STUBEFY! STUBEFY! STUBEFY!

Friday night was a wonderful bit of nostalgia--Emilia came up from San...uh...Diego...ta Barbara--and we had a freshman year reunion in Tacoma. Hit up Gateway to India (I highly recommend the lamb) and Magoo's...which was a bit of a shock, really. I haven't been in a Tacoma bar since the no smoking legislation passed in Pierce County, and I tell you what, it did nothing for the smell. That bar smelled hideous and..old. It's like there's no new cigarette smell to cover up the old cigarette smell, rendering the atmosphere stale and post-lung cancer-y. The entire place reeks of mortality. Which, of course didn't stop me from drinking there because hello, 3 dollar drinks! I bought three for myself and a beer for a friend and my tab was 13 bucks. In your face, pretentious, over-priced Seattle bars!

Bars like Chapel. Fucking Chapel. My advice: do not go there on a Saturday night. Also, do not go there if you don't want to pay 7 dollars for a fucking well drink, which is bullshit; Bullshit, I say. I will say this: the bar itself is aesthetically pleasing. I am a little surprised at the stairway to heaven one must ascend to get in the door, though. We're talking many, many steps on a 90 degree angle. I imagine many a drunken tart in stiletto heels has taken a nasty spill down those steps, which, on second thought, would be kind of funny. Other than that, the place is well-decorated (okay, besides the white Jetson's chairs, which managed to be both ugly *and* uncomfortable at the same time) and the bar staff is attractive and only slightly rude. I wish I could say the same for the clientele, which consisted almost solely of (badly) aging hipsters, overweight office women and fat frat fucks with their skinny arm-girlfriends--you know, the kind who spends the entire night clinging to the fleshy elbow of her boyfriend and looking down at the floor? I'm like, I don't need geishas in here, okay? Go cover your mouth and giggle somewhere else and take your borderline abusive linebacker with you.

Also, my 7 dollar drink was totally watered down. Oh, and they served beer in wine glasses. Why would thay do that?

i love the vegas

Can I just tell you how much I'm not looking forward to the big meeting this afternoon? Once a quarter, the big boss, Marc, holds an All Hands Staff Meeting... which actually sounds kinda dirty now that I think about it. Regardless, the All Hands Staff Meeting (hereafter referred to as AHSM) is one of those rare events which manages simultaneously to bore you to tears, crush your eternal soul and sap you of your will to live. That kind of mind-numbing, spirit-killing power is truly (trulytrulytruly) awe-inspiring. Did I say "awe-inspiring?" I meant "horrific." Trulytrulytruly horrific, who-o-o-oah AHSM!

Several factors contribute to the all-encompassing evil that is the AHSM:

1. Since it is an organizational-wide staff meeting, material from all of the branches is covered, so the chances that you don't know and don't care about a particular topic are pretty fucking good.
2. Attendance is mandatory for every employee in Marc's organizational hierarchy. There are 200+ people huddled around the speakerphone in conference rooms across the country and you know what? At least 30 of them are going to have to put their two cents in during the Q&A session which extends the life (or death, really) of the meeting by 30 - 45 minutes. Fuckers.
3. Marc is scary. I imagine that after work, he rips off his human face, hops on the back of a winged beast and retires to a darkened pit where he feasts on the charred flesh of newborn babies.

Wish me luck.

toupeeguysayswhat?

This morning, Liz posted great about low-carb beer lameness and malt liquor industry advertising sleight of hand. I laughed. Then irritation overtook me. If you're counting your carbs and you're worried about the beer ones...don't drink beer, dumbass. You know you can drink regular liquor on that Atkins shit, right? All of the good stuff: whiskey, bourbon, vodka, gin, rum, tequila and brandy have like zero net carbs or whatever and if you mix it with a diet soda, you're golden. Well, as long as you enjoy the sick aftertaste of aspartame.
People on faddish, restrictive diets piss me off.

