Mad Merry Maudlin

Have You Ever Been To A Turkish Bath?

2012-02-03T15:16:00.002-05:00

In preparation for submitting Erik the Swede's green card application, we're going through a list of questions that he has to answer.

You know, just... standard ones.

"Do you intend to engaged in the United States in espionage?"

"Have you EVER been a member of the Communist Party?"

"Do you plan to practice polygamy in the United States?" ("Of course not!" says EtS, looking shiftily in my direction.)

"Have you EVER ordered, incited or committed acts involving torture or genocide?"

And my favorite:

"During the period from March 23 1933 to May 8 1945, were you in any way associated with either the Nazi Government of Germany or any organization or government associated or allied with the Nazi Government of Germany?"

Of course, then we had to look up what exactly happened on March 23, 1933, to make it so special. Apparently it was when good ol' Chancellor Adolf Hitler established his dictatorship. Thanks Wikipedia!

In Other News, I've Created Fire

2012-01-25T09:31:00.003-05:00

Erik the Swede and I are in the process of moving into our new apartment. It has... pretty much reduced us to an animal-like state. Or maybe cavemen-like. So we're dirty, because we don't know where our shower products are packed, and we're hungry because we haven't made it to the store yet and the only food in the house is a piece of steak Mom gave us from their dinner (like feeding tiny starving woodland creatures -- "Oh, sweetie, go get our leftovers, they look so sad and hungry!") and three overripe bananas. And we keep having to come up with creative means to do things, because modern tools are unavailable to us. Yesterday I came back from work and our new bookshelf was completely set up and standing in the corner. EtS, lacking a hammer, had apparently put it together by banging the nails in with the bottom of our saucepan. Way to engineer, EtS!

I'm Sorry To Hear That Your Love Life Is Insane

2012-01-11T14:23:00.002-05:00

So Erik the Swede and I are kind of haphazardly trying to pick our first-dance song, since our actual song (you know, the one that we think of whenever we have to think of The One Song That Just Belongs To Us) isn't really suitable for a reception.

And being the researchy person I am, I was all "Hey! I'll do a Google Search!"

Wow, kids. I'm having a hard time finding a song that fits the theme of "We finally got together after years of way-across-the-ocean dating, and also he's Swedish."

On the upside, I have found numerous lists devoted to the following queries:

What are some songs about wanting to be together?
What are some songs about fighting for your love?
What are some songs about convincing someone to be with you?
What are some songs about sleeping with your ex-boyfriend?
What are some songs about being in love with your boyfriend's brother?
What are some songs about being in love and apologizing after you took it too far?
What are some songs about being in love but knowing it's wrong?
What are some songs about being in love but being ignored and hating it?
What are some songs about loving female soldiers?
What are some songs about anti-military love?
What are some songs about being in love with your friend but she thinks of you as a sister?

God bless the internet -- how did anyone find anything out twenty years ago?

But Do We Really Want A Purple Summer?

2011-12-15T23:22:00.001-05:00

n00bie!r00mie and I went this evening to a performance of Spring Awakening, which she had never seen before. (Terrible, but true!) We had been planning on lying about our current student status and getting discount tickets, but no subterfuge was necessary, because due to being the first ones there we were asked to usher, which granted us free, first-row seats. Never one to turn down things that start with the word “free,” I ushed like it was my job, and absolutely no one was left milling around unable to find their correct spot prior to the performance. Good job me!

I do really love the musical—it’s all full of drama and angst and more drama and more angst and some extra angst and a side of angst. However, it will never be “RENT for the next generation!” Or maybe it is, and I’m just really out of touch with the current generation? Seriously, though, I love RENT with all my heart and soul, and for all that there is no way in hell I will ever be living the bohemian, drug-addled life of a squatting New York artist, those songs spoke to a very deep, visceral part of me. I identified with the sentiments that the various AIDS-ridden, impoverished characters were singing. Seize the day, kids! Live each moment like you’re about to keel over! YES!

But there’s a difference between a group of nineteen-and-up adults, who for all that they’re making poor choices and potentially not living up to their full potential, are at least... living each day the best they can.... between them and a group of horny teenagers who spend their entire time on stage whining about how they can’t trust anyone over the age of eighteen, manipulating one another, and raping their more innocent peers. Rape, guys. I don’t care that she says “yes,” if she doesn’t know what a penis is, she isn’t mentally equipped to consent. MELCHIOR IT IS HER BODY HER CHOICE YOU SICK BASTARD!

...

Anyway, in summary I’m not sure where I was going with this particular rant. It was a lot of fun, and I’m going to be humming songs about masturbation all night, which is a shame, because I’m also trying to proof for +bookstore+ and the two things don’t really mesh all that well together.

The Bronx Is Somewhere... We Haven't Found It Yet...

2011-11-19T16:13:00.004-05:00

Toi, Pomme and n00bie!r00mie decided to to have a crazy girl weekend at Pomme's, as she lives in a Large City and thus is closest to things that crazy girls would want to do on a crazy girl weekend.

We've been here for about 24 hours. Let's run down what we've accomplished so far.

5:00pm -- Pomme still at work. n00bie!r00mie not yet managed to find a parking spot for her car. Toi and I busy watching Parks & Rec.

6:00pm -- n00bie!r00mie not yet managed to find a parking spot for her car. Toi, Pomme and I busy watching Parks & Rec.

7:00pm -- n00bie!r00mie meets us at a restaurant for dinner. Chicken club wraps and water consumed by all.

8:00pm -- Train ride to the grocery store. Purchased dried apple slices, avocados, chocolate bars, Diet Coke, bagels and Nutella.

9:00pm -- Everyone lounging while watching Parks & Rec. Toi and I reading "Game of Thrones" and "Riddle-Master of Hed," respectively.

11:00pm -- Everyone lounging while watching Downton Abbey. n00bie!r00mie consuming small amounts of pineapple rum.

3:00am -- We all pass out with Downton Abbey still playing in the background.

11:00am -- Everyone drags themselves out of bed. Resume watching Downton Abbey. n00bie!r00mie breaks out a box of Kix. Pomme makes coffee.

4:00pm (ie now) -- Parks & Rec back on. Toi making guacamole.

And... that's as far as we've gotten.

But don't fear! There has been serious discussion about Going Out For Dinner. And who knows what kind of wacky hijinks we might get up to at that point?!

Let Nothing Be Wasted

2011-10-31T22:31:00.006-04:00

Mom and I were standing in my room (which is newly cleaned -- apparently I have a floor!!) discussing this and that, when she suddenly realized that we will be going to my Grandma and Grandpa's next week for my bridal shower.

Mom: Oh, that's in just a few days! I haven't gotten you a present yet!

Me: Mom, you don't need to get me a present....

Mom: No I do. I do. What will I get you? Hmm. Maybe I could give you the mixer.

Me: The mixer that you gave me for my wedding? The surprise mixer?

Mom: Is it in your storage unit? I'll need your keys....

Guys, this bodes ill. My mom is a great one for reusing, and if she starts deciding that she can bring back the mixer as an all-purpose gift until my actual wedding, I'm going to be in trouble. ("Shit. Your birthday is coming up. Monica, you remember that mixer I gave you for your shower and for Christmas?")

In other news, my Emma Frost costume was brilliant in every possible way. You should have seen me. Equally Gorgeous Co-Worker outdid herself--she not only made my boots and refitted my corset, but she somehow convinced my wig to stop looking like the bastard lovechild of Donald Trump and Dolly Parton, and actually be fairly presentable. Clearly her mutant power is Awesomeness.

Not Really A Bad Romance...

2011-10-25T22:16:00.002-04:00

ERIK THE SWEDE GOT HIS VISA!

I AM THIS MUCH EXCITED!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

This Plan Is Doomed From The Start

2011-10-21T21:58:00.003-04:00

Friends. I have somehow been convinced by Enviably and Equally Gorgeous Co-workers that out of all the possible X-Men characters -- because that's what our group is going as for Halloween -- that out of all the women of the X-Men, really the best option for me would be to go as Emma Frost.

Yup, Emma Frost.

Emma.

Frost.

Okay!! I can do this!!

So in preparation, I have purchased the loveliest blond wig, which I have named Lola.

Behold her in all her glory, atop my disco ball:

Now I want you to know that I spent a reasonable amount of time trapped at the costume store, dodging children picking out vampire fangs and teens picking out everything from slutty nurse outfits to slutty fireman outfits, in order to find exactly the right style of wig.

Lola, according to the packaging, is supposed to make me look like this:

Rather unfortunately, Lola actually makes me look more like a Transvestite Donald Trump. But Equally has promised that she'll help me beat it into shape, as soon as she's finished sewing my thigh-high boot tops.

When The Bombshell Hits, I Get Epileptic Fits

2011-10-02T23:00:00.002-04:00

As often happens, a discussion with my mother about the town of Marion, Indiana prompted the following incredibly urgent conversation, which I have transcribed word-for-word for your reading pleasure.

::: phone ringing :::

Roomie!Ann: Hey! Haven't talked to you in a while!

Me: Roomie!Ann. Thank God. Okay, it's 1967.

Roomie!Ann: Uh-huh.

Me: And we're both men.

R!A: Yup.

Me: And we've both been drafted.

R!A: Gotcha.

Me: So could I count on you to go in front of the draft board, with me, to claim that we are in a homosexual relationship and thus unfit for duty?

R!A: ...

Me: We might need to make out. I'm not sure what they require for proof.

R!A: ...

Me: Why are you hesitating?! Do you want to get sent to 'Nam?!

R!A: Monica, why?

Me: ROOMIE!ANN DO YOU HAVE MY BACK!?!?!?

R!A: I... yes. Yes, I would. Um. Yes.

Me: Oh thank God. I knew I could count on you. Okay, I have to go. Prohibition is on.

::: click :::

Phew. That was a close one. I didn't want to have to hack off a trigger finger with a diamond-tipped granite-cutting saw.

Je Suis Désolé, Dave.

2011-09-22T11:13:00.000-04:00

In an attempt to spiff up my TomTom, I decided to download some new voices, so that I could be directed to my destination by the dulcet tones of Captain Jack Sparrow himself.

Unfortunately, apparently not having access to any of the software from my hand-me-down GPS meant that I needed to troll the seedy underbelly of the internets for these downloads. And when I attempted to actually put the new voices onto the machine... I somehow managed to wipe all the available languages (namely English, English, and more English), leaving me with nothing but French, which is what the machine was set to as I was messing with it.

...

It's not as big a handicap as you would think. TomTom, now renamed ChouChou, is quite a bit less irritating when he's speaking to me in a foreign language. The only real problem is that I'm never quite sure what he's telling me to do. This is not so much an issue when I'm navigating my own town--it becomes slightly handicapish, though, when I'm trying to get to places outside of my native soil.

Me: Where to now, ChouChou?!
ChouChou: Après six mètres, tournez à gauche.
Me: Turn left! Got it! Next!?
ChouChou: Suivre la première sortie.
Me: First exit! Okay!
ChouChou: Vous devez rouler plus vite, ou vous ne ferez pas le tour.
Me: Wait, what? What turn?
ChouChou: Rechercher les homme au chapeau jaune. Allez où il vous dit d'aller.
Me: The who in the yellow hat?!
ChouChou: Je ne peux plus vous aider. Initier la séquence d'autodestruction.

Mom keeps threatening to get me a new GPS, but I sort of like the constant thrill of not knowing where the hell you're being directed. It's like an adventure every time!

The Peeping Tom Of The Sciences

2011-09-21T01:55:00.001-04:00

So friends, recently I have been in the process of cleaning out my Inbox (Total emails: 4872, Unread emails: 1521) and it's a little bit like exploring an archaeological dig. A really strange, digital archaeological dig.

I'm finding reminders sent from my junior-year grammar teacher saying "Don't forget, your meeting with me is at noon tomorrow!" followed by subsequent and rather tragic ones that say things like "Monica, it is noon and you are not here! I do not want to fail you but it might have to happen!"

I'm pulling up notes from my Neopet cheerfully informing me that he is checking out of his Neopet Hotel, enjoyed his stay, and hopes I will come play with him soon! (I think he's dead now. Do Neopets die if you don't play with them in ten years?)

There are flight number verifications from the trip to Ireland I took with Toi, bridal shower plans for Liz's wedding, poems that I wrote while in my high school journalism lab and sent to myself, and endless Buy This Product And Enhance Your Penis ads that somehow slipped past my spam filter.

Really, if nothing else, this should provide example to all y'all why sometimes I don't reply to emails It's not that I'm ignoring them, it's that they're running free amongst their unread friends! And don't you want your emails to be happy and wild and unfettered by being opened?! Of course you do.

Bring The Fattened Calf And Kill It

2011-09-07T02:08:00.001-04:00

Spoke too soon, guys!

Joey wasn't eaten by my cat, or seen escaping on motorcycle towards an intimidating-looking barbed wire fence whilst being hunted by Nazis!

He simply decided to go for a walk!

Found him about an inch away from the ceiling, right at the edge of the door. That's about thirty-five feet from his tank, if you assume he had to crawl out, over the couch, up the wall and around the periphery of the room, all the while dodging fat but still potentially lethal felines.

I'd be impressed, but I can't figure out how the hell to get him down without using a broom....

Release The Hounds

2011-09-06T21:58:00.002-04:00

Tragic news, Faithful!Readers.

After approximately twelve hours of laughter and tears, Joey the Katydid staged a daring nighttime escape, using his magnificently creepy bug-like powers of strength to apparently either lift the lid of his aquarium, or squeeze his entire body through the approximately half-inch air hold at the top of the tank (which, as I explained to Mom, would sort of be like if I managed to get my head through a hole in a chain-link fence).

I am inconsolable. Mom appears vaguely squicked out.

One can only assume he is now on the run, like so many of his insect brethren before him.

Too Many From The Human Standpoint

2011-09-05T10:25:00.006-04:00

Mom and I celebrated Labor Day in our traditional fashion, namely by going on an annual city-wide walk that consists mainly of me dragging my feet and whining about how it's seven in the morning on a vacation day and even God isn't awake yet, and of Mom deciding that's it's actually a city-wide race and taking off at top speed-walker speed whilst occasionally trampling elderly ladies who foolishly thought they could stroll rather than sprint. But as per the usual, I eventually woke up and Mom eventually sort of kind of not really slowed down, and it all ended well.

So we got home at about 9:30am, and what should we find on our garage door but the world's largest katydid. Seriously, he was a monster.

I decided that we needed to keep him. Mom decided we needed to name him Joey.

So we sprang into action like cheetahs on trampolines!

First, we had to do research. Google informed us that Joey would eat romaine lettuce, oats, honey and soy powder, that he could live for up to three months in captivity depending on when exactly we captured him, and that he was actually a she (as evidenced by the hook-like ovipositor on his backside). Facts! Got them!

Next, we had to set up the terrarium. A quick visit to the basement saw me clutching a former betta tank with a tiny little heat lamp. I foraged around outside for sticks, rocks, and a big pinecone. We laid down some potting soil too, so his little feet wouldn't slip on the plastic bottom.

Then, we needed to get him food. We picked him some nice basil from the garden, and Mom got some him lettuce (which will provide no real nutrients, but might serve as a sort of leafy water dish).

IT WAS THE BEST HOME EVER!!!

At that point, all we needed to do was head outside and actually capture him. He was really, really easy to catch -- I just held the tank up next to him and bumped him with the side, and he tumbled right in to the bottom.

...

And stayed there.

...

And stayed there.

...

It has been about thirty minutes, and despite our best efforts--which included gesturing towards his tasty basil in case he'd missed it, singing him personalized little songs ("K-k-k-katydid, beautiful katydid, you're the only bug that we adooooore!"), and poking him with sticks--he has remained half-buried in dirt at the bottom of the tank.

He may, in retrospect, have been dead prior to capture.

Poor Joey.

UPDATE:

Just as all had been given up for lost, Joey suddenly twitched all over and began to busily clean his feet. Which, coincidentally, is where katydids keep their ears. "It just goes to show that they're not dead 'til they're warm and dead!" caroled Mom, dispensing some sort of creepy ER-type adage, while I cheered wildly and began to think about how best to package this idea and sell it to Disney for their next feel-good film.

Law & Order: Heavenly Host Edition

2011-08-26T09:26:00.003-04:00

As you may remember, my church recently decided to install a couple of gigantic screens at the front of the building, so that whilst singing and listening to readings and reflecting on the nature of their very souls, the congregation can also be entertained by various Inspirational PowerPoint Images.

This is super hard for me and, to a lesser extent, my mother, because the images they choose to project are inevitably ridiculous. And then we end up spending so long staring at them that we lose track of the rest of Mass, and everything basically goes to hell, which is pretty much the exact opposite of what we're aiming to do at church.

For the past couple of weeks, they've chosen to paste the lyrics of the closing song over one particular image, which I have finally managed to track down. It's harder than you'd imagine -- searches like "Really Bizarre Religious Photo With Jesus And A Dove And Some Old Guy Who Presumably Is God But Maybe Is An Elderly Rasputin" don't turn up many results.

But behold, guys!

Yes. Yes, it's exactly what it looks like.

Jesus and God are looking on as a number of tiny cherub children are being crushed to death slowly beneath what appears to be either a gigantic adamantium bowling ball, or a representation of the world after a cataclysmic planet-wide oil spill. The cherubs are all "Jesus why?!" and He's like, "You can't expect Me to be holding heavy things with these holes through My hands, do you?"

The cherubs' little buddies, in the meantime, have been buried up to their necks in sand and/or cloud stuff and can only look on in horror, wondering what other terrors the Lord of Lords has in store. Oh, except for the ones hanging out over God's shoulder, who clearly have been sucking up to the Big Man and thus aren't forced to do anything other than float and look decapitated.

I'm steering clear of the ones over Jesus' shoulder, because they appear to actually be minions of Satan. Seriously, do you see that one with the holes for eyes and the crazy, I-will-devour-your-soul mouth? Jesus, I do not think You should be hanging around with these kinds of kids....

These Are People Of The Land

2011-08-24T00:13:00.000-04:00

So as you know, I occasionally like to sit back and see exactly what searches are bringing readers to my humble blog. I like to think it helps me put my finger on the pulse of all y'all. Helps me know my people. My audience. And, as per the usual, I have been forced to accept the fact that the vast majority of you seem to have serious problems.

Some of the more notable searches this month are below. See if you can pick out a theme. (Who knew one little post would cause such an uproar?)

the antennae! shoot the antennae
uvula piercing
thoroughbred or evil (I imagine it is much like cake or death)
?the antennae! shoot the antennae!?
mithril nipple clamps
uvula ring
worms inside people (don't do this search, guys - you don't want to know)
i feel like a spiny little hedgehog
uvula tumor
uvula piercing
lady cottington
the antennae! shoot the antennae!
www.sex dipi vidios zimbam be (they were searching from Poland - I'm so international!)
jesus weeping mary and martha
rabies
uvula piercing
uvula ulcer

Readers, I'm picking up what you're laying down. It makes sense to me now. What this blog needs is more uvula.

