Dear hannihaus readers, it is a momentous day indeed. Angelface is away working all weekend so I’ve chosen to participate in an activity that, along with referring to me as “Queen Mistress Supreme”, is on the list of things my husband refuses to do.

Yes dear hannihaus readers, for the next nine hours I will be transported to a time long ago and a galaxy far, far away.

If you speak Geek you probably know what I’m getting at. For anyone who isn’t, however, a thirty-year-old virgin and/or proud owner of the Obi Wan Kenobi Jedi Braid, what I’m trying to say is that I’m going to watch the Star Wars trilogy (episodes 4-6 for those who are nerdy enough to know the difference interested.)

I’m very serious about all this. I’ve got my DVDs strategically positioned for fast ejection and insertion at the end of each episode, and I’ll only be breaking from this Geekfest for one of two reasons:

1. To grab a beverage of choice – likely something of the organic licorice tea variety
2. To periodically yell at the cat, “Sphynx, Sphynx, I am your faaaaaather”.

For those of you who are concerned that the latter item could possibly be detrimental to my male kitten’s understanding of gender development – being that Mommy wants to call herself daddy – don’t sweat it. Sphynxy knows who his real daddy is and, accordingly, how real daddies behave…

Yes, Angel has done a very good job of teaching Sphynxy that it’s Mommy’s job to launder the boxers, and it’s Daddy’s job to wear them whilst playing Xbox and scratching his man bits…

but I digress.

So yeah, to summarize:

• the Star Wars marathon – it’s on. I’m all giddy, like Mariah Carey at a chocolate crueler convention.

• The cats –they’re fine. It’s only if I start dressing them like their cousin Spot, (AKA the Jedi Master), that we should be concerned.

Til next, dear hannihaus readers, adieu… And may the force be with you.

Because if you’re anything like me at the end of a week – that is, a blathering, blubbering, work-worn dolt – then you need to do something fun.

I found something for you. It’s called “retrievr” and it’s just the Jane-dandiest.

How it works
You draw an image on this nifto sketch screen and while you’re doing so, retrievr searches Flickr to display what it thinks is a similar item.

Just a little word to the wanton: everything retrievr displays is family friendly. I don’t want anyone to be disappointed, but if you try to draw boobies, the results will only display stuff like stop signs and eyeballs.

Show And Tell

Look What I made

Can you guess what it is?

If you guessed lightbulb, you’re wrong.

If you guessed it’s Mariah Carey bending over for a Little Debbie snack cake, then you’re a true evil genius and I just might love you.

*hee*

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Let’s play, dear hannihaus readers. Make something and tell me about it, or better yet, post pics on your blog. First things first though, you gotta click here for retrievr.

I am - as many of you know - a hardcore Nutrition Nazi. A firm believer in the beauty of complex carbohydrates, I eat multiple pounds of vegetables every day. And just in case I don’t get enough nutrition from the sweet potatoes, swiss chard, squash, and celery, I add some good old fashioned plant pigment - that’s liquid chlorophyll for those who speak hippy - to my Evian

Resultantly, I’m so fiber-rich it isn’t funny (except when getting a rectal exam, of course).

So yeah, because I’m a Nutrition Nazi, I couldn’t resist accompanying my coworkers to the Sweet Tomatoes salad buffet for lunch. If you’ve never been, this place is a regular Shangri-la for Veg Heads like me, because literally 85% of the offerings include garden-fresh greens.

And that pretty much rules, being that roughage rocks my socks (and my buttocks) … but I digress.

Anyway, in addition to some really stellar salads, Sweet Tomatoes also has pasta, soup, fresh baked breads and frozen yogurt. It’s the latter item, the cold confection if you will, that caused the Nutrition Nazi to get a wee bit heated.

It started out innocently enough. Manuel, plopping himself into the booth, held in one hand a homemade sundae. It was beautiful really – A perfect peak of vanilla yogurt was crowned by crunchy, crushed oreos and then drizzled with a ribbon of golden, gooey caramel.

I was cool with the caramel. What got me was the sprinkles. They were freakin green.

“Manuel,” I said, “why do you suppose the sprinkles are green? Saint Patrick’s day is like three months away.”

With a mischievous grin and without missing a beat, my clever coworker said, “The sprinkles are green because they’re healthy.”

And then, because my eyebrows weren’t raised dangerously high enough, he followed up his initial bit of blasphemy with “All green things are healthy.”

…. Um yeah. And Mariah Carey is *not* shoving food in her pie hole any time songs aren’t coming out of it.