Also, I was at the Medusa a couple of weeks ago and I ordered a Rolling Rock and I take a swig and it was literally like beer-splashed water. What the...I look at the bottle. It's low-carb fucking Rolling Rock. Why would they do that, why why why? I mean, it's already the wussiest of the wussy beers-- it's like Zima without the refreshing citrus taste. So I go back to the bar and ask for a regular Rolling Rock, but guess what? They DON'T SERVE regular Rolling Rock. They only serve low carb beer. What? Why? I mean, it's not like they only serve diet soda and no-sugar juice and fucking carbless lemons, limes and maraschino cherries. Fuckers. This is SEATTLE, not New York or Los Angeles, godammit. We're not supposed to wear high-heeled strappy sandals with mini-skirts; we're not supposed to have to wait in line to get into a club; we're not supposed to have tans or really bleached teeth and the white devils at the Medusa certainly are not supposed to be serving low-carb beer.

Yeah. I took it all in stride. Finished the beer. Reapplied lip gloss. Left. Burned the place down.

it's showtime, synergy!

So my big sister gave me the Jem box set for my birthday. It's 4 discs long. There are like 89 episodes. Oh, the glory. 80's rocker chicks, green hair, fishnets and hot guys named Rio...what more could you ask for? No, seriously, what more could you ask for? My one complaint: dudes, Rio is totally cheating of Jerrica with Jem...and Jerrica IS Jem, so she KNOWS that he's cheating on her, so what the fuck is that? She's an enabler and Rio is a goddamn cheater, which is kind of disheartening because Rio was my favorite cartoon guy who wasn't on Voltron...I thought he was awesome and sweet and dreamy, but little did my innocent 8 year old self comprehend that he was a total cheating whore. WHORE, I say, WHORE.

Mmm. Off-topic. Yesterday started off brilliantly and ended disastrously. Jenn, the good friend that she is, helped me pick up some stuff at my office to take home with me. We made a day of it--went to Sushiland (light of my life, fire of my loins), hit Cost Plus World Market in Lynnwood for British candy, ate TCBY fro-yo and then decided to catch an early viewing of Ella Enchanted, which was, in fact, contrary to poor reviews (with the notable exception of this one by my arch-nemesis the no longer fat guy), totally enchanting. I have a rather large girl-crush on Anne Hathaway who, it turns out, is even more crush-worthy that previously thought, as she proves in the film that she can both dance and sing in addition to act, cry convincingly and be beautiful. I am jealous to the point of homicidal rage.

So, anyway, after the movie, we left the theatre to discover that Jenny had locked her keys in her car. The first thing I said was, "Do you have AAA?" She didn't. That's when we realized that we didn't know what to do. She called her cousin, Kimo, who lived nearby and I called our font of useful information friend, Amber. Kimo agreed to come with a clothes hanger and Amber informed us that should we need to, we could call a tow company or a locksmith. Let it be now noted that it was about 50 degrees and I was wearing a skirt and a tee-shirt. Yes. I tried to keep mental control over my temperature as Kimo tried his clothes hanger trick. After 15 minutes, I could no longer feel my legs. Soon, a Lynnwood Community Patrol vehicle approached and offered aid. They had slim jims and tools and I was convinced that we would be in the car in no time, which was good, because my soul was beginning to separate from my body. 15 minutes later, I asked Kimo if I could sit in his car. I slowly re-entered the world of the living. Half an hour later, the fake po-po gave up. Jenn called a locksmith who was there in 10 minutes and jimmied the lock in 5.

I offered to marry him. He was already married, though.

i'm so very sorry...my contrition completely dwarfs the impending apocalypse

The headline reads: "Kevin Spacey: 'I fell for a con.'" I don't know about you, but I was fully expecting some lurid details on Kevin's hot and spicy affair with this guy. But nooooo. Instead, this. How tragically misleading...although methinks The Spacey is leaving out a few details. Like the part where he and the guy who stole his phone make out.

In other news, Heather celebrated her 25th birthday this past Friday...I believe I can safely say that good times were had by all. The evening started off with a bullet of fun--at the restaurant, Jeremy and I ordered the same dish and he felt the need to request that his be spicier because, as you know, if I, a woman, were to out-spice him, a man, his entire masculine world would have come crashing down around his shoulders. Consequently, Jeremy spent the rest of the meal chugging water, sweating profusely and holding back tears. How very manly. It reminded me of the time Freshman year when a bunch of us were out at that Mongolian Grill place and Jason Shamai was all: Pile on the chili and the pepper and the spice and the hot sauce! I can take it! I'm a man. And then, when he put the first bite in his mouth, all he could do was sob and shrilly cry: "I'm a fucking woman!"