Allow me to present you with this painstakingly copied-from-another-blog picture. It's of a lemming. Walking into an alligator's uvula. I believe he has been eaten whilst attempting to retrieve a fishing pole. The lemming, not the alligator.

Please, take the uvula and be placated!

The World Was Crumbling Around Him And Anything Could Happen.

2011-08-21T17:43:00.007-04:00

My mom has decided that for my wedding, she will be getting me a Big Girl mixer, with bread-kneading attachments and everything, which I will presumably name and cuddle and love forever, whilst Erik the Swede actually uses it. For baking. But anyway, it's going to be a surprise gift, so she has been being super stealthy about the whole thing.

"Monica, I'm going to get you a mixer. But I want you to be surprised about it."

"Oh. Okay."

There were some key informational bits that she needed my input on, though, so she brought it up really sneakily in conversation.

"Here, look at this link online. They're having a sale at Kohls and I can get your surprise mixer for half off. Do you think Erik the Swede would be okay if it was pink? Because it looks like that's the only color they're offering."

"I won't be okay with it if it's not pink!"

Then, while I was at work, she went shopping, occasionally sending me coded texts.

"No pink mixers. Shiny silver or black?"

"Those are boooooooring! I want pink! Or orange!"

"They don't have pink. Silver or black?"

"Silver, I guess, but I want pink mixing bowls."

"Nothing pink."

Her follow-up text, several hours later, read: "Dad and I are gone for the rest of the day. Don't look at your mixer - It's a surprise."

Luckily, she had it put away in the middle of our kitchen floor right in front of the garage entrance, so it was really easy for me not to notice it.

I don't know, guys. You might have to help me practice my shocked face, despite Mom's best efforts at this whole secretive thing. It's like the cat wasn't even put in the bag to start with.

So, Who's Thirsty?!

2011-08-20T22:22:00.004-04:00

Can we discuss how I am not a doctor-type person? Regardless of the fields my various family members have chosen to go into (and here I mean job sorts of fields, not fields filled with corn) (although corn fields are awesome, y’all, and frequently also contain ghost baseball players and/or elaborate government facilities that may or may not be used for alien experiments) I think diseases are squicky and sick people are people who should not be anywhere near me.

Which is why I’m not sure why I’ve spent the past half hour learning about the guinea worm. Guinea worms, guys, are wrong in so many ways, and are perhaps further demonstration of why we should all be really obscenely grateful that we had the sheer luck of being born in a country where the majority of us don’t need to use one mass water source for bathing, drinking, washing, disposing of waste, and caring for our animals.

So what happens is that the guinea worm larvae, which are hanging out in the water, latch themselves on to tiny little water fleas things. Then you drink the water, and the fleas, and the larvae. The fleas get dissolved because of all your digestive juices and whatnot, but the larvae are still totally fine, and the little bastards crawl around inside your body and mate, and the male guinea worm dies, and the female starts burrowing into you to find a nice safe place to relax, like your foot, or your hip, or the connective tissue in your shoulder, or your eye. So then ONE YEAR LATER, this huge boil shows up somewhere on your body, and surprise! It’s your guinea worm, releasing acid into your skin so it can burn a tunnel to the surface! And since it’s several feet long and as thick as a piece of spaghetti, it stings a little. So you run to the nearest water source, the worm bursts out of you like silly string, and it sprays larvae all over the water. Larvae which head off to find more water bugs to chill out on for a while.

I could have gone my whole life without knowing this, how about you? Right? But I can’t tear my eyes away! Someone stop me! Stop me before I learn more about parasites! Stop me before... what... no! No, botflies, no!! Oh, God, she hears them chewing on her head!

Eeuw. Having just watched that video, I don’t know if I love anyone that much. Erik the Swede, please don’t ever get a botfly in your head. Or anywhere else. I will not be this calm.

(Far away, tearing her eyes away from the computer screen, Roomie!Ann sighs. She used to have to put up with conversations like this all the time. You'll never be free, Roomie!Ann. Accept it now.)

I Am No Bird, And No Net Ensnares Me

2011-08-19T21:13:00.003-04:00

Y'all, you have failed me. Where were you? Where were you today, when I said to myself, "Self, I'm by myself for the evening, I should watch a movie! Something romantic! Something with beautiful costumes! Something like... Jane Eyre!"

Clearly, I needed one of you to remind me that whilst it is indeed an uber-romantic romancey romance, it's also a TERRIFYING GOTHIC HORRORFEST, with Screaming Sleepwalking Children and Evil Cackling Crazed Wives and overall Darkness and Despair, all of which have left poor me cowering in my echoing, empty house, convinced that behind every curtain lurks a madwoman with terrible hair ready to tear my wedding veil into little shreds and then set my bed on fire. Bitch.

But seriously, what is this?!

Good God.

I'm officially staying up for the next three hours watching Say Yes To The Dress and humming Disney tunes, because there is no way I'm going to bed with that crazy running around in my brain....

Advises Justly, Assists Readily, Defends Courageously

2011-08-14T01:47:00.003-04:00

Over the course of the past couple of weeks, I've had numerous people cancel / be unable to attend Equally Gorgeous Co-Worker's wedding with me. It was a tragedy, because as Kiker can attest I absolutely loathe going to weddings by myself when my silly fiance is off gallivanting around on the wrong side of the ocean. Plus, there was a tiny detail about this particular wedding that I'll get more into later, that sort of required I have a date.

Anyway, very late on last Thursday afternoon, inspiration struck. n00bie!r00mie! She'll go to a wedding with me! It's open bar and there's a chance they'll play Adele! Perfect!! So I give her a call, confirm her availability, and agree to pick her up on Saturday, which rolled around today, as it were.

"So this wedding," I text her this morning, "it's... it's about an hour away. So I'll need to pick you up kind of early." Which is totally okay, because what else did she have going on. As she got into the front seat, though, she seemed a little nervous at the way I immediately locked the car doors. And began to accelerate. Rapidly. Once we were a safe distance from her house, I handed her a binder.

Me: Okay, so there are a couple of things I need to do for this wedding before it actually starts.

n00bie!r00mie: This is a binder. A literal binder. Of instructions. Good Christ, are these color photos of table settings?

Me: No, no, it'll totally be okay. We're getting there three hours early--

n!r: How early?!

Me: --and all we have to do is set up the chairs and put on the tablecloths and the table runners (two per table), and get the centerpieces set up for each table, and make sure all the tea lights are lit. The binder explains the whole thing.

n!r: That's... okay. I guess. There's a bar, right?

Me: Right! Although we won't be able to get to it right away, because after getting the tables set up, we have to strew skipping stones and crystals around all the surfaces, and also get the main table put together, including the four-foot-tall tree centerpiece, which will require that we shove test tubes into these little wire hangers that are precariously twisted onto dead branches... and then I think we fill them with water, and weigh the whole thing down with beanbags. It's in the binder.

n!r: I don't even. You realize it's also pouring rain, right?

Me: And then after that, we need to set up the guestbook area, which is another tree, but this one we need to hang with twine and get each individual name tag pinned to it in alphabetical order, and make sure that the instructions for it are set up, next to some family photos, and the card basket. There need to be rocks over there too. Oh! And more tea lights! Then I think we're in charge of putting sashes on all the chairs... she wants them to be tied to every third one, so it's kind of staggered. She might need streamers and fake flowers hung from the wedding gazebo too. That should be in the binder.

n!r: I wish I could hate you to death.

Me: But then we're done! Except for dealing with the caterers. And helping out when they light paper lanterns. And taking photos of everyone as they walk into the tent. And directing them to their seats. And making sure the centerpieces stay upright. And double checking the headcount to make sure that the tables are organized correctly, and putting candles in the bathrooms, and hanging even more tea lights from apple trees using the ladder they're providing. And maybe taking the cake topper home? We'll have to check the binder. But then we're done!

n!r: There is not enough vodka in the world for this. Seriously. You owe me more than I can coherently articulate.

To be fair, I hadn't actually realized the extent of my Aid to the Bride until Thursday (before that, I'd been laboring under the impression that my primary purpose in attending the wedding was to take photos and look pretty), so really n00bie!r00mie found out at ALMOST the same time as me. Which makes it not so much Evil Trickery as Helping a Friend, right? Right!

(The wedding, as an aside, was beautiful. I clearly should have worn waterproof mascara, because damn them, they were so adorable it was totally unbearable.)

So, So Unneccessary

2011-08-11T13:08:00.001-04:00

So, I've been thinking more and more seriously about getting on Tumblr. Someone needs to talk me out of this. I don't need to be on Tumblr. I don't have time to be on Tumblr. The only way it will benefit me at all is that I'll have an actual page to save all my ridiculous .gifs to, so that I can stop taking up space on my hard drive.

...

Well, and I'll also have a legitimate reason to post hysterical pictures.

But no! This is not a good enough reason! So, Tumblr folks? Tell me all the reasons I do not need to join your cult of pictures and tiny little blurbs.

Why Isn't It Ever Unfair In My Favor?

2011-08-10T17:27:00.003-04:00

I came to the realization the other day, while discussing Narnia fanfiction with my mother (why is it all incesty, nine times out of ten?), the real and true fact that I had an unfair childhood.

"But Monica," you might say. "This is a lie. Although it's indeed accurate that you were never allowed to have a pony, which is basically a crime against humanity. But aside from that, what was so bad?"

Let me tell you, friends. The cold fact of the matter is that when my mother used to settle her children down for a night of bedtime stories, Bee and I would divide up the characters, so that we'd "be" certain ones. For reasons beyond my control (perhaps centered around the fact that my sister occasionally would bite) I inevitably ended up having super sucky characters to "be."

Like the aforementioned magical world of Narnia. When we read those books, I ended up as Peter and Susan. That's right. Neither of them went on past the second book, except for the last title in the series, where Susan doesn't get into heaven at the end, because she's too worldly. So that sucks.

And then when we hit Little Women, I was Meg and Beth. The boring one who was in love with someone who wasn't Laurie, and the boring one who never left home and then died.

When we started going through the Little House books, I was Mary. Not Laura. Perfect, prissy Mary. Who eventually went blind. And then probably died alone... I'm not entirely sure of the details, but that seems accurate.

It even transcended stories! Bee and I were crazy about musicals, and Mom apparently had no qualms about her five- and seven-year-old daughters cavorting around the living room to Les Mis, singing lyrics like "Lovely ladies, smell 'em through the smoke! Seven days at sea can make you hungry for a poke! Even stokers need a little stoke!" Anyway, inevitably I ended up with the boy singers so that Bee could lay claim to all the girls. Mainly I was stupid Marius. Who we hated, because he was a fairly reprehensible person, and also not at all romantic. ("Thanks Eponine. I'll... I'll miss you a lot. In a really insincere way.")

In summary, Mom and Bee, my early years were filled with misery and blah character development, and in recompense y'all should get me this poster of Johnny Depp:

I Feel Like We've Been Led Astray

2011-08-08T10:28:00.001-04:00

Erik the Swede and I, being responsible-type people, are going through the religious classes required by my church if we want to be married. (Sign that you've found a good future-husband? His willingness to sit through and subsequently discuss hours and hours of videos and worksheets centered around something he doesn't actually believe in. Aws.) After each lesson--we're doing this online, you understand--there's a quiz. We need to pass the quiz by a certain percentage each time, or we "fail" and need to rewatch the lesson.

This weekend our video was on Human Sexuality, which I found particularly difficult to sit through because of the tragic way I suffer from having the maturity level of a twelve-year-old boy. But we braved through it, and hit the quiz, and nailed it (if you will). There was no way we didn't pass this one with flying colors. There's no way we got even one wrong.

...

Or was there?

What the hell, Wedding Prep Class? You can't say that there's no wrong answer, and then mark it wrong! What kind of religious response is that?! Not to mention, our answer to the question is completely factual -- do you know how early EtS gets up in the morning? Really effing early! Like, before the sun is up! So he can make oatmeal! I don't play that game, Prep Class, so you'll just have to deal with me not Starting the Day with my Husband until my alarm has gone off six or seven times and the coffee has already been made.

She's Just A Girl

2011-08-06T21:35:00.002-04:00

Mom and I went to pick up my (incredibly, ridiculously gorgeous) wedding dress from the store this afternoon, as we had been notified it was ready despite the fact that we had also been notified, two weeks ago, that we needed to order our dress right now as it would take at least three months for it to arrive. But behold! They were hypothetically exaggerating so that we wouldn’t keep shopping around!

Anyway, the dress was just as incredibly, ridiculously gorgeous as I remembered, and they let me try it on so that I could twirl like a little girl in front of the mirror. Look at the bodice! Look at the skirt! Look at the—what the hell? Why is my hem five inches shorter on one side? Why is my dress not perfect?!?!

But I were brave, and I did not go all Bridezilla right there on the spot, and we calmly waved over a sales associate who *equally* calmly yanked on the hem of the dress as though through sheer willpower she could wrench it back into its original position. She called over her supervisor, who informed us sadly that we would need to come back later in the week to talk to the owner. So Mom and I drooped back to the changing room to take off my incredibly, ridiculous gorgeous dress, drooped past my original salesgirl, who was grouped around the rest of the sales staff looking in our direction, making swooping motions with her hand and saying “Cut across like this,” and drooped to the car. Sad face, guys. Sad face.

Upside, y’all, XPhile!Kaye and I just saw a fantasmic Michael Jackson impersonator. He was epic, guys. Towards the end, he hauled a couple of kids up on stage towards the end, and those kids will clearly believe, until the day they die, that they got to dance on stage with the actual Michael Jackson. So cute. (Downside, those same kids totally knew how to do the Thriller dance. Why do I not know how to do the Thriller dance? Obviously this must be remedied.)

I Know What I Am

2011-08-03T22:48:00.003-04:00

Y'all, I am overtired. Like, seriously overtired. I have not gone on so little sleep for so many days in a row since my glorious college years, when Roomie!Ann would crawl out of bed at four in the morning, following the sounds of my frantic paper-writing typing, and attempt to throw a blanket over my head in the hopes that, like a bird, I would suddenly think (realize?) that it was night time.

But it's so worth it, because this last night of no sleep came with the sweet reward of GRADUATION! Or at least, EXPECTED GRADUATION! As long as a panel of my teachers approve the massive ePortfolio I have just pulled together in a crazed overnight HTML-formatting party, I'll be good to go by the end of August. Farewell, Liberry Skool! I shall be a librarian!

A comatose librarian, but one can't complain.

In completely unrelated and sleep-deprived news, Kiker and I were all excited, because she had seen on TV that there was going to be a show coming up called "Addicted to Babies." Clearly, this was something we needed to watch, as it calls to mind episodes of "Hoarders," only instead of canning jars and wicker baskets and dead cats, it would showcase people who stack cheerful drooling infants twelve-deep in their garage. It had the potential to be even better than our previous favorite show, "Addicted to Life-sized Realistic Dolls, Whom We Treat As Surrogate Mothers and Girlfriends," which we watched like it was our job.

Unfortunately, closer examination revealed that the actual title of the show was "Baby Addicts," an investigative report about pain pill-addicted infants crowding Florida hospitals. That’s... less fun. We may still check it out, though.

It Seemed Like A Good Idea At The Time

2011-07-27T10:23:00.004-04:00

Sorry guys -- I'm posting this as I'm simultaneously watching and taking notes on a video lecture for class, so if I seem a little... disjointed... that's probably why.

...

Multi-tasking for the win!

Equally Gorgeous Co-Worker's wedding is coming right up, so she and Card Shark decided to hold a ~~bridal~~ wedding shower for friends who were in town. I only know one of these friends (Enviably Gorgeous Co-Worker) so I was a little nervous about the whole hanging-out-with-strangers thing.

It was crazy, friends. At one point Enviably was attempting to climb me, like a ladder, so that she could shove a joint up my nose. (Short people are so cute.) And since it was a Mexican-Themed Party, the tequila was flowing quite vigorously, which is (I expect) the reason that a homemade slip and slide seemed like a great idea. A slip and slide down a steep hill. A steep, apparently gravel-lined hill. I have never seen so many people bleeding at the same time, guys, at least not right in front of me. It looked like the entire party had been mauled by bears. Angry, angry bears. The slip and slide was practically running red, which is the excuse I used when they wanted me to play on it too. Because no, kids. Monica is not a friend of the Hepatitis.

After everyone was exhausted and weak from blood loss, one of the party-goers remembered that we had a pinata! So we set off to the garage, where it had been fastened to a nearby tree.

The pinata, as far as I could tell, was made of steel. Or else it was actively evading us. First, we hit it with a broom. The broom broke. And half of it shattered the garage window. No matter! We hit it with a metal pole they found lying around the area! The pole broke. And little rusty metal fragments flew in all directions. Okay! We hit it with a shovel! The shovel had no effect. We hit it again! All it did was knock the pinata down, without actually breaking it. So finally, as a group effort, the entire party converged on the poor thing and beat it into submission with whatever we happened to have on hand. Victory!

It was at this point that we realized it was a hot, hot summer day. And that whomever had filled the pinata had apparently done so with chocolate and pixie sticks. Most of which were unwrapped and open, either because that's how it was originally, or because the numerous beatings had torn the wrappers off. As a result, it looked sort of like we had killed an actual donkey, which was leaking its internal organs all over the driveway in a severely disturbing fashion. At which point we all kind of went "awww...." and poked vaguely at the chocolate with our feet and retreated back to the aforementioned tequila and heavy, projectile-like bocce balls. Because we live dangerously.

So in summary, this is what I want my bridal shower to be like. Bee? Were you taking notes?

What's Between Us Isn't Infatuation. This Is Forever.

2011-07-12T12:52:00.003-04:00

Kids, I'm so... so sorry... but I missed June's Smut MadLibs.

Don't worry, though! We'll do July's early, so you won't need to go a second longer without the most classy, literary part of your month!

You can always refer back to February's initial post if you're unsure of the rules, though at this point, I'm a little ashamed of you if you're confused.

This month's selection comes from Nora Roberts' collection of stories, Once Upon a Kiss. Holly was kind enough to loan it to me, ostensibly for the purposes of this MadLib, but probably secretly just to get it off her shelf. Which I completely cannot understand. Anyway, the story features four stories, and... it was super difficult picking just one. Especially since one featured the line "I'm not a child. I'm a woman." ("Look at your life, look at your choices," was my automatic response.) But for you, guys, here we go:

(1) Verb, present tense
(2) Verb, present tense
(3) Adjective
(4) Body part
(5) Adjective
(6) Adjective
(7) Noun
(8) Emotion
(9) Verb, past tense
(10) Body part
(11) Noun
(12) Noun

*******
******
*****
****
***
**
*

She found what it was like to ____(1)____ and ____(2)____ that ____(3)____ bare ____(4)____ that had so mesmerized her before, and Tynon took his time discovering all the ____(5)____, ____(6)____ places of her glorious ____(7)____... Erinn moaned with ____(8)____ in the most satisfactory way, and when she ____(9)____ her fingers and her ____(10)____ to his ____(11)____, he thought he would explode with ____(12)____ (190).

