Birthday shot. (I just typed "shit" and almost left it, but it's not really the right tone for this entry.)

I was feeling like a big pile of...well, birthday shit, and I didn't want to get out of bed at all. It started with this bizarre dream that I was undergoing some religious persecution and about to get shot. I had to decide whether to go after my assailant with a trashcan or offer myself instead of the others who were about to die with me.
This is heavy for a birthday morning. And a Monday morning.
And any morning.
Before I made any rash decisions, I decided to wake up.
Sick. Snot-nosed and phlegm-throated. HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME. I spent the rest of the day in a Sudafedhaze, following my mom and sister around various shopping complexes and sitting down whenever possible.
This shopping trip turned into a fever, which turned into a nap, and then coldest hot shower I have ever known.
After an artsy play and some trendy restaurant dining, Matt conducted me in a delirium to the place where I was served a second birthday shot. This time the shot contained alcohol, not condemnation.
And then a third (which, due to its volume and content, was more like machine gun fire than a shot). Perhaps I should have defended myself with a trash can or offered the drink to someone else...or offered to drink everyone else's.
The moral of the story (I just typed "shot" and almost left it...): birthday dreams are totally prophetic.

Git yer nails done, git yer hair did

LET THE BIRTHDAY WEEKEND BEGIN!!!

The Road to Fame is Paved with Blogs

At a pre-birthday dinner with my girls last week, the following conversation was recorded onto a Mich Golden Light coaster:
Her: What's the deal with this blog? (Point of fact: she actually said, "blob, bloob...bloog...blurb? bobble?")
Me: I just write stuff.
Her: Why?
Me: For fun. Because I like to.
Her: Why?
--pause--
Her: Can I be on it?

The poetry of Ruben Dario and BMs

She is a darling Mexican foreign exchange student, who refuses to speak English because it is just too much work.
"Let me help you with this homework," I say.
She attempts to translate a poem for me. I read the lines aloud in Spanish and she is forced to replace the words and draw out some meaning in English. This way, we both learn. And get to make fun of each other. When she uncovers the English version of a Spanish word, she writes it down while I spell it to her using an English alphabet. When I say e, she hears i. When I say a, she hears e. It starts to sound like a Neutral Agreement* recording.
"I have trouble with the bowels," she says.
I am a compassionate young woman who, thanks to one semester of college level Spanish, understands the nuances of Spanish pronunciation. I knew in advance (adbance) that v and b were interchangable. I explained to her that bowels and vowels are two different things. For one, you may need to step quickly to a toilet. For another, you may need to return to an earlier stage of schooling. For both, you may just need to practice.

*Reference to obscure song: check!

The Shins

are covered. (And a band that makes me HAP HAP HAP HAP-PY. Thank you for playing them, 89.3)
Back to the point, we go. Last night I did my ridiculous thing for the week:
Hot pink leg warmers (knit),
Red basketball shorts (mesh), and
Converse all-stars (canvas)
Topped off with a fleece, vest, and scarf. It was cold, but I was hot.

BAH! So awkward.

I love the club because I don't recognize anyone, really. I allow myself to create stories about the people I see (judging, always judging). Yesterday, as I sat stretching after my obviously strenous treadmill walking, I spied a face I recognized.
Occasionally, I create such a vivid imaginary life that I start to think I know the person in actual life.
As it turns out, this woman has actual knowledge of me (as only a gynecologist really can).
Then I ran away.

Yours Truly, Willy Wonka

Just as I was about to delete this seemingly viral email from a fictional character, I recalled a time (not so long ago) during which I sent a complaint to Nestle and Co. about some un-chewy candy.

Thank you for contacting Nestlé on the Internet. Questions and comments from our consumers are always welcome! We have reviewed your email message, and understand your concern. We are investigating your experience and you can look forward to receiving a response within 7-10 business days. We value you as a consumer and appreciate your feedback. Please visit our website often for the
latest information on Nestlé products and promotions.

I will be posting their response within 7-10 business days.

Zero 7

In the Waiting Line.
So.
Hot.
Right.
Now.

Butt tattoos are totally making a comeback.