Yes it’s true dear hannihaus readers, there are lots of healthy green things, spinach, apples, and split peas, just to name a few. But for every “good” green thing, I can think of a whole slew of others that are not only unhealthy, but are downright nastay.

Let’s take for example:

• gangrenous limbs,
• snot,
• mold,
• and soylent green (it’s people!)

I just want to get something straight here folks. Sprinkles are *not* healthy, even if they are a pleasant shade of pine…. That being said, I will admit there are worse things that you could consume.

I guess a lot of people like sports (nacho, village idiot, scottygee, etc.), and in an effort rock this blog, I thought maybe I should incorporate new topics, such as athletics, into the manic mix.

The only problem is, I am to sports what Mariah Carey is to moderate eating –completely effing incompetent.

I do try though. A few days back I tagged along with Angelface and 50 Chinese kids (long story) to an Orlando Magic game where I hoped to: a) find something interesting to blog about, and b) purchase a big old pretzel with some stanky, skanky processed “cheese” on the side (I think Mimi would approve!)

Before the game officially started there was a light show and some sort of roll call-type thing. At the end of the presentation the announcer said “These are your Orlaaaando Magic!”, and when the lights went up there were 10 guys standing on the court.

And I was confused. Because if I know anything about Orlando basketball – and it’s clear that I don’t – I know our colors are blue and white, yet half the 10-person team was dressed in orange! I asked Angel what was going on. “Baby,” he said, “those are the Bobcats. That’s the other team.”

Woops.

Anyway, there was lots of running that night – mostly back and forth. And there was some jumping – mostly up and down. And in the interim I guess some points were made.

It’s true that in the third quarter Orlando Magic superstar, Whats-His-Name McBigBalls did a little slam dunkage, but for my money the most entertaining part of the game came at a TV-timeout when, during the Burger King build-a-burger relay, the lady in front of me kept screaming “Move your buns!” at some kid dressed as a whopper.

Burgers? Buns? Relays? That’s pure comedy gold folks!

And with that, we’ll wrap up this installment of Hannihaus, the sports edition. Come back next time when I recount my experiences on the soccer field in a little segment I’ll call “Soccer: It’s a real kick… in the balls.”

Welcome, dear hannihaus readers, to week two of 2006. It’s no longer the “new year” per se, and predictably, some of my goals have already fallen by the wayside. My teeth, for example, have not been flossed once in 2006. My arms, resembling the flaccid, flabby wings of a chicken would benefit from the pilates I’ve not done. And call me a man if you must, but I have not remembered to shut the dad-gum toilet lid once in 10 days.

On the flip side, my cats’ resolution to play Panty Raider with my unmentionables is going quite well. It’s really been great finding my padded bras and that embarrasing bridal shower thong with the veil on the booty strewn about the living room in a glorious and garish display… especially when friends and maintenance men are over…but I digress.

In any event, if there’s one resolution I intend to keep, dear hannihaus readers, it’s my resolution to rock.

And you know what really rocks?

My über -manly, grunting/farting/belching Better Half proclaiming his love for “hot nuts”, whilst out with friends on a weekend night.

Even better, when his declaration falls on ears otherwise occupied with the sounds of a martini bar in full yuppie swing, he raises his voice to loudly exclaim:

“I really love those hot nuts you get on the streets!”

… Of course this utterance must occur at a moment when the din dies down causing a shocked WASP at the next table over to choke on her cheesy, chicken cordon bleu.

And then you get to giggle, because you know Angelface has an affinity for almonds. When your man talks about “hot nuts” he’s referring to street vendors and sugared pecans *not* street walkers and dangling fun bags.

But they don’t know that.

Hee hee!

I gotta be honest. All this talk about me being a four-eyed, fat-ass, horse face –I just didn’t get it. But then I remembered that awkward phase I went through for about a week in junior high…

Holy shit kids! Apparently I’m a very Controversial Miss, as, for the second day in a row, my little ass had gotten in t-r-o-u-b-l-e.

Tuesday Mariah Carey brought the drama. I got (lamely) lambasted by an MC fanatic – a Mimi minion, if you will – after posting on super snarky blog, Celebrity Smack that the singin’ diva was looking positively Poppin Fresh on New Years Eve in a too-tight, winter white wrapper.

I personally thought comparing the Diva to the Doughboy was pretty effing clever, but I guess, Jennifer “Mariah is my homeboy” Fangurl thought otherwise.

Meh.