I'm not going to lie, I'm really excited to see what he explodes with.... and yes, their names are actually Tynon and Erinn. I couldn't make that up, guys.

Magnifying It And Multiplying It

2011-07-11T01:06:00.003-04:00

Happy July, y'all! I apologize, as per the usual, for the long hiatus. I had things going on, though! Crazy, complicated things the likes of which leave no time for blogging!

For starters, Romance!Reader and n00bie!r00mie and I went on an epic-type adventure that included, in no particular order:

1) Coming within a foot of an uncaged elephant,
2) Walking through a completely unlit statue park at one in the morning whilst desperately trying not to blink,
3) Performing a vigorous rendition of Ring Around The Rosie in order to gain entrance to a bar,
4) Drinking beer that tasted like cheap incense,
5) Reading three-fourths of Shine out loud in the car, with each of us trying desperately to fake the appropriate accents, and
6) Learning that neither of my traveling companions knew who Caddie Woodlawn was. And don't say you don't know either, Faithful!Readers, because that's just sad. I'm not even providing you with a Wikipedia link -- you will look it up yourself and you will learn.

Epic, like I said.

I also moved out of my apartment, which my ~~wretched~~ beloved fiance was spared, due to the way he ran back to Sweden without me a month before our lease was up. (Erik the Swede! I love you! Call me!) I went out and bought a storage unit like a big girl, and I even managed to talk the crazy-eyed storage unit owner person into giving me a discount. (We had a long impassioned discussion about how the Government is Whittling Away our Rights to Do Things and Stuff, and by the end of it he and I were like besties.) It's probably too big a space, to be honest, but I'm absolute shit at Tetris and didn't have much confidence in my ability to fit a sofa next to a loveseat in front of a table on top of some chairs near a blender under a stool. No.

Kiker and Jeffiner were roped into helping, along with Mom, and by the end of it all four of us had decided that my belongings must multiply like rabbits because there is no way anyone could have so many boxes of things in an apartment they've only had for six months. I kept trying to insist that all of it was totally essential (Houseplant! Photo of Grandparents! Pyrex coffee cups that hit the ground like magnets when I drop them instead of shattering like all my other coffee cups!) while Jeffiner kept rolling her eyes and Kiker got all dreamy, like she was already imagining the next great Hoarders-esque purge of my room. You'd think she had completely forgotten where half of my apartment furniture came from.

As a result of the move, there are now bags and boxes from one end of my house (that's right, I moved home) to the other, restricting movement, collecting cat hair, and generally getting all up in everyone's business. Aw, parents. Aren't you glad to have me back?!

What Would Randy Say?

2011-06-29T20:26:00.007-04:00

So Bee, Mom and I decided to take the bull by the horns -- or perhaps the veil by the tulle -- and go wedding dress shopping this afternoon.

It was surprisingly fun! I've seen enough episodes of Say Yes To The Dress to know that wedding dress shopping can be a terrible experience filled with angry parents and weeping future brides. I was 100% prepped to come out of the dressing room, beaming, wearing the dress that I knew way deep down in my heart was the one, only to be met by the frantic sobs of my mother, who wanted me in something "more poofy," and the laughter of my sister, who thought it made me look like a pregnant hippo.

But no! Instead, I looked fantastic in almost everything! There were a few ones that just did not work at all, but luckily I had Bee along to tell me immediately whether or not the dress was a fail. She had strep throat too, the poor thing, which I think increased her agitation with some of the styles.

Me: How about this one? It's in our price range, and look! It spins!
Bee: Oh my god. Take it off. That is the ugliest thing I have ever seen ever. The beading looks like it was done by a trainee at a craft store. One who didn't know how to sew. And was using a Bedazzler.
Me: So that's a no, then?
Bee: Why, why are we still looking at this? It is an embarrassment to wedding dresses. They should pay you to wear it.
Mom: Honey, your sister is sick. Let's take this one--
Bee: This atrocity!
Mom: --this atrocity off, and get you into that cute A-line we were looking at a minute ago.

But we found a dress that met with absolute approval--two of them, actually, so I'll have to agonize over each of them until I'm sure I have the most perfectest of them all. And I'll buy it! And I will ignore the cries of the salespeople, who are trying to get me into their email list and can't understand why I don't have a date set. (Seriously, one poor girl almost wept. She just kept saying, "But... how can you not know?" Visas, darling. Visas.)

To Fall Into A Worse

2011-06-24T00:06:00.004-04:00

Baby!Bro just phoned me from the airport, exhausted and exasperated. Why, you might ask? Because of my mother.

Yes, it's true.

My mom, you see, has recently (and perhaps unintentionally) developed a bad habit of making her children think a disaster has occurred, so as to encourage them to call her. Please keep in mind that I speak to Mom at least three times a day. Between three and twelve times a day. At least twenty-seven times a day.

Case in point: Baby!Bro got off the airplane just a short while ago, and upon checking his phone was greeted by the words "CALL ME!?!?!?!?"

So Baby!Bro, in a panic, phones Mom. The following conversation occurs:

Mom: Hiiiiiii!
Baby!Bro: What happened? Is it something with Grandpa?!
Mom: What? No! I just wanted to talk to you! How was your trip?
Baby!Bro: Damn you.

I found this eerily reminiscent of last Tuesday, when I was having a Battlestar Galactica marathon with Holly and Anna. Since we were deeply involved in discussing Roslin/Adama shipping (on their part -- I'm Helo/Me, all the way!), I had my phone on vibrate. You can imagine my shock when I picked it up at the end of the evening and saw that I had three missed calls and two texts from Mom, the last one reading "Call me when you get this!?!?!?"

Mom: Hiiiiiiii!
Me: What happened?! Is Grandma okay!?!?!?
Mom: What? Yes, of course! I just wanted to see how your evening was going? Are you having a nice night?
Me: Damn you.

Baby!Bro and I have decided this is going to inevitably result in a sort of Boy Who Cried Wolf scenario, where poor Mom will find herself trapped under something heavy, and none of us will answer her cries for help. Mommy, you have been warned.

In other news, I managed to melt the lid of one of my plastic freezer containers in the dishwasher today. Have been huddled next to the screen door for the past several hours as a result, with the budgies, trying to cleanse the TOXIC PLASTIC FUMES from my lungs. Also, was I the only one who didn't realize there's a super-hot burny coil at the bottom of the dishwasher? I honest to God had no idea--for all I knew, it could have been a tiny subterranean dragon that made the Heated Dry hot. Lesson learned. Thanks, blistered fingers.

Just Fork It On Over

2011-06-17T11:49:00.002-04:00

It's not often that I tell you, Faithful Readers, that you should cough up cash for anything other than buying me an adorable hairless guinea pig, but today I figured I would use my powers of persuasion to try and get y'all to donate to what Mom and I have decided is something FANTASTIC.

Back in April, the town of Phil Campbell was completely torn apart by tornadoes.

So led by a gentleman named Phil Campbell, all the Phil Campbells of the world (and Jason Biggs, who plays someone named Phil Campbell in an upcoming movie) have united on the internet to raise money rebuild the town. Plus, they're holding a Phil Campbell convention in Alabama this weekend, where they will combine their Phil Campbell powers and all work on the reconstruction efforts.

So come on, friends! You can donate to the Phil-Campbell-specific Habitat for Humanity fund via PayPal or on the Crowdrise site, and rest secure in the knowledge that you're a really decent human being who appreciates interesting fundraisers.

In other news, I'm off today on a roadtrip to the heart of sort-of-America's-heartland to visit LauraBertram. I believe "epic" is the term that will best describe the entire adventure.

God, Why Does This Apartment Have Nothing Caffeinated In It!?

2011-06-01T22:40:00.004-04:00

I'm at hour... thirty something... of consciousness, and my eyeballs are falling out of my head, and I still have twenty minutes left in my terrible video lecture.

(Some people might suggest that, when you're trying to finish a large proofreading project the night before it's due, it's best not to begin a new television series, regardless of how awesome and/or readily available on YouTube it is, because then you stay up all night, have to go to work, and still have to finish the homework you weren't doing last night because of the aforementioned poor TV decisions.)

(But, you know, those people are boring.)

Come on, Monica! You can do this!!

That's Right. Undulated.

2011-05-31T23:54:00.002-04:00

It's the last day of the month, friends, and you know what that means....

Yes! Smut MadLibs! HUZZAH!!!

And just in time -- my Aunt Julie has apparently just visited this blog, and I can't think of a better way to introduce her to my classy writing style.

This month's choice of way-tasteful literature comes handpicked from Sampire, who actually previewed several novels before deciding on Sabrina Jeffries' How to Woo a Reluctant Lady. Clearly Sampire has excellent taste -- the back cover not only features the word "rakehell," but also includes the following plot twist: "Little does Lady Minerva Sharpe know, Giles Masters really is a covert government operative. When they team up to investigate the mystery behind her parents' deaths, their fake betrothal leads to red-hot desire." My lord! How scandalous!

As per the usual, refer back to February's initial post if you need a refresher on the rules.

Ready? Go!

(1) Noun
(2) Noun
(3) Body Part, Plural
(4) Gerund
(5) Verb, Present Tense
(6) Noun, Plural
(7) Adjective
(8) Verb, Past Tense
(9) Body Part, Plural

*******
******
*****
****
***
**
*

"And then she felt a ____(1)____ inside her ____(2)____, rising along her ____(3)____, ____(4)____ her senses, making her want and ____(5)____ and feel the most exquisite ____(6)____. His ____(7)____ gaze ____(8)____ her as she undulated against his ____(9)____." (189)

So? How'd it go for you this time? Did his spongy gaze befuddle her?

The Girls Down At The Office Make A Better Cup Of Coffee On Their Hot Plates

2011-05-26T16:47:00.004-04:00

Hello friends! (And readers I was unaware I had -- hi Mary!) I'm back from my self-imposed exile! It involved lots of cleaning, which is ridiculous. I don't normally feel the urge to tidy things and dust and, God help me, polish the furniture, so it seems an unlikely sort of thing for me to do whenever I get stressed. But upside, the apartment is sparkling, I've thrown away every high-calorie scrap of food in the house, and there's a happy new begonia sitting on the front porch. Well, it's not so happy at the moment; I think it wasn't designed to hold up well under a week of rain. So it's more of a drowned-rat begonia. I'm hoping it improves as the summer progresses.

Erik the Swede clearly has doubts about my ability to fend for myself in his absence. Right up to the point when he was going through security at the airport, he was still saying things like, "And remember, the dishwasher is dirty, so you'll need to run it in the next day or two" and "Don't forget to empty the kitchen trash can" and "I know you don't remember how to work the coffee maker, so I'll email you instructions." Damn him... I really don't know how to work the coffee maker, which is clearly a sign that I'm neglecting my duties as a woman.

Plus, he threw together "a couple of meals" for me, so that I wouldn't starve:

No biggie. It's just four servings per box of sausage and vegetable stew, some lasagna, and a garlic and basil pasta sauce. Oh, and a couple of loaves of sunflower and rye bread he baked.

...

As my Grandma is fond of pointing out, I will make anyone a good wife, because of my Happy Attitude and Cheerful Personality. Notice she says nothing about my Domestic Abilities. Clearly that's what I'm getting a husband for.

Stalkers, Your Time Is Now

2011-05-22T10:23:00.006-04:00

So friends, the time has come for me to take an Official Census. "But Monica," you might say, "be serious. You know who reads your blog, for the most part, and the people who silently stalk it are hardly likely to come out with it now, just because you've asked."

No, but seriously now, this is important. Cath told me this absolutely terrifying story about how she accidentally spoiled the surprise birthday party of one of her boyfriend's aunts, because SURPRISE!, apparently she had been secretly reading Cath's blog for the past three years. A completely unknown relative of her boyfriend's. Who had never been actually told about the blog. And now I've become all frightened about who might be lurking around here. (Oh, and as an addendum based upon my Aunt Katie's comment, it's not so much that I wouldn't be thrilled to have unknown people who love to read my haphazard, poorly-scheduled posts. Because I would. This is more to pin down exactly who those people are. You know. In case they are wallpapering a creepy shrine with printouts of my posts, and I need to alert the authorities.)

So 'fess up, friends! Comment like it's your job, and let me know who exactly I have among my Readership.

I'll leave the post up for a day or two -- Erik the Swede leaves tomorrow, so the rest of today will be filled with sighs and "I'll miss you -- I'll miss you more"s, and tomorrow will be filled with wailing and gnashing of teeth. But I should be recovered and back in action around Tuesday or so.

He Would Look Lovely With Sideburns!

2011-05-17T14:29:00.005-04:00

I've been trying to meet with my priest to discuss various marriage-related things, but he has been singularly unavailable. For example, he is currently on a two-week vacation, and also he has informed me that he has no evening times available to meet until pretty much the middle of August.

I feel that priests should not have a more active social life than me.

To add insult to injury, when responding to my most recent email, there was a note saying that he was writing from his iPad. His iPad. *I* don't have an iPad -- aren't there supposed to be vows of poverty and whatnot taking place, here!?

Grumble grumble grumble tech-savvy religious people making my life difficult.....

In other news, can we discuss how "Who had the best Civil War facial hair?" is possibly the best poll of all time? I'm leaning towards George Crook, but if you twist my arm I could be talked into Carter Littlepage Stevenson....

(Oh my God, best thought of all time -- we could vote which one Erik the Swede should grow his hair out to look like! Yes? Yes!!)

You Can Say Any Fool Thing To A Dog

2011-05-13T17:38:00.002-04:00

There is sorrow enough in the natural way
From men and women to fill our day;
And when we are certain of sorrow in store,
Why do we always arrange for more?
Brothers and sisters, I bid you beware
Of giving your heart to a dog to tear.

Buy a pup and your money will buy
Love unflinching that cannot lie--
Perfect passion and worship fed
By a kick in the ribs or a pat on the head.
Nevertheless it is hardly fair
To risk your heart to a dog to tear.

When the fourteen years which Nature permits
Are closing in asthma, or tumour, or fits,
And the vet's unspoken prescription runs
To lethal chambers or loaded guns,
Then you will find--it's your own affair--
But... you've given your heart to a dog to tear.

When the body that lived at your single will,
With its whimper of welcome, is stilled (how still!)
When the spirit that answered your every mood
Is gone--wherever it goes--for good,
You will discover how much you care,
And will give your heart to a dog to tear.

We've sorrow enough in the natural way,
When it comes to burying Christian clay.
Our loves are not given, but only lent,
At compound interest of cent per cent.
Though it is not always the case, I believe,
That the longer we've kept 'em, the more do we grieve:
For, when debts are payable, right or wrong,
A short-term loan is as bad as a long--
So why in Heaven (before we are there)
Should we give our hearts to a dog to tear?

Rudyard Kipling

RIP
Vladimir Konstantinov Red Wings Stanley Cup Hockey Puck The First and The Last
(Puck)
May 7 1997
May 12 2011

Juggling Geese. My Hand To God.

2011-05-10T08:06:00.004-04:00

Me: So sweetie, I was sort of planning our Impending Nuptials. I was thinking that instead of a unity candle, we could do unity goldfish. You know, where your mom hands you a goldfish and my mom hands me one, and then together we put them into one single tank! To show unity!

Erik the Swede: Mmm.

Me: And then, for the reading, maybe we could do a sort of Our Mrs. Reynolds type of deal? I'll stand up and read about how "On the night of their betrothal, the wife shall open to the man as the furrow to the plow and he shall work in her, in and again, 'til she bring him to his fall and rest him then upon the sweat of her breast," and my family will be really uncomfortable and Baby!Bro will totally die inside. And then the two of us can escape to the reception in a space shuttle that we stole!

EtS: Uh-huh.

Me: And for the reception, it can be all Iron Chef! We'll pick a secret ingredient like flounder, or maybe buffalo testicles. And then, we'll divide everyone into teams and make the guests compete to create the best three-course meal! We can call it Battle Wedding Reception!!

EtS: Ah.

Guys, how am I supposed to put together the most epic wedding ever when my fiance is being so noncommittal!? My artistic genius is completely being stomped upon!

A Sign Of My Love!

2011-05-08T09:07:00.002-04:00

Hey Mom? Mom? Mom? Mom? Mom? Mom? Mommy? Mommy? Mommy? Mom? Mom? Mommy? Mama? Mama? Mama? Mama? Mama? Mama? Mom? Mom? Mom? Mommy? Mommy?

Happy Mother's Day!

Maybe It's Also The Vodka?

2011-05-05T09:59:00.006-04:00

Sorry for the delay in posts, kids, but I have been vaguely busy.

Did you know that as soon as you announce your engagement, you have to start doing stuff? Like making incredibly tacky Wedding Websites, and contacting your church, and trying to put together guest lists even though you appear to have 527 friends and how in the name of God will they all get fed, and... and... and yeah. Stuff.

I'm not organized under the best of circumstances, so I have already bowed to convention and purchased a MASSIVE book, complete with pockets and graphs, which promises to help me eliminate "much of the agony and expense of planning a wedding." It even comes in its own furry pink purse, with the word "BRIDE-TO-BE" embroidered on the side. God help me.

Anyway, the planning has barely even started and I'm already pushing for elopement to Vegas. And I'm telling all y'all right now that if I upset anyone during this entire process, because you think our cake isn't fancy enough or you wanted to do a reading or you wanted to be the one to help me pick out my dress or you're horrified about the fact that we couldn't afford an open bar, you can just suck it up and deal. (I say, lovingly.)

In other news, Baby!Bro graduated this past weekend. Hooray!! (Not that we ever had any doubts... or at least not serious doubts... very frequently....) It is a sign of my love for my brother that I was able to sit through not one but two endless graduation ceremonies, one of which took place in the middle of a freezing-cold stadium.

It was kind of fun, though -- especially on Saturday, the day of the Big Graduation. I really enjoyed watching the soon-to-be-graduates slowly making their way to the stadium, heedless of the fact that they were supposed to have been lining up there two hours earlier. That's the kind of procrastination I can approve of. By the time we actually started heading over there, though, the students had begun to panic slightly. "I'm not out of shape!" gasped one barefoot girl to another as the two of them raced down the middle of the road clutching their robes. "It's just the vodka!" Good times, college kids. Good times.

Of Course, He Didn't Sing....

2011-04-29T01:07:00.001-04:00

Okay guys, story time. Gather around -- I'm going to do this in my best Youth Librarian voice.