Other highlights included: Heather's throaty karaoke rendition of Midnight Train To Georgia, nummy sherbet, the guy in the kilt, my inexplicable urge to steal Jade's wonderful handbag and the indie-mod, big bang-wearing super adorable young man with whom I shared two or three meaningful, prolonged looks. But, alas, our love will never come to fruition as he lives in Tacoma and I reside in Seattle and never the twain shall meet...except on random, beer-soaked Friday nights.

Reader Comments (squarespace)
Yes, fun times. I later asked Jeremy if he felt weird about being the only guy, and he said "Not after a few beers." He then added, "Plus, Ahe's practically like a dude." I cracked up and told I'd have to tell you that, and he was worried you'd beat him up. I assured him you'd think it was AWESOME! Heh...
04.19.2004 Heather
that's AWESOME! being dude-like is cool, so long as it's not followed by "in appearance."
04.19.2004 Ahe

how do you speak glowingly about a girl who rode to school on a broomstick?

So, I am now officially as old as dirt. I had a remarkably nice birthday weekend, the high point of which was my three and a half hour visit to the Woodland Park Zoo. Dude, they have EVERYTHING there. Tigers, Snow Leopards, Jaguars, Malayan Sun Bears, Ocelots, Tapirs, the coolest reptile house ever, penguins, oh, and leeeetle teeny monkeys. I was a bit saddened that there was no boa constrictor because I was looking forward to reenacting the reptile house scene from Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone.
Some things I learned at the zoo:

• Kingsnakes totally kick rattlesnake ass
• Tapirs are weird, but cool at the same time
• Zebras stripes angle towards their bums
• Elephants eat whatever they fucking feel like eating
• Sonic the Hedgehog is not an accurate representation of the species
• It's funny when little kids think monkeys are cats
  Once you get the opening African call from The Lion King stuck in your head, there's no getting it out

how did you get the tiny men to stop singing?

Just so you know, my birthday is next week Sunday. Yeah, Easter Sunday, my stupid birthday is on stupid Easter which means all the restaurants will be fair teeming with fucking families and kids in pastel colored bonnets. Stupid Easter with your stupid eggs and your stupid chocolate bunnies. Mmm...chocolate bunnies. Eh. Considering the candyical benefits of this particular holiday, I guess I can't hate it just because I can't get reservations anywhere.

You know, if my birthday is on the same day that our lord and savior rose from the dead does that mean I get like...better presents? Because even though I specifically asked for David Boreanaz last year, not a one of my bastard friends delivered and I was right disappointed. You must all make up for it by getting me loads of presents. Loads.

Oh, and yes, I would still like David Boreanaz for my birthday. And please, remember to put airholes in the box. I don't want a repeat of last year's Orlando Bloom fiasco.

it will take a while but we're all going to end up at room temperature

I hope the person who googled [skinny boys "white belt" hipster] and hit upon my page eventually found what he/she was looking for. If not, godspeed you! black emperor...

it is very cold... in space

The thing is, I've been waffling back and forth for, I don't know, a YEAR AND A HALF about moving, for all of the many and varied reasons why one would or would not want to move: rent's too high for a studio, would rather have a one bedroom, but I don't really need a one bedroom and if I do move, it will have to be someplace as convenient--grocery store inbetween home and work 20 min or less walk to work, close enough to bus line in case of torrential rain. Long story short--I decided to stay put for the time being. I talked my rental company down to 600 from 695, so I'm actually getting a pretty good deal on a nice studio, but there's still the whole *studio* issue, so what I am going to do, I've decided, is make more efficient use of space. I've been measuring and brainstorming new layouts and I've finally come to one that I like and feel I can achieve with my current resources.

