Tuesday, Nov. 21, 2006 - 8:29 a.m.


Too busy for a proper post today, hopefully I'll have time later.

I love vacation days from work, but preparing for them requires so much effort that most of the vacation time is spent in a sluggish "How did I do 16 hours of work in 8 hours anyway?" stupor.

In other news,
Anyone else sick of holiday shopping already?



Sunday, Nov. 19, 2006 - 10:30 a.m.

I got Jagermeistered . . or was it just Red Bulled?

I'm still getting over a cold (that I haven't earned by misbehaving) and have managed to pass it to Mr. Hubby who threateans to deafen me with each successive sneeze. So when Mr. Lee invited me to be the "no realy, he's an alright guy" safety-chick to accompany him and his roommate, Mr. Homework, to the bars, I sadly declined. Mr. Lee trumped my decline by declaring that they would stop by "for a couple minutes" on their way to the bars.

I dutifully tidied up the house, not wanting Mr. Homework to get the idea I'm a slob - he maintains a very tidy apartment despite a hellishly busy school schedule and living with Mr. Lee. Since I had just returned from Christmas shopping (a DUMB idea when you're brain is clogged with boogers), I was fraying fast - only wanting to watch a bad 80s movie as I worked on my seven-year backlog of photo sorting.

As 8pm approached, I realized that I only had an assortment of generic diet soda and neglected bottles of liquor to offer my guests. I was surprised, releived, and very pleased when they knock-knock-burst-in-"heloooooooo"ed carrying grocery bags.

To my warped mind, they were the party partol version of Mormon Missionaries - freshly showered, wearing clean button up shirts, polished shoes, new blue jeans - and on a quest to impress.

I'm not a Guinnes girl, so I wasn't excited about the six packs that emerged, but my curiosity was perked by the very medicinal-looking bottle of Jager. And I was enchanted by the four-pack of Red Bull to the point that I decided it would be completly RUDE of me to not drink with my guests. I had never had Jagermeister before, and it had been three years since I consumed Red Bull - which was the same day newly-minted Mr. Hubby, my British paternal cousins and I ran out of a pub to avoid a beating, delivered by four very large, very testosterone-laden, stray-dog-looking dudes from South of London.

On a side note, the brewing scuffle was not promped by violence, but by one of my cousin's inability to pass up a perfect comic-timing opportunity to be a smartass - the only shocking thing about that equation is that he was adopted into the family. Apparently smartassedness can be environmentally spread.
So there.
Nature vs. Nurture solved.

Getting back to my point - I was never sure if my resulting insomnia that evening we were fatefully saved by a cab rounding the corner was due to adreneline, or the pitchers of Red Bull and Vodka my cousins generously spent a couple days wages on. I remember being rigidly, clear-as-a-bell awake until just before sunrise; when the black sky threatened to turn navy blue I caught up with the vodka portion of the drink. For about two minutes.
I felt intoxicated just long enough to make a mental tally of all the alcohol I had consumed, then I fell asleep.

The next morning, I wondered, if people are out to get drunk, why mix drinks with sobriety-inducing Red Bull?

Last night, I figured it out.

I'm not a speedy girl, I think the idea of taking uppers is way tacky, and even more dangerous.
However, RedBull may be my exception.

I went from "wow, hope I can stay awake long enough to be polite" to "Heeeey, playing the karaoke game isn't a bad idea at all!" in about twenty minutes. Perhaps it didn't help that I decided to follow up my shot-o Jager w/ ice & can-o RedBull with a can of generic Diet Dr. Pepper - in the name of health-consciousness, 'cause it wasn't a beer.

Fast forward four hours, and Mr. Lee and Mr. Homework realize that we've run out of alcohol and the only females within earshot are married or of a pet species, so they decided to head out into the night.

I could have pulled another "watch and wait for blue-shift" night to commemorate my last run-in with RedBull, but decided to try to sleep, and instead lay awake for an hour, my senses in hyperdrive. Mr. Hubby's labored breathing sounded like a dragon, my armpits and my Suki-dog were extra smelly, the digital clock extra bright through my closed eyes, my aging pillow extra lumpy, my unbrushed teeth still tasting like the leftover indian food I ate hours before.