Tuesday was Erik the Swede's and my fifth year anniversary of the day we started dating. It happened right around... here. So we were thinking that we should do something fun. EtS decided that this "fun" event should be "going to the beach."

"Erik," I say, "we can't go to the beach. It's April. And it's thunderstorming out."

EtS: "But I think it would be a really good idea!"

Me: "Dude, there's a chance of tornadoes."

EtS: "I think it'll be okay."

Me: "It's really far away..."

EtS: "No, this is a great idea. Let's pack sandwiches."

Now guys, as you'll recall, I'm having a really crappy week. In the past seven days, I have had to deal with a hedgehog in my chest (read: not eating well, not sleeping well), a migraine on Thursday, a terrible back-ache as the result of the migraine, a book due for +bookstore+, three final exams and a research paper, and Little Brother accidentally tore off my toenail when he and his sister came over on Friday, so I was toenail-less. Really. Crappy. Week.

But whatever. My ridiculous boyfriend wants to go to the beach, so we'll go to the beach. And I grump and growl a little as we fill up the tank, and I grump and I growl a little more as we set off down the expressway, and then I do a quick switchover to cowering in fear as the wind picks up and the tornado sirens start going off and the traffic update sign changes from "Buckle Up - It's the Law!" to "Tornado Warning In Effect. Take Cover Immediately."

Erik, clearly not understanding that he's not actually a Norse god, just laughs in the face of impending doom. So we keep going. And what do you know!? By the time we get to the park it's seriously no longer raining! The sky behind us looks like Mordor, obviously, but the sun is shining over the dunes!

So we walk down eighteen thousand wooden steps and have our picnic dinner underneath a little canopy. Then we go for a long walk around the woods, before heading down to the beach itself. There's no one around, probably because the rest of the world actually listens to tornado sirens, so we got to sit on a big chunk of driftwood and just chill and watch the sun set.

What a nice anniversary.

And then Erik stands up, just as quickly goes back down, and BAM:

I know, right? I know. It's the most beautiful ring in the history of the world. Whatever, Kate Middleton.

There's a three-second pause before I burst into hysterical tears -- I can hardly even say "yes" -- and EtS is laughing at me and I'm collapsing, and thank God no one else was around except for a nearby duck, because I'm sure it looked like I was having some sort of fit.

It took me an hour to calm down, during which time I not only had to walk back up eighteen thousand steps, but also drive all the way home while simultaneously trying to focus on my ring, focus on EtS, and sort of focus on the road. Luckily I did still have the presence of mind to collect a small souvenir of the event.

Guys, for real though, this is going to be effing brilliant. Think Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy. Or Harry and Sally! OR KIRK AND SPOCK!!!!!!!!!!!

Epic.

Fear His Spiny Wrath

2011-04-25T20:58:00.004-04:00

So about a week ago, friends, I suddenly developed an acute case of Hedgehog Chest, where every time I eat or breathe or eat or move too quickly or eat or sit or eat, a hedgehog hurls itself at my sternum. An angry hedgehog. Oh my God he is so angry.

No one seems to know what's wrong with me. It's not heartburn. It's not the flu. It's not Kuru. Although "furiously angry hedgehog" seems pretty self-explanatory to me, I've had to describe it to people enough times at this point that I have just drawn a diagram on the back of my car insurance payment envelope (which I will remember to mail in tomorrow) to use as a handy prop. Observe:

(As I was trying to figure out how to spell "uvula," guys, I also came across this picture of a uvula piercing. I never actually realized that was pierce-able. I have learned something new today. Thanks Internet!)

(Also, this picture of a spineless hedgehog, which is perhaps the most tragically adorable animal-related photo I have EVER SEEN.)

(Except for these guys, who have TINY BROKEN LEGS IN CASTS!)

Anyway! After having spent a week doing nothing but eating Wonder Bread soaked in milk and wishing that my esophagus wasn't lined with broken glass and sharp metal pointy bits and also that I could sleep, I have grown tired and testy. You should pity Erik the Swede, if you don't on a regular basis already.

So it was in this tired and testy state, on my way to work, that my mother decided to call me and inform me that she had scheduled a chest x-ray for this evening. Because she and my father had talked about it, and she was pretty sure I had some sort of hideous growth pressing down on my esophagus.

"The hedgehog," I said.
"No, like a tumor," she answered.

Which is why it is dangerous to have a nervous mother with a medical degree.

(You'll notice that Dad didn't say he thought it was a tumor. But he was probably unable to say conclusively that it wasn't a tumor, and I imagine that's all the confirmation that was needed.)

I give you all this as background so you have an adequate explanation as to why I was at the hospital all evening wearing nothing but a poorly-tied robe whilst an incredibly rotund man strapped lead clamps to my ovaries and took photos of areas of me normally covered by stylish undergarments.

We got along fine, me and the Incredibly Rotund Man, although there was a bit of a rocky moment when he said "ndihaftoskutis buterubyaneechnspgnat?" to which I replied "Excuse me?" to which he yelped "I'm so sorry but we are required to ask all our patients!!" to which I replied, "Um, no, what?" to which he yelped louder "NOW I HAVE EMBARRASSED US BOTH!!" to which I finally realized he was asking if I was pregnant and answered "No" and put the poor man out of his misery.

Because a potentially-cancerous esophageal hedgehog is bad enough, without it being a pregnant potentially-cancerous esophageal hedgehog.

We'll have the results back tomorrow, so I want you to all cross your fingers that they actually do find a tiny spiny pissed-off mammal sitting in the middle of my rib area. Because if they don't, Mom is threatening to have me scoped. Scoped, guys. Much as I would like the chance to throw the word "esophagogastroduodenoscopy" around in casual conversation, I really don't want to go through it personally.....

A Man Who Sets Her [Noun, Body Part] On Fire

2011-04-22T13:27:00.001-04:00

April is almost over, kids, but before we switch over to May we absolutely must fit in another edition of Smut MadLibs!

(Far away, my mother sighs. She hates Smut MadLibs. Sorry Mom!)

This month's bit of dubious writing comes from (the as-usual Uncorrected Advanced Copy of) It Happened One Bite, by Lydia Dare, a name which I hope to God she was not actually born with, because otherwise her parents basically predetermined her career as a trashy romance writer.

As you might guess from the title, this is indeed vampire-smut (tagline: He'd bite her in a heartbeat, if she'd only set him free....), featuring both "feisty Blaire Lindsay," who I believe is a witch, as well as "gentleman vampyre James Maitland, Lord Ketterling." Good times.

If you're unsure of the rules, you can refer back to February's edition.

Ready? Go!

(1) Proper Noun, male first name
(2) Body Part, plural
(3) Verb
(4) Body Part, singular
(5) Adjective
(6) Noun, singular
(7) Noun, singular
(8) Adverb (just a basic one ending in -ly, don't get fancy here...)
(9) Verb, present participle
(10) Noun, singular

*******
******
*****
****
***
**
*

"____(1)____ settled himself between her ____(2)____ as his hand moved down to ____(3)____ through her heat. He dipped one ____(4)____ into the ____(5)____ essence of her ____(6)____ and then brought it up to rub her ____(7)____, circling it ____(8)____ until she was a ____(9)____ mass of unfulfilled ____(10)____ beneath him" (282).

I tried to leave more of the original wording in this time -- did it help? Or did it make the overall result even more smutty?

Hate. Hate Hate Hate.

2011-04-21T11:31:00.003-04:00

So at 4pm yesterday, I receive a mass email from Liberry Skool notifying me that the final class -- THE FINAL CLASS -- that I need to graduate has been canceled. Bear in mind that this class was supposed to start in two weeks, and that as far as I can tell the entire summer semester is currently full. You know, because registration was back in January. When I registered. For this class.

So I send an email to the Registrar's Office, asking if they have any alternative options for me.

This is the response, directly quoted, emphasis and everything, that I got back.

"Monica, the following information is available online. Which reflects with another LIS #### that is currently OPEN. Any additional information you should obtain from the LIS department."

To which I responded,

"Dear [Registrar Person], the alternative class you are referring to requires me to spend the summer in Germany. The country. It is a study-abroad for which I must not only pay an additional $5,000, but must also know German. This is not a viable option for me. Can you do better?"

I haven't heard back yet.....

It's Not As Though I Can't Focus On--Ooh, Shiny!

2011-04-14T11:08:00.005-04:00

We're having some sort of meat dish this evening which requires hours of preparation, and as a result the resident chef has asked me to step up to the plate and start frying... or boiling... or doing something to the meal so that he won't need to start at the very beginning when he gets home from work today.

I don't know what it says about his impression of my cooking abilities--after all, as we've discussed before, I am practically Julia Child--but Erik the Swede got up at five this morning so that he could gather ingredients, cut the meat into properly-sized chunks, and write out an extremely detailed recipe written in an almost-indecipherable man-scrawl.

When I finally dragged myself out of bed at a more appropriate but still sickening 6:30am, he then walked me through the kitchen.

"Monica," he says, "here are all the ingredients. I have already prepped them. They're stacked in the refrigerator in the order in which you will need them; see, the onion is first, and then the carrots, and then the celery, and then the beef."

Then we go to the counter.

"I have set out the flour and the bullion (that's this little cube here, don't eat it, it's not candy). Also the Allspice, because you're going to need ten pieces. Don't eat that either. Here is the vegetable peeler for the carrots--cut away, not towards, your body."

Then we go to the stove.

"You're going to need the frying pan and the stew pot. I set out the big spoon and also the turner, so you won't have to look for them. Don't burn yourself when you turn the stove on; sometimes the flames can go up really high if you twist the knob all the way."

Then he looks at me.

"Don't forget to move the smoke detector so it doesn't go off just because of the heat. But make sure it's close by, in case you actually do set the kitchen on fire. And remember not to touch the raw meat and then lick your fingers. Do you think you've got it?"

I hadn't even had my coffee yet at this point, and my eyes weren't completely focusing, and also I was potentially still asleep, but I think I managed to drool out some sort of assurance that yes, I would try to keep the kitchen from bursting into flames.

...

Y'all know how to cook, right? If I need advice later this afternoon? Because if I mess this up, EtS probably won't even trust me to butter my own toast in the morning.....

Lighten Up A Little Bit. It's Only The End Of The World.

2011-04-13T07:18:00.000-04:00

I'm not sure what amuses me more about this article:

That it was apparently written by a reality TV star, or that fracking can produce commercially-viable levels of natural gas....

In unrelated but perhaps equally crazy news, the apparent reason behind the recent OMG ALMOST GOVERNMENT SHUTDOWN 2011 has caused large numbers of individuals who I used to think were rational human beings to go insane. I have had to stop reading my Facebook feed, because I'm so tired of people being compared to Nazis for their personal beliefs. People on both sides of the spectrum. Good God, guys, let's settle down now.

Jesus Wept. And Then Raised Hell.

2011-04-11T07:17:00.009-04:00

So at Mass yesterday, the Gospel was about Jesus raising Lazarus from the dead. Which was FANTASTIC, since Mom and I had just been discussing the story in terms of a zombie horror movie.

Can't you see Jesus, walking slowly up the road with the sun setting behind Him? Mary and Martha, still sad about their brother having died four days earlier, are sort of cheery about the visit... but then seem to notice that something's up. They get quieter and quieter as He approaches the tomb. Jesus is all, "Lazarus, come forth! Come forth from the graaaave!" And Lazarus, brain stem reignited through the power of God, shambles from the tomb in a twisted parody of life, flesh hanging from his bones and hunger shining in his eyes. Mary and Martha take one look and run for the hills, Jesus high-fives Peter and Paul and goes off to transmogrify some water into wine, and Lazarus wreaks havoc on Bethany until finally someone manages to decapitate him.

Right? Right!

So you can imagine why it was difficult for the two of us to keep straight faces throughout the reading, especially given that it was accompanied by this picture on the giant screen they recently installed at the front of church (so that the service can be enhanced with classy PowerPoint presentations):

Jesus seems from this picture to be a man who cares both about saving the souls of all mankind and about proper conditioning. Check out that shiny, flowing hair. Martha doesn't look as alarmed as I would be to see my mummy-brother lurching out of a cave, but perhaps she is distracted by wanting to return to her native Scandinavia. And as for Lazarus... how the hell did he get out of the tomb? Did he hop? Because that lends a whole new level of badassery to the story.

To be honest, though, had they asked my opinion ahead of time, I like this one (is it Rembrandt?) quite a bit more:

Jesus has this crazed expression on his face like, "Oh my God someone stop me! Someone stop me before I create an unholy army of the dead! I am mad with power!!" And Martha can only stare in horror as her clearly still-deceased brother gets ready to stagger out of his grave and feast on human flesh.

Anyway, what this basically boils down to is that a) zombies are awesome and b) I should teach Bible Study to impressionable young children. Who's with me?

Why Waste Good Food On Bad Rhetoric?

2011-04-06T20:54:00.003-04:00

Erik the Swede and I are relaxing this evening, having just watched Pandorum--a movie that was pretty much the most ridiculous thing I've ever seen, and not just because Dennis Quaid trying to be ANGRY is hysterically funny to me. Silly Dennis Quaid. No matter what, I'll always see you as Bowen.

Anyway, said relaxing is being augmented by delicious banana smoothies, made from a packet of Banana Smoothie Mix I picked up for free off a table at the Servitude Center. That is, it was left on the "This is a table of free stuff!" table. I didn't steal it out of a lunchbox, or anything. Yes. So! Banana smoothie! The packet proclaims that this is "the easiest way to introduce fresh fruit to your diet." As EtS and I were adding cups of ice, cups of milk, cups of yogurt, and slicing whole bananas, we were reflecting on whether or not it wouldn't just be easier to eat the damn banana and call it good... but the resulting smoothie actually isn't all that bad. Well worth ~~stealing~~taking from the free table.

Oh, and Jeffiner?

Remember how you were over at my apartment today, keeping me company while I proofed for +bookstore+? Remember how you went to "rest for a minute" on the couch? Remember how you said that you didn't fall asleep at all, and that you totally would have noticed if I was wandering around the apartment making noise and taking photos of you passed out on my furniture?

Whaaaaaaaaaat?

I'm like a photographer ninja.

A ninja of stealth.

And sneakiness.

Ninja.

Allow Me To Refuse To Serve You

2011-04-03T12:49:00.005-04:00

This past Friday, n00bie!r00mie and Erik the Swede and I headed off to meet my parents, Kiker & Quarters, and Kiker's sister Cassie for supper at the fish fry. My parents took one look at the line and got the heck out of Dodge. EtS and n00bie!r00mie and I hung on a little bit longer, but n00bie!r00mie is a vegan and was only keeping us company, and just could not see standing in a two-hour line for fish she couldn't eat. So we jumped ship too.

We went just down the street to what was, up until this event, my favorite restaurant ever. Seriously, guys. It has the perfect ambiance, a brilliant selection of drinks, and scotch eggs to die for.

So after being told there would be a 35-minute wait, we went to the back of the building and chilled. And chilled. And chilled. After an hour, n00bie!r00mie went to see what the heck was up. Apparently we were next on the list, which would have been heartening if only we hadn't been third on the list an hour ago. Blah.

Anyway, we finally got seated, an hour and a half after getting to the restaurant. Our waiter stalked up to us and scowled as we ordered our entrees and, wait for it, desserts. "We want the desserts to come out first," said n00bie!r00mie, "because we are starving. Oh, and I want a beer. Please."

So he brings us our waters and beer. n00bie!r00mie takes one sip and proclaims that it tastes the way your mouth tastes after vomiting, and where is the waiter, because she wants to send it back. The waiter is gone. And gone. And gone. All around us, we see people laughing and talking, being brought complementary pita chips and generally having a good time. Meanwhile I am scowling at my empty water glass, n00bie!r00mie is positioning her silverware into an arrow pointing at the beer she clearly is having a problem with, and Erik the Swede (who needs to eat every hour in order to keep his over-active metabolism from dissolving his bones in a desperate search for nutrients) has sunk so far down in his chair all one can see is his nose.

After another forty minutes, our desserts come out, followed three minutes later by our food, which sort of negated the point. My dessert (a donut) is so over-baked that I quite literally cannot stab my fork into it. The waiter offered to get n00bie!r00mie a new drink, but did tell her he couldn't take the vomit-flavored one off her bill. And we still had not gotten our waters refilled.

Normally I love eating out. Even if it's crappy service, I'll say to myself, "Maybe they're just having a bad day!" If there's a long wait, I'll at least like the food. And I always tip the waiters, because they don't make a living wage otherwise, and because Bee was a waitress and would probably psychically know if I was mistreating her former kinsmen, and would kick my ass.

This, though, was like every awful thing rolled into one. Horrible wait. Terrible service. Worthless food. We stalked out of the restaurant almost three and a half hours after getting there, having left the waiter, I believe, a one dollar tip, and vowed that next time we would rather eat at McDonald's where, at least, we could have only spent three bucks apiece.

Sigh.

The moral of the story, obviously, is that n00bie!r00mie should stop being a vegan.

Oh My Lucky Stars

2011-03-31T23:18:00.004-04:00

I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'm here! I didn't mean to leave that horrible Friday post up for so long! Mom, please stop calling me about not posting!

I got a new phone the other day, which has been phenomenal, since as you may remember I had a little problem with my phone at one point, resulting in rattling noises, a malfunctioning camera, and the inability to text the letter "y." The only downside to it is that I haven't quite read the manual yet. As a result, I don't know how to change certain settings, and now when anyone calls my phone gleefully announces, "Incoming call from... KIKER!" Or "SHELSHEL!" or "ROOMIE!ANN WHOM I LOVE!" or whatever else I have contacts named as in my phone. I need to get this fixed asap--it'll totally ruin my street cred if I'm at work and receive an Incoming Call from "MOMMY!"

In other news, I had the most interesting discussion with a gentleman selling used books at the library.

Him: "Hello."

Me, clutching my soon-to-be-all-mine used copy of Stitches: "Hello!"

Him: "Say, are you a student?"

Me: "Yes sir!"

Him: "Well, I think that is just wonderful."

Me: "Um, thank you?"

Him: "I just can't get over you young women today."

Me: "..."

Him: "I mean, look at you! You own your own cars, you own your own houses, you are getting an education..."

Me: "..."

Him: "I look at my nieces, and they have all these ideas! I think it's just wonderful!"

He didn't look like a time traveler, nor did he appear to have just awakened from a sixty-year coma, so I'm not quite sure what his issue was. I wanted to tell him that girls can vote now, too, but I didn't want to totally blow his mind.

We We We So Excited

2011-03-22T00:29:00.000-04:00

Guys, I have had that damn Rebecca Black Friday song since... last week? Has it been out a week already? Anyway, I can't get it out of my brain. I'm trying to go to bed, and I have her terrible voice insisting that "tomorrow is Saturday, and Sunday comes afterwards." Someone, please help.