Now, what I'm trying to segue into is the fact that I've been going through boxes of books and whatall and I've been doing this freakish trip down amnesia lane..diaries, journals, old notes and letters, scrapbooks...it's all very very fun and completely embarrassing at the same time. I'm reading things I wrote from 5 years ago, thinking "Oh my god...is that me? Was I like that? There is no way..." But I was and I'm guessing, still am. We think that we change an awful lot in those formative high school and college years, but not so much, I'm thinking. It's like there's an essential core of you that remains the same no matter what you do or where you go and that's kind of comforting...well, it would be kind of comforting if it weren't for the fact that my essential core is one of general antipathy and contrariness. In one of the old books I unearthed, I found a list that my senior year housemates and I drafted...it was a list of "I am" statements patterned after the "I am Jack's--" from Fight Club. Some of my highlights:

I am Ahe's silent judgment
I am Ahe's need to just tell you
I am Ahe's bad day
I am Ahe's random good deed
I am Ahe's drunken indiscretion
I am Ahe's 30-second mood change
I am Ahe's uncharted depths

Huh. Uncanny.

In other news, I was flipping channels yesterday and came across the last 5 minutes of Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan, just in time to see Mr. Spock die of radiation poisoning and then Kirk gives the eulogy saying that of all the souls he has known Spock's was the most...human and then they eject his casket-pod into space over the Genesis planet and even though I know that his khatra remained intact and he'll come back to life in the next movie I totally cried. Is that so wrong?

you gotta get me one of those jumpsuits

This entry over at Liz Is Working about liquor and the wacky hijinks to which it leads sparked some reminiscing in the User Comments section. You see, when Liz and Kelly were college-aged lasses, they lived in a magical place known as Tacoma and socialized with people like me, otherwise known as "enablers." Enablers are known for their distinct talent for allowing others to formulate ill-advised plans and then validating and aiding in execution of said plans. For instance, stealing Mickey Mouse cakes from Safeway. Suffice it to say, while Liz and Kelly masterminded of all sorts of plans, schemes and attendant mischief--Drunk Liz and Drunk Kelly never quite attained the same level of criminal genius, being, of course, far too inebriated.
Keith's Going-Away Party (tm) provides several examples of these second-rate (and yet still stunningly hilarious) exploits, two of which were actually caught on camera as Keith's asshole loser dumbass friend Jim (who, by the way fathered a son, Nico, two years ago with Leslie) was capturing it for posterity on a rickety old handheld. Just in case you doubt Jim's assholic nature due to my predilection towards exaggerated invective, he, at one point during the Keith's Going-Away Party Video (tm), filmed himself urinating. Classy. Regardless, early on in the party, Drunk Liz came up with one of her patented mischievous plans which was as follows: She and I would bring Drunk Kelly over for a nice little tête-à-tête (if there are three of us, would that be a tête-à-tête-à-tête?) and then when Drunk Kelly least expected it, we would melvin her ass to high heaven. We tried and failed and laughed and Kelly's now-famous line was captured forever on film: "Liz and Ahe tried to seduce me into a wedgie!"
Maybe you had to be there.

The second nefarious scheme, also of Drunk Liz's creation was an attempt to take Drunk Dumb Bald Super-Grossly Flirty Boob-Flaunter down a notch or two. I refrain from mentioning her by name for two reasons: 1) on the off-chance she's as egotistical as the rest of us and googles her name and 2) because she honestly became much nicer and bearable after she pulled a Willow. Regardless, at the time of Keith's Going-Away Party (tm), Drunk Dumb Bald Super-Grossly Flirty Boob-Flaunter was, in fact, a drunk, dumb, bald, super-grossly flirty boob-flaunter. We did not like her for she was grody and also, shamelessly hitting on Drunk Liz's (and indeed, plain Liz's) boyfriend, Nicholas. Drunk Liz, hackles raised, decided that appropriate retribution would be to mix up a frothy concoction of smelly, staining liquid and have me "accidentally" bump into her and send the cup flying all over the DDBSGFBF, rendering her stinky and messy and thus incapable of flirting. After stirring fruit punch and kahlua and beer and soy sauce in Drunk Liz's plastic cup, we readied ourselves for Operation Bump and Spill, but in the midst of preparation, in a strange fortuitous moment, someone actually accidentally bumped into me, and I actually accidentally bumped into Drunk Liz and that cup went flying all over DDBSGFBF. Mission accomplished.