I'm staring at a sheet of My Little Pony stickers which I selfishly saved from the Valentines set (minus one that I generously gave up for an envelope yesterday). As I look at these impossibly-coiffed creatures, I think to myself:
1. I love the plasticky smell.
2. I remember the plasticky smell?
3. I have the same haircut as a My Little Pony.

Another open letter

Dear Jennifer Lopez,
Please stop.

Dissatisfaction of Astronomic Proportions

In an open forum to the Nestle company, I discuss an unpleasant incident involving one expired candy specimen:

I consider myself a woman of discerning taste, and have, on many previous occasions, enjoyed your products. Last week I purchased a package of your Giant Chewy Sweettarts which were giant, but not chewy. You can imagine my disappointment and perhaps you will honor my request for a replacement. I will continue to patronize your brand and the offending Walgreens store, regardless. A valued friend and customer,

[I must give proper credit to Matt for his creative line: "giant, but not chewy" without which none of this would have been possible.]

Ok. Now I feel bad.

Sorry for the hostility. It's not me...it's the BANG.

Who does that?

Hey you. You with the dumb, this one goes out to you. Do not abbreviate "homework" as "hmwork" in an email subject line. You are saving NO TIME.
Acceptable trades and abbrevs include the words "balc" for balcony and "sally" in place of someone's name.
Also, in the US, we have a cultural aversion to standing thisclose to others, unless we are intimately involved or about to kick SERIOUS ass. Please, when we are speaking, do not get so close that I can see your individual facial hairs. When I scoot back as you pursue the conversation you seem to mistake me: it's not that I'm in a hurry to get anywhere but AWAY FROM YOU.
Glad we cleared that up.

I have a bang.

Yesterday I took a fat tuesday chance and got a hair cut. I'm a procrastinator who doesn't do risks.
It's fluffier today and that's fine. But this bang. THIS BANG. I can tuck it behind my ear and then it slips back toward my eyes and that requires a vanity shake. Or a chin tilt. It's causing tension in my neck. I have a crick on the right side from holding my face at a hair-out-of-eyes angle. I have owned this bang for nearly 24 hours and I'm ready to return it. [I don't think she saved what she cut off. Curse you, disposable hair!]
But since it's Lent now and I've given up complaining, I won't be blogging for the next 40 days.



Just kidding.

Beads!

Heeey it's Fat Tuesday. Heeeey.

He doesn't feeeel better

It has come to this... not stealing time from my employer, rather, updating my blog from a distance. Giving myself a chance to reflect on the day before I write a rant about the little shits our society spoils in pools of wealth.
However, my experience today was too positive. I must search for alternate topics...
Four days out of surgery and this kid still walks like an old man. He waddles from the lightswitch to the closet like a feeble octagenarian. At least he can laugh about it on percocet. Thank you, percocet. I've been reading Matt The BFG because not only does he genuinely like it, but if he feels tired he can fall asleep and blame it on the drugs. Every so often I will wake him with my sheer disbelief at yet another of Roald Dahl's fabricated words: Snozzcumbers as big as half a man? Golden Fizzwizards? Manhuggers? Runty little scumscrewers?
Bunghole.
Are you serious?

quote du jour

"Stuart, you gauche bastard..."
From the mouths of babes.

PUNKsutawny Phil

On Groundhog's Day 2005, I'd like to point out a few things:
1. You know he's taking bribes from the guy with the hat.
2. I, my friend, heard a BIRD singing this morning while I scraped the ice off my car. It's already spring.
3. My birthday is in T minus 24 days.

Julia f'ing Child, here.

First of all, stop looking so surprised when I make something FREAKING DELICIOUS. I'm skilled, just generally lazy. And I don't do animal preparation.
How I made garlic bread:
One stick of butter (to every 1.5 loaves of french bread)
Three tablespoons of parmesean cheese (approx.)
Garlic salt (Some; not a lot. Enough so you can smell it 1.5 feet above the bowl.)
Mix ingredients in a small dish and unintentionally melt them together. The important thing here is that you do it by accident: you combine these items and put them in the microwave to soften and end up turning them into buttery magma.
Slice the bread every 1.5 inches (I happen to like this increment), but don't cut all the way through. Put the bread on aluminum foil and spoon some of the liquid into each crevase. Wrap the bread in an aluminum foil cocoon and bake for 10 minutes at 350 degrees.
Eat.