that summer. The city—like its inhabitants—was sweltering hot.

Beautiful 20-somethings poured like water from subways onto street corners and into restaurants and bars and old buildings. An urban pheromone factory, sex oozed from these golden gods as beads of perspiration gathered on breastbones and thighs hidden beneath stylish suits.

We were young. We were eager. We had (most of us) come to intern in the greatest political city in the world.

Washington D.C. was a far cry from Wasilla, Alaska where I grew up. Back home, under my parents’ watchful gaze, I’d lived the kind of churchly, modest life that is the hallmark of rural America. I won’t bore you with details, but I will say that my landlocked upbringing played a major role in the delay…

It was embarrassing. Most girls—by the time they are 17 or 18—have done it. And I suspect that in certain places, like California for example, girls probably start doing it at 10 or 11.

That summer—the one I spent in the city—I was almost 20 and I felt a dire sense of urgency.

My intern group was scheduled for a weekend trip to Rehoboth Beach at the end of July. On this trip there would be no parental supervision. There would, however, be dozens of sexy co-eds wearing next-to-nothing. And they’d be slathering lotions and flirting and frolicking. The only thing hotter than these beachside babes would be the sun under which they’d bake.

It was for this trip, that I wanted to be prepared.

The week before Rehoboth, I stopped into J.’s. I’d been there before, but this time was different. I was nervous. And I think he knew that. A handsome boy, when he looked into my frightened eyes and asked if he could help me, I said yes.

That day, in some cluttered part of the city, I passed through a proverbial gauntlet of maidenhood.

With my breasts cupped in a J. Crew top (75% off!) selected by a sales dude with my specifications, I was glad I’d finally done it.

I’d finally … for the first time … worn a bikini.

And shortly after my first time wearing a bikini, I experienced the first time wearing a bikini whilst throwing up in a children’s pool in Rehoboth. But that’s a whole nother story.

Til next dear hannihaus readers, adieu.
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Did my story get you all hot and bothered? How about you vote for a nice, refreshing drink? AI Cocktail Countdown in the sidebar. Next one gets kicked off tomorrow!

P.S. Maaa I’m sorry if I gave you a heart attack with this one.

3 comments

April 28, 2006

Eat Your Heart Out Teri Hatcher

Here’s a hip(py) tip for you:

If you are a New Age Mama who makes your own skincare products, it’s probably a good idea to keep your organic, rosemary-infused vinegar-based astringent from areas that are sensitive to this sort of concoction.

Specifically, areas like your eyeballs.

Even if you think it’s a great idea—even if you feel so totally compelled to do it—even if you decide it’s entirely Albert Einsteinesque in its genius—*do not* hold a cotton ball near your cornea if it’s been soaked in a highly-antiseptic elixir.

And then do not—I repeat, do not—give said cotton ball a satisfying squeeze.

If you fail to yield my advice you will suffer. Yes, you should be prepared for a veritable tsunami of six-weeks’ fermented vinegar sloshing in and stinging your eye sockets.

britney_pregnant1.jpgBritney Spears: Oops she did it again.

In case you’re wondering, this is a bad thing.

… Unless of course you’ve been subjected to pictures of an “oh-no-she-di’int” nature, like those showing Britney Spears is preggers again.

*shudder*

In this case, rendering yourself blind by way of acidic beauty brew is the only reasonable reaction.

But I digress…
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Have you voted today? AI Cocktail Countdown—it’s more fun than pouring vinaigrette in your pretty little peepers.Trust me on this one.

13 comments

April 25, 2006

Un-Bee-Lievable

Angelface and I have this friend. His name is Mike, but I like to think of him as Mister Misadventure. Mister Misadventure makes Hänni happy. While I’ve split my pants a time or two (or three or four), I’ve never unclogged a toilet with my bare hands and I’ve never forgotten to remove “I like sex” from the Hobbies section of a resume I sent to an employer—Mister Misadventure has done these things.

Recently Mister Misadventure told me a story that was a real hum dinger. Or should I say hum stinger?

One afternoon, after finishing some yard work, Mister Misadventure and his lithe, little missus decided to hop in the shower. What would’ve been an opportunity for romance quickly turned bad as an uninvited guest entered the bath.

The intruder was dressed in yellow and black. Agitated and confused, a bee had gotten in and was buzzing rather ominously near the showerhead.

M & M Misadventure were pretty frightened. I guess you could say that bug scared the bee-jesus out of them… but I digress.

Anyway, wearing nothing but what the good lord gave him, Mister Misadventure leapt from the tub. He quickly scavenged the kitchen looking for some sort of weapon. Running short on mace, chains and medieval torture devices, Mister Misadventure settled for an empty cool whip container.

Armed and ready for action, the Mister returned to the shower. When he threw back the curtain he found that in his absence the Missus had further pissed off the party crasher. By frantically splashing water on the bewildered bee, Madam M. had escalated the situation.

Someone was *not* going to get out of the shower unscathed.

Unfortunately for Mister Misadventure, he was that someone.

Gesturing with his hands near his groin, Mister M. explained it was probably because it’s so big that the angry bee chose his penis for a target.

Yes, Mister Misadventure got stung on the stinger.

His first reaction was not unlike mine when I found out TomKat was pregnant—in a fit of panic and confusion, the Mister screamed like a twelve-year-old girl.

And then, in a knee-jerk reaction he’d soon come to regret, Mister Misadventure gripped his cool whip container and thrust it towards the bee … on his crotch.

And then Mister Misadventure started screaming like a twelve-year-old girl again.

And then he had black and blue balls for five days.

And that’s a true story, you better bee-lieve it.
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I never liked her much anyway. Blonde’s Death was voted out last night in the AI Cocktail Countdown. We’re still got four more kick offs to go, so keep voting kids. Poll is in the sidebar.

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