Then, of course, DDBSGFBF went into the kitchen and suggested that someone lick the stuff off of her, because, well, why wouldn't she?

this love has taken its toll on me

See, this is the thing: I still do not get the fascination with Maroon 5. They're just not very good and I don't understand why all the kids on the street think they're all awesome and shit. So they don't suck as much as Good Charlotte. So the band members are all deliciously attractive in their own indie kid white belt sporting ways. So the hurt, staccato vocals in the above-referenced song are so dead sexy that I am rendered into a speechless, blushing, open-mouthed pile of warm apple pie every time the video plays on channel 472 or the song comes on the radio or I think about it when I'm working on blog content or uh I oooh....
Will you excuse me for a moment? I'll be back in a second. One second.
Okay, I think I'm seeing the attraction.

As you all know, this weekend heralded the advent of Spring which is a silly name for a season, don't you think? It sounds so commonplace alongside Summer, Autumn and Winter. Le Printemps is way better. Yet another reason why French people aren't totally useless. Okay, back to the weekend and the advent du printemps. After slogging though the depressing morass of the end of Seattle Winter--the grey, the rain, the wind, the endless 40-something degree days punctuated by the occasional, fleeting sunbreak--this thing happened when all of a sudden, it was 65 degrees and I was wearing a skirt without tights and no jacket and squinting into the...the what, the sun, YES, the sun! A shopping trip in the suburbs were taken, by me, and we went to TCBY and ate nummy frozen treats and life was good, especially when I discovered the cache of European candy and snacks at Cost Plus World Market--oh, Hob Nobs and Munchies and Aero and Yorkies, how I love you so...I invite you to stay in my home until such time as I desire to devour your chocolately goodness. The highlight of the weekend, naturally, was the quick jaunt down to Tacoma to visit lovely Heather who looks like Jason's mother. We lunched at the best place in the world, our favorite: The Enchanted Tea Garden. Little sandwiches arranged all pretty on the plates and fruity tea and scones and Devonshire cream and then full bellies and good times had by all.

I don't want to work anymore. I want to go and have high tea in a garden everyday. Is that so wrong?

for a minute, i thought they were going to be writing our yougoogalees

A word to the wise: fat free salad dressing is a prelude to disaster.

So I'm downstairs in Mr. Fung's store, picking up an afternoon snack. I grab a big chocolate chip cookie and a side salad. I really want bleu cheese dressing, but they only have fat free. I think "well...how bad could it taste?" I get to my desk, douse my salad in the dressing and eat the tomatoes first. They are good--crisp, fresh. I only get a little of the dressing, and I don't notice anything amiss. The I spear a big piece of lettuce covered in fat free bleu cheese. I put it in my mouth and...it doesn't taste too bad, I guess. But it definitely doesn't taste good and it certainly doesn't taste like bleu cheese. I decide to give it the benefit of the doubt and try another taste. Eech. It tastes...sweet...but sick sweet like the sugar substitute that comes in the yellow packet. I tilt the bowl and look at it, willing myself to try it just one more time. As I look, I notice that the consistency is totally queer and thin and runny and palish whitish and then I realize that my fat free bleu cheese dressing is a dead ringer for fucking spooge, man, spooge! Jesus Fucking Christ!

honey, they're skinny 'cuz they're coked-up whores

Ah, the day after St. Patrick's Day. Most of the people on my floor are moping about, dragging their feet, holding their aching heads and looking like warmed-over crap. Not me though, and I'll tell you why: because, uh, and I don't want to voice an unpopular opinion here, but I could give a crap about St. Patrick's Day. Just like Valentine's Day. Chances are, if there's a Saint involved in the festivities and it's not St. Nick (who brings me presents and whatall), I don't really care. I'm not Irish; green beer scares me; I don't like crowded bars; I don't like frat boys; oh, and I don't need an excuse to go out and get plastered. I'm a big girl and I can do that whenever the fuck I want. In fact, I'm going to do that tonight. Snoogins.
In protest, instead of the requisite green, yesterday, I wore a butter-yellow blazer and an orange and pink flouncy skirt. Seven goddamn different people asked me why I wasn't wearing green. I had them killed, Lethal Weapon 2-style, rolled their bodies up in a tarp and threw them off the Winter River Bridge.

bush/cheney 2004: deficit schmeficit

When I checked out Wonkette today, I ran across this article on urinal design. I'd like to call attention to the fact that Liz over at Liz is Working seized on that tidbit months ago. Where have you been, Wonkette?

let's get lucky

guess what, guys?

this weblog's a-movin.'

again.

here.

please join me eventually.