The First Man And Woman Lived In Missouri

2011-03-21T15:36:00.006-04:00

The one downside to being home some afternoons now is that I have to deal with the random people who show up in our apartment complex.

They'll knock. Instinctively, I will duck behind the kitchen counters and stop breathing, as though they're vaguely inept Predators and won't be able to sense my biorhythms as long as I stay absolutely silent.

They will knock again. I will begin a slow attempt to crawl noiselessly into the bedroom, keeping low so that if they're staring in the peephole, they won't register a change in light as I pass by the door. If I pretend to have been asleep, my thinking is, they will leave me in peace. At this point, the birds have usually started screaming, presumably distressed at the sight of me creeping towards them like a super awkward jungle cat.

They will knock a third time. I give up. Praying to God that they're not actually serial killers looking for fresh limbs with which to stock their freezers, I will open the door, and greet the AT&T salesman / person pretending to belong to an unnamed food bank who wants cash donations rather than canned goods / confused package delivery man.

Today it was the Mormons. They seemed like nice, albeit inappropriately dressed, people. I just did not have time to discuss the intricacies of their faith. Which, to be fair, I know almost nothing about, basing all of my knowledge on a particular reputable source.

They looked sad. I took their card, which seemed to make them feel slightly better, but I did decline to schedule a follow-up visit, citing permanent religious differences.

I Fight For The Users!

2011-03-20T19:17:00.003-04:00

Little Brother and I went out this afternoon to see Tron: Legacy (IN 3D OMG) as our joint Christmas present to each other -- that is, that we'd each pay for the other person's ticket to a film of one of our choosing. I'll let you guess who got to pick. Anyway, it was very nice and silly and filled with flashy lights and plotless, and when Little Brother was getting my ticket as well as some Starbursts, he put a hand to my chest to stop me from walking forwards, flashed his gift card, and said, "I've got this," causing the woman next to us to laugh so hard she couldn't pronounce the name of the movie she was trying to buy tickets for.

But when I got home, I had a serious question I needed to ask Erik the Swede.

Me: "Erik the Swede, if I was ever sucked into a video game--"

Erik the Swede: "Yes. I would."

Me: "You hadn't heard my question!"

EtS: "Oh. Sorry."

Me: "If I was ever sucked into a video game, and you had to come--"

EtS: "Of course, dear. Of course I would come rescue you."

Me: "THAT ISN'T MY QUESTION!"

EtS: "..."

Me: "If I was ever sucked into a video game, and you had to come rescue me, because of course you would come rescue me, would you actually pick me to bring back, or my much younger clone who was just like me in every way but better looking?"

EtS: "Oh look, I think dinner is ready!"

I think he would pick the clone.....

Thanks For The Re-Enactment, Sir

2011-03-17T18:15:00.004-04:00

"So Monica," says my mother, "I was thinking that maybe I should start watching Firefly."

"..."

"I know you have been telling me for years that it was a great show, and that I needed to watch it. Well, I'm willing to take you up on it."

"..."

"I mean, I love Nathan Fillion, and aren't there other good people in it too? Isn't Alan Tudyk one of the actors in Firefly? He's fantastic."

"..."

"And I had been thinking for the longest time that it was fantasy, but I looked it up online and I guess it's actually just science fiction, right? I'm okay with science fiction! I used to watch Star Trek, you know, back when it was on."

"..."

"And with a fan base like you've suggested it has, it must be pretty good. I mean, if people are still talking about it almost a decade after it was on, that says something about the show."

"..."

"Anyway, why don't you bring the DVDs with you when you come over today? We can watch the first episode or two! And then maybe next Friday, we can plan on having a marathon and finishing up the rest of it!"

"..."

"Monica?"

I was unable to speak, due to having a moment. A moment of victory.

Go On! Eat A Hamburger! Maybe Even Two!

2011-03-16T18:29:00.002-04:00

I grew weary of playing the Wii Fit by myself, so I talked Erik the Swede into making an account. "That way," I told him, "we can compete for high scores and have way more fun!"

I sign on and step onto the Board. "You've gained three pounds since your last visit!" the Wii Fit tells me, as threatening music plays in the background. "Why do you think you are having trouble with your weight loss? Do you think you will meet your Fit Goal? Remember, people with BMIs over 25 are more likely to have health problems!" I stare at the screen in horror as my tiny Mii person falls on its ass, waist ballooning outwards.

Erik the Swede, looking a little nervous, sets up his account and steps onto the board himself. There is a pause. Suddenly, fireworks begin to burst on screen, and his Mii character fist-pumps and leaps into the air. "You are exactly the right weight!" carols the Wii Fit. "If anything, you're a little underweight! Why don't we set a weight goal -- how many pounds do you want to gain in two months?"

I'm glaring daggers and EtS is laughing as he picks fifteen pounds. "Great choice!" the stupid Wii Fit responds. "If you gain fifteen pounds in two months, your BMI will be 19.5!!"

Hate. Hate hate hate.

I feel slightly less bad about it now, though, since EtS apparently decided to test whether or not the hot sauce we've got in the fridge is actually hot. "Is this like chili sauce?" he asked, pulling our bottles of Tabasco and Frank's Red Hot off the shelf. And then, not trusting my response of "yes," he proceeded to take a heaping spoonful of it for himself.

So now he's running around in the background as I type this, flailing his hands in front of his face and looking like his head is about to burst into flames. Ha! He won't gain fifteen pounds with all that exercising!

Cause You Gotta Have Cheese For The Summerhouse Piece On South Beach

2011-03-12T20:25:00.004-05:00

Finally, after long days of waiting, I got Captain Zack back! HOORAY! My darling, darling car! The repair place did a good job, except for the places they missed completely... but I'm going to be bringing him back in on Monday and hopefully if I circle all the scuff marks with, say, a crayon, they'll be able to tidy the doors up adequately. My poor vehicle.

Not that I didn't love the Dodge Avenger, but I couldn't quite figure out how to work the Sirius Radio station changer thingy. As a result, I was trapped on Nineties On Nine. One would think, given that the nineties encompassed ten whole years of musical genius, that I would not have to hear Will Smith every second song. But no. Big Willie Style must just represent the soundtrack of a generation!

In other news, could y'all light a candle, offer up a prayer, do some chanting, shake a tambourine, or whatever sort of gesture you feel like making, for everyone struggling in Japan? Specifically, for my ridiculous friend Jen, who apparently thought Japan would be an awesome place to spend a year, and who is now in the same precinct as a melting nuclear reactor. As much fun as it would be to have a buddy with freakish mutant powers, I'm really just hoping everything ends up all right for her and her husband.

Her Kidneys Were So Endlessly Torrid

2011-03-09T12:35:00.001-05:00

Well kids, it's March... and you know what that means! YES! Another round of Smut MadLibs! Once again, we must all thank our dear Emily for her brilliant original idea.

This month's text comes from (the Uncorrected Advanced Copy of) The Mistress' House, by Leigh Michaels. The cover features, along with the semi-obligatory shirtless man, a woman wearing an outfit that looks a lot like Belle's ballroom dress, assuming the Beast also provided her with a matching negligee. Pretty!

Ready to play? If you're unsure of the rules, you can refer back to February's edition. As a reminder, the last number in the text is the page number citation, so don't freak out and try to match it with one of the parts of speech.

And... go!

(1) Proper noun, male person
(2) Noun
(3) Verb, past tense ending in -ed
(4) Body part, plural
(5) Verb, full infinitive (so this will be two words, technically)
(6) Body part, plural
(7) Body part, plural
(8) Verb, past tense ending in -ed
(9) Adjective
(10) Noun
(11) Body part, singular
(12) Body part, plural
(13) Adjective
(14) Adjective

*******
******
*****
****
***
**
*

"____(1)____ took a deep ____(2)____ and ____(3)____ for control. Her ____(4)____ were just the right size ____(5)____ his ____(6)____, and the ____(7)____ ____(8)____ to his touch, sending ____(9)____ darts of ____(10)____ to his ____(11)____. Her ____(12)____ were so endlessly ____(13)____that he felt ____(14)____..." (241).

All right, everyone confess. How'd it turn out? Were you able to think of that many distinct body part names?

(Side note, I hope you all appreciate how educational this is! You don't see references to full infinitive verbs on just every blog, you know!)

I'm Shaking In My Custom Baby Seal Leather Boots

2011-03-08T15:26:00.003-05:00

I didn't work today, but had to be up super early anyway in order to take Captain Zack in to the shop for repairs, since he has been languishing with a busted up side and a crack in the windshield since the drama late last month.

So! Since I was up and awake, and cruising around in my shiny new Dodge Avenger (which sounds like a superhero, for realsies) rental, I decided to go off on an adventure. Sampire had been telling me last week that I can't consider myself an adult until I have gone to a movie at the theater by myself, an event which she described as "liberating." I rarely have the opportunity to think of myself as an adult--Big Sister has suggested on numerous occasions that I fail at being one--so today seemed like the perfect time to try it out. Which is how I ended up at the earliest showing of Megamind, as the only person in the entire theater.

I'm slightly worried I ruined my adult street cred by choosing an animated feature, but it was either that or Season of the Witch, and I can't handle Nicholas Cage so early in the morning. (Ron Perlman, though--yum.) I wouldn't describe the experience as "liberating," but at least I can cross it off my grown-up list, along with "ordering food at a drive-through" and "waiting at home all day for someone to come and install your internet." Good times.

In unrelated news, Erik the Swede and I hung out with Star Trek Tim, and after he told us of his potential upcoming novitiate year (in which he would spend eight hours a day in total silence whilst, like, sweeping floors), and I declared that I could spend eight hours a day in total silence whilst sweeping floors, and Star Trek Tim and EtS both laughed until they cried and said I couldn't spend eight minutes in total silence... guys, I subsequently was quiet for Eight Whole Minutes. It was terrifying. I hope I never need to test my resolve in that manner ever again.

For In Thee Do I Trust

2011-03-01T07:27:00.008-05:00

Well, friends, I am now hour... twelve... into my all-nighter-turned-into-all-morninger, and I'm feeling a little deranged at this point. I'm proofing a manuscript for +bookstore+ that's the size of War and Peace, and if I have to read one more alliterative reference to a psalm, I'm pretty sure I will have to stab myself in the eyes with my markup pencil. In the eyes.

On the upside, check out what I threw together during a break this morning, and have currently got simmering on the stove:

Yeah, I'm just making my own chicken stock out of the remains of our dinner. Like Martha Stewart. No biggie.

Update: Almost five and a half hours of simmering later, mmmmmmmmmm. Don't be jealous.

And no. Still haven't slept.

It May Run About In A Lively Way

2011-02-26T20:50:00.000-05:00

For dinner tonight, Erik the Swede and I had a whole roasted chicken, which, let me tell you, seemed initially like an awesome idea.

As I have mentioned before, whenever I am faced with food that actually looks like the dead animal it comes from, I play out these elaborate fantasies in which I am, for example, a pioneer on the Oregon trail. Having just caught the bird in a snare of some sort and roasted it over an open fire on a spit made of fallen branches, I will now eat it, suck the marrow from the bones, and probably bury the evidence so that it won't be found by my family, who disapproved of my plan to travel west and seek my fortune, and who are even at this moment tracking me with the help of native tribespeople who, while familiar with the area, cannot hope to beat my woodsman expertise as long as I carefully cover my tracks.

...

Anyway!

So I was all pumped to have at this chicken. I felt a little bad, because he looked sort of embarrassed. Like he had suddenly realized he was out in public without any feathers on.

Unfortunately, at the point I actually had to start cutting into Mr. Chicken, I realized that it was in fact filled with bones. And tendony things. And little weird blood vessels and stretchy bits and pointy pieces and skin and tiny hairs and eeeeeeeeeeeeeuw.

I hacked at it for about five minutes before I finally flung down my knife and fork and shrieked to the heavens that there was no real meat on the damn thing. I give up. I will eat cereal instead.

At which point Erik the Swede calmly reached over, worked some sort of magic with his utensils, and produced an entire plateful of recognizable food. Damn him. Why must he be so skilled?! And how can I get him to teach me this slicing business, so I can survive in the aforementioned wilderness!?

Nor Time Unmake What Poets Know

2011-02-24T22:07:00.003-05:00

There is a rumor going around that tonight's weather will be rain, followed by freezing followed by snow. This, my friends, is excellent snow day weather. So as I'm coming home from a lovely dinner with n00bie!r00mie and Sampire, I call Erik the Swede to ask him to look for a ladle. Which we will need to put under one of our pillows. Because everyone knows if you flush ten ice cubes down the toilet and then sleep with a ladle under your pillow, you get a snow day the next day.

Anyway, he's all "yes" and "sure," but when I get home the ladle is still in our utensil bucket, so I pull it out and stick it in my bed. About ten minutes later I hear EtS going, "Monica? What... what's in your bed?"

Me: "What's in my bed? It's a ladle!"
EtS: "A what?"
Me: "A ladle! For making there be a snow day tomorrow!"
EtS: "..."
Me: "I talked to you for, like, ten minutes about this! Did you not know what a ladle was?"
EtS: "Oh, no, I had no idea what you were saying. So... it's a big spoon. Huh."
Me, flailing: "You just let me babble on and on without even paying attention to my very important information?!"
EtS, patting my head: "Yes dear. It's a very nice spoon."

I have the sneaking feeling there's some tolerant condescension going on there, but I can't... quite... pin it down....

Dingue Dingue Dingue Dingue

2011-02-21T12:56:00.004-05:00

This morning, after Erik the Swede left for work, I headed out to my poor car to take another look at the damage. Banged up door? Check. Gas gauge reading funny? Check. Flat tire!? OH NO!!

Kids, I have no idea how to change a flat tire. I know that you're supposed to unscrew things... and put the screws in the hubcap... and then, when your grouchy father accidentally hits the hubcap and the screws go flying everywhere, you're supposed to really slowly say the word "Fudge." Right? But as far as practical experience goes, I've got nothing.

So I called AAA. They're helpful people -- they took my information, said they'd put me in line, and that someone should be there to fix my tire absolutely no later than ten. Hooray! I put on a coat (so that I'll be ready to head out the door when the towing company calls) and settle down to wait.

At ten-thirty, AAA calls again. Apparently there has been a delay. Someone should be there absolutely no later than eleven-thirty. I take off my coat and cautiously turn on my computer -- I don't want to start up too much, in case I need to head out the door when the towing company calls.

At noon, AAA calls again. There have been further delays. Someone should be there absolutely no later than quarter to one. At the suggestion of XPhile!Kaye, I first turn on the shower, because people always call when you're in the shower, and then go outside and stand around the parking lot looking helpless and female. (Note: XPhile!Kaye's actual second suggestion had been, "Just look in your trunk, find the tire iron, and take the damn tire off yourself!" But... but guys! The last time I tried the bolts were all stuck and I didn't have the right kind of twisty thing and it hurt my haaaand! So that's a no-go.) I keep my phone in my pocket though, so that I can answer it when the towing company calls.

Finally, at one o'clock, in desperation, I went back out to the car and actually hauled the tire out of the trunk, and waved it around in a sort of "Look at me, I'm totally going to put it on myself now, if you don't show up right this second" way. SURELY THIS WILL BE ENOUGH!? SURELY THEY WILL CALL NOW!?

Alas, no.

Since I have no intention of actually changing it myself after I've put so much dedicated time into whining about the delay, I have settled down with a cup of coffee and my proofreading. Presumably just as I get truly comfortable, the phone will ring.

(Edit: Just as I was searching for the Oh Fudge video, the phone actually did ring. Thrilled, I hurled the computer to one side and lunged for the phone. "HELLO!? YES HELLO THIS IS MONICA! YES!?!? WHAT!?!? What? Oh. I'm next in line? But police calls keep intercepting you? You'll call me again in an hour? Oh. Okay." Dammit.)

And See The Dangers That We Cannot Shun

2011-02-20T17:48:00.003-05:00

Erik the Swede and I spent the weekend visiting my grandparents. This morning they started shoving us out the door, because a Winter Storm Filled With Ice And Terror was approaching.

We laughed, but left.

About halfway home, the sleet started. Lord, kids. There were cars flying *everywhere*. At one point, I glanced in my rearview mirror and saw a truck, spinning, knock two other cars completely off the road before careening into a ditch in the median, up the side of the hill and, presumably, into the westbound lanes of traffic on the other side.

But we kept at it! White knuckles, of course, but we stayed at about thirty-five miles an hour and slowly, slowly made our way home. As we neared the exit, EtS had started making a grocery list and I was discussing how seriously badly I needed to use the bathroom and we wou- OH MY GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOD the car pulled a 180, slid sideways about twenty meters, slammed into one of those metal reflective poles and wound up in a ditch three car-lengths off the road.

I call AAA and they tell me someone is on the way. In two hours. "Don't leave the car," they stress. I thought about informing them that if they didn't hurry, I'd be fashioning a catheter out of a ballpoint pen and an empty Diet Coke can, but decided it wasn't really relevant.

So EtS and I bundle up in the quilt I keep in the trunk, get out my Emergency Granola Bars, which I had never before needed to break into, and settle down for a wait.

I call my Dad.

Me: "Daddy, I wanted to let you know that we made it almost all the way home but ended up in a ditch just in front of our exit. But we're fine."
Dad: "Are you serious?"
Me: "Yes. But don't worry, I don't think the car is damaged too badly."
Dad, growling: "How could this have happened?!"
Me, watching cars sliding past ours, swerving in elaborate figure-eights as their drivers curse inaudibly behind the wheel: "It's... it's icy."

I call my Mom.

Me: "Mommy, I just wanted to let you know that we made it almost all the way home but ended up in a ditch just in front of our exit. But we're fine."
Mom: "Are you serious? Why would you lie to me about something like that?"
Me: "I'm not lying. But don't worry. I don't think the car is damaged. Too badly."
Mom, shrieking: "How could this have happened?!"
Me, watching as an ambulance whips past us, presumably racing towards the source of the horns and screeching tires we had heard a few minutes earlier: "It's icy, Mom. It's really icy."

I call my Aunt Katie.

Me: "Aunt Katie, I just wanted to let you know that we made it almost all the way home but ended up in a ditch just in front of our exit. But we're fine."
Aunt Katie: "I'll lie to your grandparents and tell them you made it home. Snuggle together for warmth."

At least someone in my family reacts to these sorts of things appropriately!

Can You Tell A Green Field From A Cold Steel Rail?

2011-02-15T10:37:00.002-05:00

Erik the Other Swede, who is one of EtS's good friends from school, is studying on the East Coast right now. Having a week or so off, decided to travel around the country and visit people--including us! Thank God Kiker's grandmother's couch doubles as a pull-out bed, or we would have been in serious trouble. He'd have been sleeping on the Coffin Coffee Table, and no one deserves that.