So let’s fast forward to Weds. Again, I’m at the ‘Smack, and because everybody else is doing it, I decide to leave a comment. Before I go to post my note, (something about crotch rot and conjunctivitis), I notice that some anonymous jackass has gone on a bent, attacking blog mistress, Spicy Pants!, because she made the inference that male strippers (this guy’s ilk) were straight up skeezy.

And Spicy was right. Although the Queer Eyes might tell you differently, sausage does not a sexy stripper make…

But I digress.

So, being the good samaritan that I am, I defended Spicy against Deuce Bigalow by leaving a disquieting comment that contained the words “your stripping-ass jock” and “crabs.” …Because I am nothing, if not classy.

And wouldn’t you know - because that’s just been my luck as of late - my good deed kicked up a shit storm of controversy!

The short story is, someone mistook my post for the nastygram left by the Disgruntled Stripper and made quick work to harangue me, mixing the Stripper’s words with those found on my hannihaus profile. The malcontent was sure to criticize my education, this blog and my personal appearance.

And what I want to know is, how come when anyone’s got beef with my bitch-ass, (especially when it’s unwarranted), they feel it’s necessary to talk smack about my spectacles?

Yes I wear glasses. They help me to see things. I also brush my teeth twice daily and wash behind my ears when I’m in the shower. Anyone want to talk trash about that?

Anyway, for a good time, you can check out the full – and highly hilarious – hannihaus/celebrity smack/strippin-ass scandal by clicking right here.

Cheers to pissing off player haters! Til next, dear hannihaus readers, adieu.

In thinking about what I’d write today, I thought I might blog about how Stinky Sphynxy woke me up this morning – I.e. with his little, scaly tongue lodged in my armpit, licking like I was made out of organic kitty kibble – but that, dear hannihaus readers, would be admittedly lame.

And I made a resolution yesterday. What was it again? To suck in 2006? Nope! I resolved to rock this blog, and that, thanks to a little audience participation, is what we’re gonna do.

You see, I was minding my own business, going about my day when - suddenly - I received the first nastygram of 2006!

It was beautiful. I called it “Fresh content –Poppin’ Fresh content.”

It all started innocently enough. This morning I was surfing the ‘Smack, and as is my custom, I talked some trash in comments. Inspired by a series of truly heinous Mariah Carey New Years pics, I was prompted to post that the singer looked like the Pillsbury Doughboy.

I mean seriously. Look at that pose and the white I’ma-bout-to-bust-outta-this dress she’s wearing and tell me you don’t think she’d go “hoo-hoo” if you poked her belly. I’m just being real folks, just being real.

So anyway, several hours later disgruntled Mariah fangurl, “Jennifer” stopped by the haus, and here’s what she had to say:

“Ok first of all I found you by your comment on CelebritySmack. You called Mariah Carey a Pillsberry Dough Boy…Have you looked In the mirror lately???? She Is a billion times better looking then YOU! I guarantee that ANY man would pick her over your four eyed horse face…Your New Years Resolution should be to get plastic surgery for your nose,eyes,and chin to look more feminine and to Lose some Weight..have you heard of a gym???? Maybe you should stop Blogging for a while and turn to Jogging.”

Mmmm k, Jenny. A few things:

1. You misquoted me. I called Mariah Carey a Pillsbury Doughboy. I’m not familiar with the “Pillsberry” Dough Boy, but I imagine he spends his days hanging out with his cousin, the dim-witted Dingleberry.

2. Yes I have looked in the mirror lately. It’s something I, and billions of other people do on a daily basis, because, you know, it’s comforting to see that reflection and know you’re not a blood-sucking vampire.

3. Do you really think Mariah “Is” a billion times better looking than ME? One billion is a big number. I’d venture to say she’s only 999 million times better… for me to poop on.

4. Where do you get off calling me a four-eyed horse face? You obviously know nothing about me, because if you did, you’d know to call me “four-eyed buttface” or “four-eyed fartface” –At least that’s what they said last time I had to endure such lame, juvie name calling. I was six. It was 1985.

5. Yes maybe my New Years resolution should be to get plastic surgery and lose some weight. The only problem is, despite your grandiose impressions of me, I’m genetically pretty small, and if I lost weight I’d probably end up looking like Skeletor or Nicole Richie (same thing). Now Jen, if I was getting plastic surgery to gain weight – say in those areas where I’m seriously lacking (*eh hem* boobs) - well, that might work out just fine.

