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

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


it is very cold... in space

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

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

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

Huh. Uncanny.

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


you gotta get me one of those jumpsuits

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

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

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


this love has taken its toll on me

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

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

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


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

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

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


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

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

bush/cheney 2004: deficit schmeficit

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