So in an attempt to introduce him to the finer things of the city, he, Erik the Swede and I went out the other night with Equally Gorgeous Co-Worker and her boyfriend Card Shark. I kept trying to point out all the interesting things downtown. Unfortunately being foreign does not equate to being from under a rock, so my pronouncements of "Here's an outdoor ice skating rink!" and "This is a statue of someone who might be famous but I don't know who he is!" were met with lukewarm enthusiasm. But he faked it as best as he could.

The local planetarium has laser light shows set to famous rock albums, and we snuck in just in time to see Pink Floyd in all its glory. Kids, if I knew exactly how one went about "dropping acid," this would have been the time for me to have done so. Although honestly, even completely lucid, the sensation of being fwooshed down a wormhole that was pulsating in time to "Shine On You Crazy Diamond" was pretty ridiculous. I may need to go again--Card Shark said that Radiohead would make my brain leak out my ears. I assume he means literally, similar to that little pen thingy the bad guy used in Iron Man when he wanted to incapacitate the oh-so-attractive Tony Stark.

Sway From Side To Side!

2011-02-14T14:39:00.000-05:00

Proving once again that n00bie!r00mie is my favorite roomie who still lives in the city, she decided that what our apartment really needed was a Wii. Since I lacked one myself, she graciously provided her own, complete with games like Super Mario Bros. and Lego Batman. But perhaps more importantly, it also came with Wii Fit.

Dudes, that game is ruining me. I have never felt more useless in my life than when my stupid trainer turns to me and says, "You seem a little shaky! Are you concentrating on your balance? Try breathing through your nose."

Damn you, non-corporeal trainer. You are pixels. What do you know of balance?

Sigh.

A Comical Little Figure

2011-02-08T20:42:00.005-05:00

When I was in fifth grade, my mother plopped a book down at the top of the stairs, and announced that she thought I might like to read it. I looked it over. It appeared to feature mice. Wearing funny robes, with swords. I was not impressed.

So the book sat at the top of the stairs for well past its due date, to the point that Mom finally told me to just return it already, if I wasn't going to read it. Given that I was probably going to have to pay back the late fee, I decided to at least take a look at it.

And that, friends, is how I first was introduced to the world of Redwall.

When shit started to go bad in middle school and I dragged myself home every day feeling friendless and worthless, I would tell myself to think of how brave Martin had been when he was fighting the evil wildcat Tsarmina, and how Matthias had kept on going even after he had been hypnotized by a giant adder. Nothing I went through could be that bad, in comparison, although bitchy eleven-year-olds are pretty snakelike.

After I escaped that particular school, the series stayed with me. My shiny new best friend Catherine had actually met the author! And he was going to name a squirrel after her! When I had a bad day or wanted to see a familiar face, I'd turn to my now terribly beat-up copy of Redwall. It came with me to college (although I was a little nervous about what my roommate would think) and followed me to my apartment despite the strange looks Erik the Swede gave me.

I'm giving this as background to explain why I ridiculously found myself sitting in my car late this evening, with tears running down my face, after I had heard that Brian Jacques had passed away. I had always viewed him in a nebulous sort of hero-worship way--the man who had written the characters that had kept tiny nerdy me from going crazy--and although I hadn't really thought about it in years, I owe him.

So thanks, Mr. Jacques! :)

Then He Ransacked His Gopher

2011-02-07T13:36:00.003-05:00

That's right, kids! Thanks to Emily's brilliant suggestion, it's time for another round of Smut MadLibs!!

This month's Smut MadLib is brought to you by Secrets of a Summer Night, by Lisa Kleypas--notable for being the only smut book that I actually own. (I owe you one, used book sale!) Next month, I'm obviously going to have to venture into the dangerous "Romance" section of my local library. God help me.

Alas, that we can't do this on two separate pages, so you'll have to promise not to read ahead in the post and spoil things for yourself. Everyone knows that MadLibs aren't any fun if you're actually trying to use words that fit.

Okay. You guys good to go? You've got a pen? The last number in the paragraph is the page number (for proper citation, obviously) so don't get thrown off by that.

Here's the list:

1. Noun, plural
2. Noun
3. Color
4. Noun, plural
5. Noun
6. Body part
7. Adjective
8. Noun
9. Gerund
10. Adjective
11. Noun
12. Body part
13. Verb, past tense ending in -ed
14. Verb, singular

*******
******
*****
****
***
**
*

"Bringing her ____(1)____ to the edge of the ____(2)____, he eased her over, until her ____(3)____ ____(4)____ were turned upward. He stood on the ____(5)____, positioning himself between her ____(6)____, the ____(7)____ head of his ____(8)____ ____(9)____ easily into the ____(10)____ entrance of her ____(11)____. Grasping her ____(12)____ firmly, he ____(13)____ her in a long ____(14)____... (214)."

So how did you do? Did a carrot of porcupines cover his entire teapot? Because it did for me.

Whatever A Dentist Is, I Hope Someday You Will Be The Greatest.

2011-02-02T08:54:00.005-05:00

Aha! Apparently by adding that last paragraph to yesterday's post, I sneakily tricked the weather gods into thinking that I was expecting nothing at all today. Never wanting to do what I expect, they subsequently blew snow all over the place, and work was closed! ::: happy day off dance :::

I called Bee early this morning to check on her, because the news was reporting headlines from her city like "STREETS FILLED WITH ABANDONED CARS!" and "RESCUERS FORM HUMAN CHAINS TO AID TRAPPED CITIZENS!" and "BLIZZAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARD!!!!"

She was just getting ready to leave her house (it was five in the morning, and she didn't need to be to work until eight), so I was there on the phone at the moment she opened the front door. I'll post what she said, friends, but I'm going to change one important word to "frak" so my mother doesn't start talking about how I never had such bad language when I lived at home, and what would my grandmother think?

Me: "So you're just heading out the door?"

Bee: "Yeah, I'm dressed in about eighteen layers, and OH MY GOD. Holy FRAK. There is snow everywhere. It is... frak, it is over the tops of the frakking car wheels. Where is my sidewalk!? What the frak? Who the frak would go outside in this?! My frakking bus isn't even going to show up, I just know it, and then I'll have to frakking walk to the frakking subway...."

Me: "Stay home?"

Bee: "I can't frakking stay home! What, you think the frakking night shift is going to be willing to work another twelve frakking hours? What the hell? Oh my God, the snow is over my frakking knees. I'll call you later."

And off she went, braving the frozen wasteland, polar bears, and toothless abominable snowmen.

Mom apparently talked to her at about seven thirty. She hadn't quite made it to work yet--apparently it took her forty minutes to walk to the bus station that's eight minutes from her house. But no worries! She packed a toothbrush and deodorant, so if she's trapped at the hospital overnight, she'll be fresh as a daisy in the morning. A grumpy, grumpy daisy.

An Unnecessary Freezing of Water

2011-02-01T13:35:00.003-05:00

In preparation for the BLIZZARD that is destined to attack my poor apartment at any moment, I:

1) Went to the grocery store for milk. We didn't actually need any, but apparently that's what one is supposed to stock up on. I nearly had to punch a ninety-year-old woman to get the last gallon of Erik the Swede's favorite Vitamin D milk, but don't worry. I emerged victorious.

2) Whilst at the store, also picked up some donuts. That way, if we're snowed in, we won't need to kill and eat the birds to stay alive.

3) Made sure I can locate the emergency flashlight. Do not have emergency generator for laptop, so I will have to read my fanfiction by candlelight. Wait... wait! HOW WILL I READ FANFICTION WITH NO INTERNET!?!?!?

4) Printed fanfiction to read by candlelight.

5) Filled up the car with gas. Just the tank, mind you, not the car itself. Also double-checked that I've got a shovel and a blanket in the trunk. If I skid off the road, rescuers will find me warm and snug.

6) Ate a donut. This last part wasn't specifically necessary for my BLIZZARD preparedness, but I was hungry.

I'm now totally prepped for a snow day, which means it probably won't happen. The storm will miss us by miles and we'll all have to trek to work on Wednesday morning, weeping. Which is too bad, because I have a copy of Trapped, by Michael Northrop, which I was planning on reading. I haven't started it yet, but it involves teenagers being trapped in their high school during a blizzard, at which point I believe they eat the weakest member of their group. Good times.

In other news, did you hear the sad sad story of those sled dogs who were killed in British Columbia? There is a story about it on Huffington Post. There's also more graphic and more... impassioned... story at this link, which I am not naming specifically on my blog, because the people who comment on it frighten me. They use all caps and seem terribly angry. Yeeks.

Post From The Past

2011-01-30T11:03:00.003-05:00

Kids, I was trolling Baby!Bro's blog the other day, because it makes me sad that he doesn't post ever and some of his previous entries really make me laugh.

I'm reposting one here for your reading pleasure, because it made me snort my uvula out my nose, and I thought the rest of you would like to have the same opportunity.

Also, can we pause and reflect on how we definitely sound related?

-------------------------

I had this epic conversation with FormerJewishRoommate recently, and it still makes me giggle, just thinking about it.

Me: "Howdy!"

FJR: "Dude, let's go to IHOP."

Me: "Ahh, I'd love to, but alas, I'm not even in the same state as you."

FJR: "Well hurry up! So like an hour?"

Me: "No, dude, you don't get it. I'm nowhere near you. I'm in no position to go to IHOP with you either now or in an hour."

FJR: "So like an hour and a half? You seriously need to get back here. IHOP!"

Me: "Why won't you listen to me?!? I'm not going to IHOP with you! I'll go in a couple days when I'm back!"

FJR: "But dude, this is IHOP. But I can't drive, so just meet me at my apartment, and you can drive my car."

Me: "Really right now?"

FJR: "So I'll see you soon."

Me: "What is wrong with you?!? I'm not going to IHOP with you! I'm in the wrong state! We can go when I'm back in a couple days!"

FJR: "No IHOP?"

Me: "I hate you."

FJR: "Don't do it for me, do it for international relations. International pancake relations."

Me: "I'm hanging up on you. Huggles."

I hung up. He was very drunk, and very high. So I can hardly blame him for being upset about me not going to IHOP. I mean, being in a different state is hardly an excuse for missing out on drunken, stoned waffles (drunk stoned people eating waffles, that is, as opposed to the waffles being drunk and stoned).

I hope he'll forgive me someday.

-------------------------

In other, non-Baby!Bro related news, apparently last night Erik the Swede smacked me right in the face. I have no memory of this myself, due to the way I could sleep through a carpet bombing. Anyway, I bring this up because it means that MamaBear was right when she famously asked me, "How could you move in with that boy? What are you going to do when he starts hitting you?!" At the time I laughed so hard I almost snorted my larynx out my mouth, but now I see she was wise! MamaBear, I'm sorry I doubted you!!

On the upside, he has since told me that a) he won't do it again, b) he did it because he loved me, and c) it was the drink that made him do it. So we should be in the clear!!

(Girls, for realsies, if you're getting smacked around, leave him immediately. That goes for you too, guys -- domestic abuse runs both ways!)

A Literal Narration Of Today's Conversation

2011-01-28T21:51:00.005-05:00

"ROOMIE!ANN!!" I shrieked into the phone, as I careened down the road with Erik the Swede riding terrified shotgun. "ARE YOU NEAR A COMPUTER!?!?!?!?"

"Oh my God, yes. Why? Please stop screaming."

"It's a disaster! A complete disaster! I need you to log onto my liberry skool online account! Because yesterday, when I was writing a research report at four in the morning, I think I might have accidentally typed 'fuckety fuck fuck' for one of the questions, and now I'm terrified that I submitted it that way."

There's a pause from her end, and I can hear her reflecting mentally on how she has grown unused to ridiculous problems like this in the time since we have stopped being roomies. But she rallies, and I direct her onto the website.

"You need to go to the My Grades section in the corner--"

(From the other side of the car, Erik the Swede helpfully carols, "They won't be your grades for long, once your teacher downloads that assignment!" Sigh.)

"-and enter my password. It's capital B as in Boy, E A M M E U P B A B Y J E S U S exclamation point question mark asterisk two."

"..."

"ROOMIE!ANN LESS DELIBERATING MORE LOGGING ON!!!!!!"

After a rather hysterical confirmation, I made her open every page I uploaded today. "You can just do a general Find for 'fuckety'... although now that I think about it, I may not have spelled it correctly. Why don't you just start with 'fu' and see what comes up?"

Faithful!Readers, I imagine you will be just as relieved as me to learn that I had apparently managed to censor myself to the point that I had preemptively deleted all the swear words. Phew. Assignment saved, thanks to the hard work of Roomie!Ann!!!

Donald Is Very Good At Hiding

2011-01-27T12:10:00.000-05:00

Well kids, I went to the dentist and came home with... a bite splint. Let me tell you, it’s a good thing I have such wonderful self-confidence, because considering I already am in possession of a retainer, a pair of glasses, a few extra pounds and a clumsiness issue, the addition of a giant piece of plastic that causes profound drooling issues might push a lesser person over the edge. But I shall not despair! I shall carry on, mumbling incoherently and, as mentioned, dribbling a little bit. Huzzah.

So there I was, trapped in the scary dental chair of doom, waiting for my Official Fitting and occasionally being asked, "Do you feel okay? Does it feel like you've got a bit in your mouth? Because it's supposed to." Whilst there, the Disney Channel was blaring from a corner of the office, broadcasting something called "Mickey's Clubhouse," a particularly terrifying piece of television I'd never had the pleasure of seeing before. Do you think Mickey has noticed that he's the only one in his male group of Clubhouse friends without a speech impediment and potential developmental issues? You'd imagine it be fairly obvious, when he and the boys are playing poker, or watching football, or doing whatever it is Disney cartoon stars do when they're not teaching children that Diamonds are a Shape. (Also, someone should let Daisy know that a little eyeshadow goes a long way, especially on a duck.)

The dentist turned off the show before I was able to see if Mickey found Donald while they were playing hide-and-go-seek. I'm assuming yes, since Donald appeared to be suffering from some sort of mange, and was shedding feathers like it was his job. But I guess I'll never know for sure.....

The Melon Suffers

2011-01-26T13:35:00.003-05:00

Erik the Swede and I were discussing our plans for dinner this morning, whilst he ate oatmeal and I did my best to drown in a cup of coffee. (Our copy of the Declaration of Independence fell down last night, onto the bird cage, at four in the morning. The resulting clatter-clatter-clatter coupled with frantic "OMG someone is trying to kill us" screams from the birds meant that I didn't get back to sleep until it was practically time to get up again. Sigh.) Anyway, we're going to be making some sort of faux-chicken-wing recipe that I got out of the back of Eat This, Not That. It requires that I cut chicken breasts into half-inch strips and put them into a bag to marinate.

Erik looked at me, all serious-like.
"Monica, be careful when you're using the knife."

I look at him, blearily.

"Because it might be heavier than you think, and you don't have a lot of experience with it, and..."

I look at him, blearily.

"You don't want to slip, since the chicken will be slimy, and..."

I look at him, blearily.

"Please don't cut your fingers off. I don't even like you using a vegetable peeler."

My mother can sympathize, Erik the Swede. She barely let me handle butter knives, and even then, you could tell she wished she could just hand me a spork and be done with it.

In Groups, Parties, Nations, And Epochs It Is The Rule

2011-01-16T11:32:00.004-05:00

Thank God I don't work this weekend, Faithful!Readers. It has been busy enough that I haven't even completed my required homework; if I'd had to drive into work, I wouldn't have even had time to turn on the computer. Roomie!Ann, Lizzie and The Boy were all out with me and Erik the Swede on Friday, celebrating (slightly in advance) my birthday. Mmm. Hamburgers. Then Saturday the girls (and EtS, ever patient) and I went out for brekkies, and then painted trivets at our nearby Paint Pottery And Then Get It Fired And It Looks Almost Like You're Crafty store. Trivet, I have decided, is a fun word, and somewhat reminiscent of a certain Star Trek pest. Good times.

I do still like work, of course. Sometimes the Servitude Center bores me out of my mind, but most of the time I just have to sit back and laugh at the ridiculousness of the majority of our patrons.

I get asked the weirdest stuff, kids.

Like, who would call the library to find out the decomposition time of a corpse in a desert, taking into account the natural progression of wind and sand? A serial killer, that's who. Or Richard Castle. And then, I once had a lovely conversation with a gentleman who needed advise on whether or not he should take a construction job in Arkansas. There was the woman whose father had passed away the day before, and who was really concerned about one of the plants she had received because she thought it needed to be repotted, and could I confirm that for her? Another woman uses us as her go-to cookbook assistance, and will ask us things about substituting Crisco for butter, and whether or not applesauce can replace jam in Jam Cookies, and my personal thoughts on sea salt versus regular table salt. And, of course, there's a hypochondriac who calls every few days to ask questions like "I think that my carrots have pesticide on them, but if I boil them, won't they just be stewing in poison?"

I love them all. I feel like I should write a book, but I honestly can't figure out a setting to put them all in without copying the plot of King of Hearts.

In other fun news, I'm sporting a festive new pet peeve: When teachers refuse to respond to your emails, but instead post general overarching comments to the message board that in some way address what you emailed them about, but not quite enough, so that you're stuck between not writing them back and just accepting their vague notes as a sign that you're not worth emailing directly, or sending a second query to them, risking their hatred and a possible bad grade brought about solely because they're sick of looking at anything related to you. Grr.

Is "Milking" Supposed To Be Erotic?

2011-01-12T11:36:00.004-05:00

I'm always surprised, as I'm putting books on hold for patrons at the Servitude Center, by the dichotomy between what's acceptable material to have on the shelf for women, as opposed to what's acceptable for men.

It's a reasonably common belief that women are more "verbal," where as men tend to react better to visual stimuli. (Hey, look, there's a book about it!) So bearing that in mind, I don't really see how it's fair for us to keep soft-core written pornography on the shelves, but not include the same thing in DVD format.

Take, for example, the following excerpts from "Secrets: The Best In Women's Erotic Romance, Volume 6," which was discarded from our shelves just today due to the way it had been read to pieces by hordes of voracious presumably-female patrons, and then swiped off the book cart by me in front of the wrathful gaze of Mama!Bear.

(Oh, and apologies. Not everything I blanked out is inappropriate, per se, but I didn't want certain strings of words to pop up in any pervy online searches. I get enough of those already. Yick.)

"Flint strained to fight off the intense urge to *** her to ***** him, to give him relief. He was sweating. Dana ******* his ****, explored them with her ******, and tasted the tiny bead of ********* on the **** of his ****. She was squirming with ****, but by-passed her body's demands at the cost of keeping him *********. She ****** him from **** to ***, engulfed him in her warm *****, and ****** her **** rhythmically" (74).

Or, wait for it,

"He rested back against the cushions, and she lowered herself until she was face-to-face with his glorious ******. It was **** and *****, so ***** that at the **** that she couldn't get her hand all the way around it. It felt ****** and *** in her hand. She ******** gently and heard a breath catch in his throat. Slowly, she ******* her **** and ****** the very ***. Then, bolder, she took the entire **** into her ***** and ******" (205).