6. Yes I have heard of a gym. Haven’t you?

7. Good suggestion about stopping blogging and starting jogging, but I think what this post has taught us is that we don’t need to toil on the treadmill in order to get all hot and bothered. For spewing your verbal diarrhea all over my bright, shiny blog, I thank you.
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And I’m spent. Tune in the for the next thrilling installment, dear hannihaus readers, where I inevitably receive tons of hate mail in response to this post. Huzzah!

This is the last one folks. As we usher in the New Year, it’s time to bid a fond farewell to that charming game of word play that has sustained us so well.

On days when I could think of nothing better to post than stories of jock itch and mustachioed men, mrtl’s Motif Monday provided an entire arsenal of blogging ammo to thrill and delight you, dear hannihaus readers –all without having to resort to talk of fungal infections and fu manchus.

… Now writing about my hairy hobbit toes, well that’s a different story. I’m here to tell you, dear hannihaus readers, that no matter what – no matter if the sky starts falling and we’ve got to eat clouds for breakfast – as long as I have them, (pending nuclear winter or a bizarre farm-machinery accident), I will always, always blog about my ten tufted tootsies …

I hope this helps you to sleep well at night.

So yes, today’s theme and the final installment of Motif Monday is “resolved.”

Now I could do like everyone else and write about sleeping more, eating less, wearing deodorant and bathing on a regular basis, blah, blah, blah. Or I could tell you my true intentions.

In 2006:

I resolve to rock.

I’m gonna rock this blog hard-style, giving you the good stuff each and every day … or as often as I feel like posting anyway. And there’s going to be some amazing content. We’re talking really stellar stuff! I can’t really tell you what it’ll be, since I haven’t written it yet. But I bet it’s going to be really good.

Like organic-raisin good.

Or even like boys-who-wear-makeup good.

And in a nice segue, because every rockin new year needs a rock star, I resolve that in 2006 I am going to own (MCR lead-singer) Gerard Way’s sexy ass. Yes, dear hannihaus readers, I plan to purchase and play with the entire collection of My Chemical Romance action figures as soon as they become available at the Hot Topic in my area …

Or when adoring fans of the haus send them to me via USPS and I give those dear hearts the world’s greatest shout out *hint hint*… but I digress (and wait in anticipation – hee!)

Oh yeah, and from now on, every day is Gerard Way day. And that’s official. My new friend anissaannalise (who is quite possibly more obsessed with Geeheart than I am) says so on her blog.

And with that final proclamation, I declare this, the first post of 2006, and the last post of the institution that is Motif Monday, done. Let us all sing a verse of Auld Lang Syne as we toast this bittersweet occasion.

Cheers to you, dear hannihaus readers. I want to wish you all the very best for this fabulous New Year. Let’s do it to it in 2006.

Rockstar Brother cracks me up. He’s been calling from Alaska to give me the latest on home front happenings and today he told me about Christmas.

“Did you hear what Baby Paige did to Maaa?” Rockstar Brother asked.

“Nope,” I said, “What did she do?”

“You won’t believe it, but Paige kicked her sneakers into Maaa’s mashed potatoes at dinner!”

“Oh holy lord!” I exclaimed.

“Yeah, it was a bad scene,” replied Rockstar Brother.

Because I’m big on jokes that make you groan, I had to ask: “Why do you suppose she did it?” And then I followed that up with a nice little, “Do you suppose it was just for kicks?”

*ba dum bum ching*

Thank you, thank you. I’ll be playing at the haus all week folks. Be sure to tip your waitresses on the way out.

So seriously, when I learned what my precious two-year-old niece, had done, well naturally I found it to be very disrespectful. Poor Maaa had her pristine, snow-white, mashed up mound of starch desecrated on the holiest of days and dinners, after all.

And so we say, R.I.P steaming taters.

Oh how I wish I had been there when that toddler-sized tenny lodged itself in the divot where gravy’s supposed to go… but I digress.

Christmas here in Florida was different. Not quite turkey with all the trimmings, Angelface and I found ourselves dining at the only place in town that was a) open and b) not Dennys.

If you’ve seen A Christmas Story, you’ve probably already guessed it. Always open, and quite the cliché, Angel and I dined holiday-style at the China Buffet.

Because all-you-can-eat pork flied lice for $9.99 is pretty good, even when it’s Christmas.

And I wonder, if Paige had been with us celebrating the birth of Christ over cashew chicken, if she would’ve kicked her Keds into my dinner.

I would’ve had to tell the waiter there was something in my food. He would tell me not to worry, it was just the house special after all.

“Ah,” I’d say, “tonight I’ll dine on egg-shoe-young.”