Previously, on the OC

Will you hate me for moving my weblog yet again? Can you ever forgive me? What? NO? Well tough fucking luck, assface! I wanted a prettier blog. This isn't exactly as pretty as I wanted it to be, but let's face it, it's way prettier than my last blog. Not as colorful, no. But also, more organized and easier on the eyes, which is what I really meant by "pretty." The blue and the orange got to you, admit it. Also, I decided I wanted to delve into the wild world of uppercase letters. Oh yeah.
So. This will work the same way it did last time--I will post the last few entries from my previous site in order to acclimate my readership to the new place. Hopefully, all will go smoothly. Or as Andre3000 would say, smoofly. Please navigate to your heart's content. My links are kinda hidden over there on the right, but if you click around, you can find stuff.

tengo uno situacion con mi familia!

so i was watching advance warning on mtv...2 the other night. (you have to say it like ian robinson says it, with that pause and the devil horns: mtv...two. is it wrong that i have a mad mad crush on that bald doofy punk?) yeah. i've found that i can pretty much never watch music videos on regular mtv because the playlist seems to include crap, more crap and mc-crapitty-crap. mtv...2, on the other hand, while still deeply mired in craptacularity manages to sneak some good shit in from time to time. this episode of advance warning featured dizzee rascal (who is fucking awesome), lost prophets (who are okay, but have the worst name i've ever heard) and finally, joss stone, whose freshman album is kind of presumptuously named "the soul sessions." i wasn't sure what to make of her at first. she has an okay voice for that bluesy stuff. kind of an amalgam of fiona apple and allison krauss. right. then she starts talking normally and this girl is a) british and b) like 16 years old. and she looks like miss piggy. not unlike kelly clarkson, from whom joss stone has stolen her wardrobe (skinny scarf and all) as well as the set for her new video, a cover of the white stripes' "fell in love with a girl," re-born as, wait for it..."fell in love with a boy." yes. now i love the white stripes and i'm not afraid to tell you that this girl, joss stone's version? well...it SUCKS BALLS. oh my god, it was the biggest piece of crap i have heard in a long time and most definitely the worst cover i've heard since britney spears' "i love rock n' roll" but without the added benefit of seeing britney spears in a belly shirt.

fucking kids, man.

well, sorry doesn't put the triscuit crackers in my stomach, now does it, karl?

does anybody else think that johnny depp is sitting in a coffee house somewhere in france contemplating the existential hilarity of the acting genius of donnie brasco, edward scissorhands and what's eating gilbert grape winning a screen actor's guild award for pirates of the carribbean: the curse of the black pearl?

in other news governor schwarzenegger has made a statement asserting that though constitutionally prohibited, foreign-born american citizens who have lived in the country for a long period of time should be eligible for the presidency. the governor then went on to cite war criminal and devious mastermind henry kissinger as an example of that foreign-born political goodness. while i would tend to agree that denying the pursuit of the highest office of a nation built by fucking immigrants to slightly newer immigrants is arguable, i'd like to say that the best argument for keeping this one on the books is that is guarantees a future in which i will never have to refer to governor schwarzenegger as "president schwarzenegger."

you're a wee puppet man!

oh my god! Spot, the White House Dog died! That would be so sad were it not for the fact that I DON'T FUCKING CARE ABOUT PRESIDENT BUSH'S DOG.

well they have god on their side, summer. i'm not gonna beat jesus.

i am so glad to see that one of my favorite news sources shares my immense love for the hotarity (yeah, i made that word up. hot + hilarity) that is the seth cohen. it never fails to please me when my worlds collide.