Now, remembering that this is the type of book where one of the heroes manfully shouts that sleeping with his girlfriend/prisoner/vampire slave is like "f***ing a peach," which escapes me as a simile, doesn't this seem very, very porny? But you wouldn't catch a film like this on the shelves, because concerned, presumably-female patrons would have swooped in and demanded it be removed, and then burned in a public demonstration outside the building. And that's just not fair, kids.

...

Right. Now that all that's done, I'm going to see whether or not Miss Felicity Wells was able to learn from the attractive Dr. Marcus Slade how to satisfy her soon-to-be husband....

My Good Opinion Once Lost....

2011-01-11T12:32:00.003-05:00

I had a nice chat with one of the mothers of a former classmate of mine the other day. She has always been very pleasant, and God knows I like to talk, so we were going on about this and that, and she concluded the conversation by saying that her daughter says hello.

Kids, that's a fairly innocuous statement, but I literally had to bite the inside of my lip to keep from saying, "Thanks so much, but since your daughter made my little nine-year-old life a living hell, I could die quite happily having never heard her name mentioned to me again and, by the way, I hope she develops facial warts. Hugs and kisses!"

Wow, Mr. Darcy much? Who knew I held grudges?
(Answer: Eeeeeveryone.)

Erik the Swede and I pretty much have this apartment thing down, although neither of us has been able to successfully beat the heating/cooling system into submission. The bedroom = Freezing. The hallway = Sweltering. The kitchen = So dry the parakeets' water evaporates twice a day. And the porch door isn't so much drafty as perpetually open; you can feel the breeze halfway across the room. Sigh. I've decided the only solution is to wear layers on top of layers, all of which are connected to me with strings, so when I hurl one sweatshirt from me it just tags along. Because I'll need it. Ten seconds later. When I cross the room.

In unrelated news, can we all agree that "Cross-eyed opossum capturing the hearts of Germans" is possibly one of the most ridiculously awesome headlines ever? I think we can.

That Didn't Pan Out

2011-01-09T21:14:00.003-05:00

Erik the Swede and I decided to pull a semi-double-date with Equally Gorgeous Co-worker, her boy toy, and one of their friends (hence the "semi" part), and went to see True Grit. Now, Toi and I had done our best to watch the original but gave up only a portion of the way through, and then... did ~~Star Trek Tim~~ n00bie!r00mie and I watch it all the way through? ~~I think it was with him.~~ Yes. Yes we did. But I fell asleep during the climactic battle sequence. So I was really hoping that the new Coen Bros. version would redeem it in my eyes.

And it did! For me. There was drama! There was action! There was Matt Damon with super-bad hair, and Barry Pepper proving yet again that he is happiest with roles where he is allowed to play with very large guns. Hooray!

Erik the Swede, alas, had more trouble with it than I did. Apparently not speaking English as a first language is a bit of a deterrent when all of the characters are sporting ridiculously thick accents. Cogburn's was almost incoherent, especially towards the end when the whiskey was slurring every word into nonsense. I sort of felt obligated to narrate ("Okay, there, Rooster just said 'Fill your hands, you son of a bitch.'") but I was afraid the people sitting behind us would kick me in the head. Sigh.

Okay, Really, I'm Posting Now.

2011-01-06T13:40:00.003-05:00

My mother pointed out to me yesterday that I was doing a fairly crappy job of keeping up on my New Year's Resolution to blog more. True story! However, in my defense, we didn't actually have the internet yet here at Apartment. And then when we got it, my poor computer refused to allow itself to be hooked up properly. Silly Rupert.

But now! Here I am, internet working, computer in hand, ready to resume my previously scheduled blog posts!

Yesterday was a day o' visits, Faithful!Readers, and if you were not over saying hello to me you should feel ashamed of yourselves. Kiker stopped by with a vintage toaster, complete with settings for both Toast and Pastry and faux-wood panels. It's easily the classiest thing in our kitchen. Then Equally Gorgeous Co-worker stopped by (after wandering lost in my complex for more than half an hour -- apparently my very detailed directions such as "turn left at the pimp car" and "keep straight when you pass the fifth dumpster" weren't enough to keep her on track) bearing delicious sangria. And then Star Trek Tim teamed up with Erik the Swede, and the two of them managed to force our gigantic coffin-shaped coffee table into the apartment. Which I am currently using as an ottoman. Huzzah!

I don't work today, but poor Erik the Swede still has to be off doing engineer-type stuff. So I'm going to play proper Suzy Homemaker and make dinner for us! Of course, I have no idea how to boil water, so most of this food-preparation is going to be done at home under the strict supervision of my mother. She is sending me back to Apartment to do the final baking part of the meal... so let's all hope that our cheap-looking smoke detector actually works, yes? Yes.

The Steel Javelins And Arrows Of A World Of Time And Money

2010-12-30T22:23:00.003-05:00

Hey all! Sorry about the gap in posting -- I have no excuse save laziness.

On the other hand, my upcoming New Year's resolution will be to blog more, which means you'll have at least a month of solid posts before I lapse again.

Did everyone have a merry Christmas? Mine was filled with laughter and unicorn giggles, as per the usual. To make things even more exciting, I am now officially an apartment-dweller; I signed my lease on Tuesday afternoon. Erik the Swede got here the same night, and we will commence moving tomorrow. I AM ALMOST A GROWN UP!! Whoo?

Kiker's grandmother passed away unexpectedly on Christmas, which is ridiculously depressing. Slightly less depressing is the fact that the family only had about three days to completely empty her apartment. Hence the call I received on Tuesday morning:

Kiker: Monica. Do you need a sofa with a fold-out bed?
Me: Sure!
Kiker: Want a matching loveseat?
Me: Awesome!
Kiker: I've got an all-wood entertainment center with a 32" television too.
Me: Okay!
Kiker: How about a freestanding headboard with a built-in wine rack?
Me: Yes?
Kiker: And another sofa?
Me: Um...
Kiker: And a kitchen table and chairs?
Me: I have one already.
Kiker: And a water bed?
Me: I just bought my own mattress!
Kiker: And five end tables?
Me: No!
Kiker: We're moving everything into your apartment today. Have fun in Detroit!

I have no idea how she and the menfolk she coerced into helping managed to get everything up the winding stairway to my third-floor apartment, nor how she convinced the apartment managers that she should be allowed to have the key despite the fact that I hadn't signed the lease yet... but my place looks classy. It's kind of shocking. Also shocking was when we opened up the wine-rack in the headboard, and realized that her grandma had been keeping a secret cache of bags and bags of ancient, worth-lots-of-money coins in there, along with newspaper clippings from WWII and tiny photos of family members. I tried to convince Kiker that they were technically mine now, since the headboard had been given to me, but for some reason she didn't listen.

In other news, guys, I am absolutely fascinated by this article from Lapham's Quarterly about Barbara Newhall Follett. Want to know what one of the most frustrating things in the world is, for those of us who read like it's our job? When you find out about an author who sounds absolutely magical, only to realize that everything she has ever written has been out of print for almost a century, and that no library in your entire state has a copy of her work. Sigh.

What this means is that anyone who manages to track down a copy of "House Without Windows" for me is practically guaranteed to be my best friend for life.

For. Life

There Within Me Lay An Invincible Summer

2010-12-21T03:21:00.000-05:00

Kids, I'm so torn. Do I stay up until three in the morning, in order to peer through the clouds and try to watch the lunar eclipse? Do I go to bed now and wake up before seven, so that I can celebrate solstice by ushering in a new day? Or do I just pull an all-nighter, accomplish both, and maybe get some proofing done in the meantime?

The jury is still out, so while I ponder my options, I'm burning a candle (away darkness, awaaaay) and playing online scrabble. Whoo!

I've hit the point in my Christmas planning where every day is full. Do you guys run into this problem? Given the sheer number of people I need to hang out with, exchange gifts with, have dinner with, etc... I'm booked so solid I may have to start skipping work. Which would be tragic, although to be fair, I spent the majority of the day today cutting out festive Christmas Dinosaur paper chains, and listening to patrons explain to me why I was a racist. Apparently when I don't allow non-cardholders to check out books, is the answer. Go figure.

Poor Erik the Swede. He's going to arrive and I will not have boxed up any of our belongings, set up the internet at our apartment, or vacuumed. "I am sorry!" I will wail. "I was seduced by promises of sangria, and Little Women! I am powerless against the Christmas season!"

In unrelated news, Holly and Cath apparently got to cuddle a baby tiger yesterday. The tiny PETA part of me is outraged. The rest of me isn't paying any attention to the PETA part, due to drooling in extreme jealousy over not getting to pet the kitty myself.

-------------

UPDATE: Pshaw. Stupid cloud cover. Why must it destroy my dreams of an eclipse of epic awesomeness? Did catch a brief glimpse of it -- if anyone asks, I'm going to tell them it was the most momentous experience of my life, just so they feel bad about staying up with me.

I'm Pretty Sure I Just Came Back From The Doctor With Life-Changing News

2010-12-11T23:28:00.005-05:00

So I've been at Grandma and Grandpa's for the past few days, which is all manner of fun, and involves much more Jeopardy-watching and cribbage-playing than I get in my normal day to day life. But occasionally I run into difficulties.

Grandpa was cooking dinner the other night when he suddenly glanced at his hand and realized that a cut on his finger had reopened and blood was... not streaming, but certainly dripping into the bowl he was about to pour green beans into.

"Grandpa!" I shrieked, running for a bandaid and the Neosporin. As we got him bandaged back up, I went to get a new bowl -- it was at that point that I noticed he must have been bleeding earlier than he realized, because almost all the bowls in the drawer were streaked inside and out with blood from where he had been rummaging for the Green Bean Bowl. I put all of them into the sink (they don't have a dishwasher) and brought him a new, clean bowl.

Grandpa: "What's this for?"

Me: "Grandpa, there's blood in the other one. This one is clean."

Grandpa: "Oh PAH! It's fine. You fuss too much."

Me: "Grandpa, no. No. I cannot eat out of that bowl. It is covered in bodily fluids."

Grandpa: "Go and get me another bandaid."

Me: "Okay...."

Of course, my grandfather is a crafty man, and by the time I got back to the kitchen he had poured all the beans into the Green Bean Bowl. As I stared at it, horrified, he informed me that he had "wiped it with a napkin" and that I should sit down and get ready for dinner.

I want you to picture me, friends, sitting there at the kitchen table, battling my need to make the grandparents happy with my need to not throw up as my germ phobia kicks into high gear. Normally I'm only bothered by other people's mouth germs -- apparently the concept of ingesting blood sets me off too. (Sorry Edward. We are obviously not meant for one another.) I tried to take just a few beans off the top with my fork, because surely if they didn't touch the actual bowl, they were safe. Of course, Grandpa then announced that he didn't cook all those beans to have me not eat them, and proceeded to dump half the bowl onto my plate.

...

Let it never be said, kids, that I can't occasionally put on a brave face and not piss off my grandparents. I just... never want to eat beans. Ever again. Bad memories.

As a fun coda to the story, Grandma, whilst washing dishes later that evening, announced to the world at large "What are all these bowls doing here?!"

"Monica put them there," Grandpa informed her, "because she thought they had blood on them."

"NO, Grandpa, they DID have blood on them. This is how diseases get spread, for God's sake!"

"Oh Monica," said Grandma, "we could just have wiped them out with a napkin...."

Right. Back to work. I had been planning on doing homework while Mom and I watched a movie this evening, but we rented Toy Story 3 and I could not wrench my eyes away from it.

Have y'all seen it already? Cutest. Movie. Ever.

I had been warning Mom that I'd heard the movie made everyone cry, so we were feeling pretty good as we rolled into the last five minutes of the movie without a tear in sight. And then... those last five minutes turned out to be *ridiculously* heart-wrenching. The two of us glanced at each other once, and then burst into hysterical sobs. We never even saw it coming! Curse you, Pixar, for toying with our emotions so.....

Is Like Holiday In Old Country

2010-12-10T15:54:00.002-05:00

After staying up until... how late were we up, Toi? Six thirty? Anyway, after staying up way too late at Toi's watching British films and then staggering upright and out to my car, I had to speed like the wind to my grandparents' house, in order to bring my Aunt Katie some malaria vaccinations, or something. For my cousin. Apparently he is at risk for malaria?

Anyway, picture me driving 100 miles an hour down the expressway, dramatically humming a "Driving 100 miles an hour down the expressway"-inspired song whilst a little cooler sat in the passenger seat next to me, filled with life-saving medicine.

I was like Balto, Dog of the North, racing to save the children of Nome from a DEADLY DIPHTHERIA EPIDEMIC! Or maybe more like Togo, Lesser Known Dog of the North, who many believe to be the true hero of the 1925 Serum Run, but who was SHAMEFULLY neglected by the general public in favor of the aforementioned Balto.

A police escort would have made it even more exciting, but as it was I was still kept modestly entertained for the entirety of the drive, picturing the bronze statue they would surely erect in Central Park of me (with a steering wheel).

Surely You Must Know It Was All For You

2010-12-09T04:41:00.000-05:00

Toi, as some of you may already know, has announced that she is taking off for Our Nation's Capitol in just a short while, the news of which threw me into a flurry of sorrow and flip-outed-ness.

It's not like we hang out all that often, of course, but every time a friend packs up and heads out of the state, it's a little unnerving. I get that "Stay with meeeeeee" feeling and need to keep myself from hanging off their ankles, wailing. (Roomie!Ann can attest that I only did that *once*, and to be fair, she was leaving for the whole summer.) But before she leaves, we're getting in a little hang-out time, which is mostly Studying For Exam time, coupled with Watching All Manner Of British-Esque Television Such As Sherlock and Pride and Prejudice and Love Actually, and also Eating Too Much Rice Pudding. Hooray!

I am fairly glad I've finally gotten to watch Sherlock -- have you seen it, Faithful!Readers? If I can just get Toi to finish Jekyll, we'll be all caught up on our trashy miniseries. Until, you know, the show starts back up again. Which it should do. Immediately.

Update: Oop, and now we're on to Becoming Jane. Bedtime shall come when? NEVAH!

Minor Technical Difficulty: Please Stand By

2010-12-04T00:25:00.002-05:00

Kiker and I headed off on my second Craigslist Quest today, friends, this time to pick up a table that was described only as "pretty sweet." I thought this was enough to merit purchasing -- unfortunately, I didn't actually stop to get additional information, like the exact measurements of the item in question.

Even more unfortunate was that we didn't notice that anything was wrong until we'd already paid for it, been abandoned by the homeowner and left standing in the cold of her driveway in the dark, and had the table shoved almost all the way into the back of my car. At which point, two inches from victory, we suddenly ran out of room. "Well... shit," said Kiker. She's very good with words.

This prompted a flurry of phone calls for aid ("Hey Daddy? Remember how you're the best daddy in the whole wide world and I love you oh-so-much and also I am your eldest daughter and you would do anything for me, including driving halfway across town in the middle of the night to a sketchy neighborhood to try and fit a coffin-sized coffee table into your car?") as well as some subsequent follow-up ones. ("Hey Mommy? Remember how you're the best mommy in the whole wide world and I love you oh-so-much and also I am your eldest daughter and you would do anything for me, including letting me shove a gigantic monstrosity of a piece of furniture up the stairs and into the middle of our new guest bedroom?") But we managed in the end, despite a minute or two where Kiker and I, standing alone in the dark waiting for my father, worried very intensely whether or not the hulking shape in the yard across the street from us was a zombie, and whether or not it made sense to try and get onto the roof of the garage immediately, or to wait for it to lunge closer before running for cover.

The only problem now is that Star Trek Tim, previously bribed into providing a one-month home for the damn thing via gifts of both pizza and Jim Beam and some *serious* whining coupled with mostly ineffective eyelash batting, may need to come and ferry it from the aforementioned bedroom to his apartment. I wonder if just the promise of more pizza will suffice, or if I'll actually need to offer him my firstborn.

In other news, I was absolutely raving to Shel today about a book I read this week, and she pointed out to me that the author is the father of one of Holly's besties. It was like my brain fell out of my head, friends -- I could not have been more surprised if I ran into Anne McCaffrey at the grocery store. Must... not... stalk local author... and attempt to steal his brilliance either through observation and/or eating his brain....

Constant Vigilance!

2010-12-02T23:19:00.005-05:00

GASP! I... am a terrible person, Faithful!Readers. I had been doing so well at posting a couple of times a week, and now look at me. First post since November 21st!?

I am so ashamed of myself. What would my Aunt Katie say?

XPhile!Kaye and I went out this afternoon on a Craigslist Quest, to pick up a table I need for my upcoming apartment with Erik the Swede. (Also upcoming: familial recriminations and guilt trips associated with Living in Sin, without any of the actual fun sinning parts. Dammit.)

As everyone knows, Craigslist is merely a front for a vast network of chimos and white slave traders, and I needed backup in case "Patti the woman who lives in a duplex" turned out to be "Bubba the disoriented but agile crackhead who needs to sell me to pay off his dealer." XPhile!Kaye, God bless her heart, instantly understood this, and was more than willing to drive half an hour outside of town with me as long as I didn't make her carry anything heavy.

So now I am possessed of a table! The birds are currently sitting on it, and have apparently challenged each other to a game of "Who can throw more feathers and seed shells onto the formerly unscathed wooden surface!?!" To give credit where it's due, Saffron does appear to be winning--apparently molting gives her an edge.

Now all I need is an iron, a microwave, a DVD player, and a bed! Of course, hell if I know what I'll do with the iron -- but doesn't it seem like something a responsible person (ie myself) would own? True story.

Like A Duck Choking On A Kazoo

2010-11-21T23:43:00.004-05:00

When I started work at the Servitude Center, it was explained to me that someday I would be given the passcode to the alarm system that guards the building on evenings and weekends. (Once again, machines are taking over jobs that loyal, hardworking, chainmail-clad bears would be happy to do.) Up until the point when I would be entrusted with the codes, though... I was supposed to just kind of chill in the background and let other people ferry me in and out of the place.

So I showed up this afternoon, and my car was the only one in the parking lot. So I waited. And I waited. Where was my co-worker? Was she in the building already? Had she walked? Was I making myself late by chilling in my car unnecessarily?

I figured I would just poke my head into the entryway and see if the lights were on. I wouldn't actually open the main doors. Easy peasy.

Imagine my surprise when I realized that not only is the main door wired to the alarm, but also the boring little entryway door. And look! The siren is going off, and lights are beginning to flash inside the hallway! Aha whoops.

