This year for Halloween I wanted to do something really scary. Like truly frightening and maybe a little spooky ooky.

Yes dear hannihaus readers, instead of my usual organic raisins, I’ll be giving neighborhood kids this:

(click for a trick!)

I love boys who wear makeup.

Seriously, all it takes is a thick slash of eyeliner and I’m like ooh la la.

The only thing that’s better than boys who wear makeup is boys who wear makeup while singing punk rock songs of the macabre …

Oh and organic raisins kick ass too.

But anywayz …

Today is a very special day, dear hannihaus readers. Today, My Chemical Romance—my very favorite boys who wear makeup—released their stellar third album, a goth opera called The Black Parade.

And like the , the album is *awesome.*

In honor of this momentous occasion, I will do as I did for National Day of Slayer (6.6.06) and I will rock.

I will rock like my name’s Gwen Stef-hänni.

And when I feel like I can’t rock any longer, that’s when I’m gonna start rocking even more.

Because that’s what being a fan is all about.

… Unless you’re made of metal and you have paddles. In which case, being a fan is all about swooshing air around.

Of course, if you’re my Popi you do a good job of swooshing air around *without* the aid of paddles. The aid of broccoli, cheese and eggs, however, seems to be requisite.

Life is a real gas at Popi’s house. But I digress.

Anyhow, my plan for this most exciting of days is to spend the next 8+ hours streaming My Chemical Romance. If you’d like to join along, —->click here and listen to the new CD<----.

Tell me what you think in comments.

Or just talk to me about your underwear or something.

xoxoH

So I got this new job. I’m tech writing for Another Very Hip Software Company. My editor there is awesome—today was my first day, and she already taught this noob some good stuff.

While conversing, Madam Editor used a word with which I am familiar, but not fluent. In fact, I have never uttered said word … until today.

Because the back-and-forth flow of our conversation depended on my use of this word (to describe a particular regional phenomenon), I uttered it.
Up my throat, through my teeth, out my lips … I said:

Buuuy-yoo.

No not, buuuy-yoo like, “You better buuuy-yoo some fake nails to go with that horse-hair weeve.”

I’m talking buuuy-yoo like the boggy marsh junx where alligators like to hang out.

Or buuuy-yoo like the “Born On The Bayou” song.

Or even buuuy-yoo like there’s a shitload of buuuy-yoo all over Houston, so when it rains real hard—on days like today for instance—that swamp crap backs up and the streets fill with water, making trips home from First Day of Work entirely way too long at 2.5 hours for 30 miles (plus three turnarounds, because getting lost is a real bitch), thus confirming your suspicions that given the choice between an herbal enema and spending 2.5 hours on a Houston highway, you’d take the ass bag any day.

Buuuy-yoo.

That shit is bananas.
—–
BTW I’m back in Houston.

It’s not just a killer ditty by Ozzy Osbourne; it’s what I’ve done.

For my Mama, I came home.

Yes dear hannihaus readers, just days after arriving in Houston, this dirty hippy hit the bricks, headed (further) west and then north to Alaska.

I guess the fact that I recently pissed myself at a truck stop wasn’t a deterrent to traveling. It was just a deterrent to dry pants … and ever being cool.

But anywayz, fresh out of Texas-requisite hairspray and jalapenos, I’m enjoying being laid-back-chillin’ in the freezing 49^th.

It’s nice to visit a place where the seasons aren’t Hot and Hotter.

And it’s lovely to spend time with people who really get me, who really know where I’m coming from

… and who’ve also peed their pants a time or two.

Here’s to reminders that baby nieces are the best,

xoxoH

On making friends and influencing embarrassing people

One thing I always try to do when moving to a new town is act real cool. Now that I’m in Texas, project Act Real Cool is in full effect.

So the other day, when I went to a local grocery called H.E.B. I tried to keep it discreet while making bedroom eyes at the organic produce. And I curbed my enthusiasm, pretended I was laid back chillin’ when I found energy-efficient compact fluorescents at a killer price. And when I saw hormone-free beef and lamb in the same cold case, I feigned nonchalance, even though inside I was all “holy crap!” “eureka!” and “santa maria!”

As I moseyed the aisles in search of Newman’s Own organic raisins, my mind started to work. What did “H.E.B.” stand for anyway? Silently, I composed a list of possibilities:

• Hairspray Endears Bears
• Half Eagle Biscuit
• Have Eh Beer
• Happy Elephant Britches
• Hot Eskimo Booty
• Hänni Enjoys Borscht

An hour-and-a-half later when I got to the checkout and the clerk rang up my items, I had a sudden realization.

And that realization was not that H.E.B. stood for “Hair-E-Buttocks” … although that would’ve been awesome.

No dear hannihaus readers, standing in a store that may or may not be called “Horny Eel Boogie,” I realized that instead of making acronyms, my time would’ve been better spent making sure I’d brought money.

Because I didn’t.

(Of course.)
—–
Here I am now, entertain me. After doing some research I now know that H.E.B. stands for “Here Everything’s Better,” but that’s kind of lame. Why don’t you, dear hannihaus reader, make me an acronym? Tell me in comments, what could H.E.B. stand for?