I was still pretty calm, until (sixty seconds after I opened the door) the massive external speakers mounted on the roof of the building, heretofore unnoticed, began just wailing. Banshee-type noises, kids. I can understand that type of security as a warning against, say, an incoming attack by Godzilla. It seemed a little over the top for someone opening the wrong door. I mean, the building was already on red alert. Did we really need to everyone within a ten-mile radius? Apparently yes.

But no worries! I managed to get my boss on the phone, and he passed along the number for the people who monitor the system, and I, speedy dialer that I am, was able to prevent the cops from being dispatched. Victory!!

Righto. Back to "The Viking," the allegedly classic 1928 silent epic about Leif Ericson and his voyage from Norway to America. No lie, guys, the women are all wearing hats with wings on them, and the guys hats with horns. They are also very, very clean, and their hair seems recently conditioned. And one of the vikings appears to be wearing a pocket watch. Methinks this is not an authentic-type film. On the other hand, it's a silent movie, but it's in color, which is a strange enough combination that I'm finding it hard to tear myself away. God bless you, Turner Classic Movies....

Where Are The Baby's Feathers?

2010-11-20T09:07:00.001-05:00

I went to visit Cousins Ben&Jenny a few days ago, ostensibly to hang out with them, but mainly so I could make almost constant goo-goo eyes at my Baby Cousin. She is so cute. Oh my God. It should be illegal. I would steal her away and keep her for myself, if it weren't for the way that baby theft is sort of frowned upon, and also because then I would probably be expected to change diapers and handle screaming and *not* have someone to foist her off on when she starts throwing up. Gross.

I did run into a small problem during the aforementioned goo-gooing.

Apparently... I talk to babies the same way I talk to my birds.

In my defense, babies apparently play with the same toys that my birds do. The little chain of plastic shapes that Baby Cousin was happily drooling over is the exact same one that my parakeets fight over.

So it's totally understandable that I mixed them up.

"Who's an ickle widdle featherkins? Who's a biddy fluffy budgie? You are!" I cooed. "Does your beaky-weaky like to chew on plastic? Yes it does! Yes it does!!"

Cousin!Jenny seemed fairly unperturbed that I was apparently laboring under the impression that her baby has wings--although I imagine if I had tried to hang a cuttlebone on the bouncy seat, she would have tossed me out of the house.

Spoiler Alert. Spoiler Spoiler Spoiler.

2010-11-19T03:02:00.004-05:00

Toi and n00bie!r00mie and I hit up the midnight show of Harry Potter Seven Part One ("Harry Potter and the Semi-Awkward Cliffhanger") this evening, which was epic in the way of all HP midnight shows.

There were the obligatory teens dressed as Slutty Gryffindors, the groups of two or three kids who were "holding spots" for fifteen to twenty other people who didn't show up until quarter to eleven and waltzed into the line like they'd been there all evening with the rest of us, and, of course, a choir of cosplaying children singing Mysterious Ticking Noise.

The three of us felt old. ("Did movie theater floors used to be this uncomfortable!?")
But we bravely stood our ground for five hours, regardless.

A few thoughts on the movie itself:

When Dobby kicked it, half the theater started crying. Half the theater. For the most irritating character in the entire series. (Movie, not book -- I loved him in the book, but in the movie he was like a terrible cross between Jar Jar Binks and Gollum, what with the high pitched voice, and referring to himself in the third person, and the way Harry was most obviously his Precious.) If people were getting hysterical over that, I can't imagine what's going to happen during the Epic Battle Scene Where JK Kills EVERYONE six months from now.

I know that Hermione said that she had packed ahead of time, and that her bag contained everything they were going to need. But was anyone else a little alarmed that she had thought to include both a shovel and a burial shroud? I mean, I'm all for planning ahead, but that's... that's kind of morbid....

Poor Rupert. It must be at least vaguely distressing to realize that DanRad and Emma have so much great chemistry that the director is purposely putting in scene after scene of the two of them laughing, and holding hands, and dancing awkwardly amidst the candlelight, whereas you, who is supposed to be the love interest, is left stomping around making wistful cow eyes at a girl who, to the best of the audiences' knowledge, thinks you have the brain capacity of a turnip. And yes, I realize Hermione is all, "Ron, I miss you!" but does she honestly? Toi and I vote no, at least.

Dumbledore was dating Jamie Campbell Bower!? For realsies!? Way to go, Albus!! Give a girl some tips!!

Oh, and Tom Felton, I love you, even when you are all panicked and staring deeply into Harry's eyes. Call me.

It Didn't Occur To Her To Look Back.

2010-11-11T18:23:00.000-05:00

Guys, I don't know if this is a factor of me having been a vegetarian during my formative years, or simply a result of an overactive imagination coupled with the typical American issue of not wanting to know where my food comes from. Whatever the case may be, whenever I eat something that actually looks like a dead animal because it has bones and whatnot, I feel like the setting in which I am eating should be different.

Rather than sitting at my kitchen table eating a chicken wing, I should be transported into a scene from 10,000 BC, or Clan of the Cave Bear. (Sans the graphic rape, obviously, and the way women are treated as objects.) Food with bones requires digging up roots with sticks, and an animal-skin lean-to, and... and bison, or else it doesn't fit! I feel like it should have been speared and cooked over an open fire, rather than via the microwave.

Does anyone else ever get this way? Like, stare at a rack of ribs and think, "Why am I not flavoring this with wild berries and perhaps a grouse that I caught via a snare"? Or am I really just nuts?

In other news, Mom and Enviably Gorgeous Coworker and Equally Gorgeous Coworker and I all went to a sneak peak of Tangled last night, which was awesome despite the fact that they wanded everyone at the door and I had to retreat to my car with our contraband cans of pop and cameras, because they weren't going to let me into the theater otherwise. Losers. Anyway, I highly recommend it -- at one point, I had to confirm with Equally that it's all right for me to have a crush on the main character, because he was in 3D, which made him practically a real person. She agreed.

What We Have Here Is A Failure To Communicate

2010-11-10T02:01:00.000-05:00

Friends, do you ever have times when you're talking, or texting, or emailing someone, and you're like "Something" and they're like "Something completely different that in no way resembles your original statement," and you go "What? No, that's not..." and they go "I TAKE OFFENSE TO WHAT YOU ARE SAYING!" all crazy-like even though you're not actually saying that, and they've got everything confused, and you are trying to calmly explain your point of view so that everything can be straightened out but you're pissed off now because they're pissed about something you didn't even mean to imply and who does that anyway, so your reply is perhaps a bit more snappy than it would be under normal circumstances, which ends up making them more upset, if such things were possible, and the next thing you know you're both apparently never speaking again and hating each others faces but that's okay because it turns out that lo and behold you weren't even friends in the first place because a real friend wouldn't be such a jerk and blow everything out of proportion over a simple misunderstanding?

::: gasp wheeze choke :::

Wow.

Apparently when I'm tired, I write run-on sentences like it's my job.

I'm going to go crash now, and in the morning, I'll look over the above statement and see if I can do a little objective editing. The entire thing will be whittled down to "Sometimes people irritate me," and y'all will wonder why that statement deserved its own post. Good times.

A Boy And His Zombie

2010-11-08T01:24:00.000-05:00

Kids, I could not be more in love with Walking Dead if I tried. Seriously, a zombie drama? The only thing that could possibly make it better is if the deer from Slither made an appearance. But, we're only in the second episode, so... I'll give them time.

Anyway, what the show *has* done is really impress upon me that I will be doomed in the coming zombie apocalypse. It's sort of a bummer. I have already come to terms with the fact that I'm not--for example--cut out to be the Doctor's companion, due to all the running. Oh, and not able to date a vampire, because of the way I find it creepy when dudes sneak into my room and watch me sleep.

But zombies I thought I could handle.
Because of the way they're slow.
And staggery.

UNFORTUNATELY, being one of a few lone human survivors in a world devastated by a zombie plague appears to mean that you not only need to run, you also need to be able to shoot, and to not be afraid of the dark, and to be able to beat the hell out of dead guys with nothing but a shovel.

What this boils down to is that I'm relying on you, Faithful!Readers. If you're at home, and you hear something on the news like "viral plague is causing wandering sickness" or "aliens shooting long distance electrodes into the pineal and pituitary gland of the recently dead" or "Umbrella Corporation apologizes for recent laboratory explosion," I need you to head over here *immediately* to my rescue. Okay? Okay!

A Casual Conversation

2010-11-07T14:01:00.006-05:00

Mom was heading out the door earlier this afternoon.

"Farewell, my little monkeybread," she caroled to me from the front hallway.

"Farewell what? That doesn't even make sense."

"Well, it's a plant, so..."

"It's a plant? Monkeybread is a plant!? Also, how does that make any more sense now? That would be like saying Farewell my little wisteria. Or something."

"Wait, hang on. It's not actually a plant, I don't think."

"Let me Google it."

"Oh, no, you know what, I'm thinking of breadfruit. Breadfruit is a plant. Monkeybread is a baked good. The one with sugar, and little balls of dough."

"So it was like you were saying Farewell my little croissant?"

"Yes."

"Okay. Goodbye Mom."

Then, of course, there was a moment of "Wait, have you been typing down this entire conversation? You're not blogging this, are you?" Hee. No. Never.

In 500 Yards, Please Do Whatever You Want

2010-11-05T10:21:00.000-04:00

My new bestie Betsy, whilst we were out to lunch the other day, heard me whining to Kiker about my inability to go anywhere without getting lost. It's as though my brain shuts down -- I'll be repeating in my head, "Go down Straight Street, turn left at Elderberry Court, and the house is on the right," and the next thing I know I'll be in Switzerland. I will have crossed an ocean and not even realized it.

Many of my friends at this point now take into account both my problems with leaving the house on time, and the fact that I can't cross the street without getting totally turned around, and now give me start times to events five hours early, knowing that it will take me at least that long to get there.

Anyway, Betsy offered me her TomTom, due to the fact that she now has one of those snazzy GPS features on her even snazzier phone, and doesn't need superfluous electronic equipment anymore. Guys, TomToms are magical. I haven't quite gotten all the details on mine figured out, but I did at least manage to program the location of my house, and can now find my way back home no matter where I end up!

Mom and I decided to test this out, of course. No use in having a GPS screen stuck to my car if it can't keep up with my ridiculous driving.

Mom: So, it's nice you can get home and all, but what if you miss your location?
Me: I assume it tells me how to fix my course?
TomTom: In two hundred yards, you have reached your destination.
Mom: Keep going!
TomTom: Please make a U-Turn.
Me: I'm turning right, but I'm not stopping! What now, TomTom!?
TomTom: After four hundred yards, please turn right.
Mom: Turn left! Let's throw it off!
Me: WHEE!
TomTom: Turn right. After three streets, please turn right.
Mom: Okay, let's go home now, sweetie.
Me: I'm driving in circles now, TomTom! Let's see you get me out of this mess!
TomTom: Please turn left.
Mom: Monica, turn left.
Me: Oh, I'll turn left! INTO THIS STRANGER'S DRIVEWAY! And now I'm backing up and turning around! You'll never catch me, TomTom!!

Mom did eventually wrestle the poor TomTom out of my graspy hands; without its constant stream of calm directional chatter, I lost interest in driving in octagons around my neighborhood. But it's good to know, right? If I'm ever being chased by rabid bears armed with hand grenades, and I need to lose them but also need to make my way home? I'll totally be able to.

Y'all Come Back Now!

2010-11-03T11:18:00.002-04:00

One of my co-workers, henceforth referred to as MamaBear, has the good fortune of being scheduled on almost every shift with me, including an entire Saturday-Sunday one every three weeks. As a result, we see each other more than I do almost anyone else in the department.

This is awesome, because she is a very pleasant woman who is just bossy enough to ensure that I always can ask her questions when I get confused, because she's happy to show me the Right Way to do things.

This is terrible, because she has a very faint Southern accent that grows stronger as the day progresses and she gets more fatigued.

Friends, Monica does not react well to accents.

As Toi can attest (she has the same problem, which makes me feel less like a freak and more like someone who is just really, really cool and in an exclusive club of equally cool people), when I am set next to someone with an accent, I immediately and unquestioningly begin to imitate them.

It's not something I can control! It's not something I can duplicate when I'm not actually next to them, hearing them talk! And it's bad enough that when, for example, Toi and I went on our Ireland trip, everyone we were with thought we were South African, because that's who we were hanging out with. Sigh.

So far it hasn't been a problem, because she hasn't ever walked in on me while I was talking to someone else. I am waiting, though. Some day she's going to hear me talking in my normal, precise (and often ridiculously mistaken for British) voice, and then I'll turn to her and instantly warp into MamaBear talk, with soft drawn out vowels and lots of "I done said"s and "if'n you're gonna"s, and she'll think I'm mocking her. How will I explain that really, I just have no dialect identity and must leech off of those around me!?

Dear Diary, Today....

2010-11-02T22:35:00.003-04:00

In sort of a festive reunion type thingy, Kiker and Betsy and Mickie and I got together this afternoon for lunch. Really, in many ways it was better than a real reunion -- our class president vanished into thin air after graduation, and our five-year was held at a bar with only about 10% of the class even invited. It was highly disappointing to the rest of us, who really desperately wanted to catch up on who had gotten fat and/or pregnant.

Betsy I haven't seen in about three years, due to her living far away and doing engineering things all the time. Mickie I haven't seen in about three years, despite the fact that we live ten minutes from one another, due to both of us sucking at being friends. (This is a longstanding tradition with us. My first senior year, she lived in my apartment building, and I believe I saw her once during the entire nine months I was there, as we passed each other in the hallway and did one of those cool-guy upward "Hey" nods.) And Kiker, obviously, I saw on Sunday. But I like her, so it was okay to hang out with her again.

Anyway, as this turns into a long, rambly, boring-for-those-of-you-who-weren't-there post, it was a very nice time. Y'all should have been there.

As a fun aside -- Mom was reading a text on my crappy four-year-old phone, and tried to scroll down to read the rest. "Mom," I said. "Mom. Not all of us have nifty touch-screen phones. You have to use the buttons." It was reminiscent, for a brief flash of a moment, of the time when one of Baby!Bro's friends was over and tried to call his house on our rotary dial phone by punching the numbers.... Modern technology. How it ruins us for dealing with older versions of the same machine.

Gibbs! We're Receiving A Distress Signal!

2010-11-01T22:44:00.003-04:00

Did everyone have a fantastical Halloween?

Mine was fairly epic, although I was tragically once again barred from going door-to-door collecting candy. That's ageism, kids! And that hurts!

I also had some difficult explaining my costume. Apparently dressing as Abby Sciuto cosplaying Lt. Uhura was too convoluted an idea to carry off well. But I did my best.

Kiker, Holly, Jeffiner and Romance!Reader all came over Sunday evening for a sort of "People who don't have anywhere better to be" party. We ate too much pizza and watched Friday the 13th, yet another classic horror movie that none of us had seen.

I had to bully everyone else into it, so they were perhaps understandably less than sympathetic when I spent the entirety of the film hiding under a blanket shrieking "Don't you hear that music!? Get the hell away from the cabin!" And then, when I had to rewind because I'd actually thrown myself behind Jeffiner's chair in terror and as a result missed creepy-dead Jason roaring up out of the lake... I think at that point it became official that Monica was never allowed to pick a movie that she wasn't willing to watch all the way through.

(Kiker, from the safety of her own apartment: "But won't that basically cut out every movie ever?" Roomie!Ann, agreeing: "Seriously, Monica, you've never been able to watch an entire movie without hiding at some point. It's like you've got some sort of disease." And Mom: "You can't even watch Big, for God's sake, and that's possibly the most harmless movie of all time!")

Nature Abhors A Vacuum. And So Do I.

2010-10-29T13:33:00.001-04:00

n00bie!r00mie was over the other day, and in between watching Bourne Ultimatum and Gremlins (the latter of which I had never seen, much to apparently EVERYONE'S horror, as though they could not understand how I managed to survive to adulthood without witnessing Old Lady Deagle go flying out her window on her tampered-with electric assistance chair at least once) we also managed to fit in some Hoarders.

I'm not saying that this is what inspired me to sneak upstairs and conduct some fairly major picking-up action, but... no, let's be honest, one of my greatest fears is becoming trapped in my own home, unable to escape from an encroaching fire due to all the back issues of YASLA Magazine stacked in front of the door. So every once in a while I attempt to remedy the situation.

Below, feel free to bask in the awesomeness that is my HTML-coding-skill(z). Apparently, if you mouse over, you'll be treated to what is quite literally a transformation of almost magical proportions. Feel free to provide your own sound effects -- I find that a Bruce Campbell-like "Groovy" fits the situation best, but y'all can certainly substitute ones you feel are more appropriate.

Holly, just because I know you find it creepy, I have carefully blurred out all the faces in the photos.

Enjoy The Crushing Debt Of Your Student Loans

2010-10-28T19:50:00.001-04:00

Why didn't anyone have this conversation with me before I went to Liberry Skool!?

Sleep Is For The Weak! And Monica!

2010-10-28T15:20:00.003-04:00

Last night I had an incredibly vivid dream in which I turned eighteen. My sister turned to me and said, "Well, you're an adult now. I suppose you had better grow up." And I totally agreed, and without even thinking twice about it I went into my room, tore down all my posters, packed up all my belongings, painted the walls white, and settled down at my desk with a typewriter, of all things, presumably to clack and clatter out all sorts of boring, adult-type discourse.

I woke up, disoriented and panicked, grasping wildly for my stuffed snow leopard. Thank God, he was still there....

My brain apparently is still trying to destress, the transition from Paper Printing Place to Servitude Center being more than any poor mass of neurons and connective tissue should be expected to handle. As a result, it keeps telling me things like, "Hey Monica. Hey. Why don't you go to bed at 11:30pm, and wake up at 11:30am? Come on! It'll be fun! Everyone loves twelve hours of sleep!"

So far this week, I've been obliging Brain and sleeping like it's my job, hence the aforementioned vivid dreams I keep having. However, my mother pointed out that I'm quickly becoming a useless drain on society and I should work on getting up at a Normal Person time and, you know, getting my homework done.

Sigh.

In totally unrelated news, my shrimp had babies. Or rather, one baby. One scary, spikey-footed baby.

Don't act like you're not impressed.

College. A Time Of Purity.

2010-10-26T10:43:00.000-04:00

So friends. The other day, my blog was found through Google via the search... wait for it... "Jesus gospel penis."

Now you might ask yourself, "Gosh Monica, what kind of crazed Biblical pornography must you have on your blog, that it could pop up as a result to that kind of search?"

Or, perhaps, "Why in the name of all that is holy would you type that phrase again!? That's like typing 'Harry Potter Donkey Fetish'! Now you're going to get even more creepers breathing their way heavily onto your posts!"

The latter is probably a better question, but as to the former, we have Roomie!Ann to thank. Remember, Roomie!Ann, when you were teaching Catechism, and the guest speaker provided such interesting visual demonstrations along with his lecture?

Good times.