Good grief, those cans should come with a warning label:

So you think you're a caffiene badass?
Watch out.



Friday, Nov. 17, 2006 - 11:19 a.m.

David Keith made me do it

Alrighty folks, perhaps I've been working too hard lately, perhaps I'm horomonal, perhaps this has something to do with me trying to refuse to let my body undergo its long-standing November tradition of gaining "winter weight".

I don't have an official excuse.

I'm blogging about Paris Hilton.

In general, I wouldn't mind if she was sucked into outer space, or never existed in the first place. I think she’s a bore.

Like the Simpson's Halloween episode where Lard Lad and other giant advertising statues terrorize Springfield, I think Paris would disintegrate and blow away in the wind if people just stopped looking at her and giving her attention. Disregarding this, I’m going to feed the monster.

IDontLikeYouInThatWay recently posted a fantastic blip, boosting my admiration for SNL’s Tina Fey beyond its already lofty heights. Somehow I don’t think that Tina and Paris are going to be working together any time soon.

And now to recommend a movie,
and to possibly poison your mind.

If I hadn’t seen the DVD case and actually watched the movie, I would remain unconvinced that Jason Mewes and Kevin Smith (Jay and Silent Bob) would appear in a movie with Paris Hilton. Need proof? Scary eh? Like a car wreck, I had to watch “Bottom’s Up” and I’m ashamed to say, I’d watch it again.

Not for Kevin Smith’s brief appearances, not for Jason Mewes’ starring role, but only for David Keith, who plays (gay) Uncle Earl Peadman. In my fantasy world, Earl Peadman would join the Butabi brothers in a sequel to “A Night at the Roxbury”.

And now I must go floss my brain or find some coffee.



Thursday, Nov. 16, 2006 - 8:24 a.m.

Colonel Mustard in the Kitchen with the Knife

I'm in a state of bliss.
After years unfulfilled, I've played "Clue" multiple times in the past month.

Perhaps I'm an easly thrilled woman?

While I was visiting California, I began to wonder if my travel buddy had powers of divination, as she won the first four games - eerily early in the games. One of the solutions actually was Mustard in the Kitchen with the Knife, which I suppose is much funnier when you're hyper from exhaustion and a bit drunk.

Last night, Mr. Hubby and I had a past roommate/old friend of his plus lady friend over for dinner - after we ate Indian take-out (yeah, yeah, I didn't have the energy to play Swedish Chef and wussed out) and played with/prompted battles between my housepets, I forced everyone to play Clue with me.
'Cause I'm mean like that.

I forgot how long the game can go on when four people are playing!
I also came to the conclusion that the ooooold original Clue board is superior to the "Simpsons" version. Iam a big Simpsons fan, and really do appreciate that my family gave me the game for Christmas. . . but . . .
Mr. Burns in the Bowl-o-Rama with the Plutonium Rod" just doesn't have the same zing to it.

My sister and I had long, drawn out division-of-the-childhood-boardgames battle years ago, and she "won" Clue, the brat. Perhaps I can arrange a swap for "Othello" or "Parchisi"??

I should be grateful that I got the "Addams Family Reunion" game.




Wednesday, Nov. 15, 2006 - 9:10 a.m.

Invite Elvis over for Thanksgiving

It occured to me this morning - Thanksgiving is nearly upon us!
Fortunately, I am not yet at the stage of life that I am expected to cook at 14 pound turkey for friends and family, I'm still at "bring a side dish to share" status.

I will be spending Thanksgiving with Mr. Hubby's family. I'll never forget my first Thanksgiving with my inlaws; the kitchen smelled fantastic and there were an improbable amount of dishes full of food all around. I was still able to eat massive amounts of food at one time, so I loaded my plate very carefully. My very feng shui approach carefully placed mashed potatoes next to corn next to stuffing next to green beans next to sweet potatoes next to cranberries with a dinner roll preventing my potatoes from turning pink. This arrangement left a tangerine-sized hole in the center for the turkey.

I hadn't known my boisterous family-by-marriage for very long yet, so rather than just ask, I furtively searched . . . lentil loaf, fruit salad, green salad, carrots . . . no turkey?








But I digress.

Elvis would have the uber-pimped Thanksgiving spread.
I'll be thinking of the King next week, as I play dinner plate hockey with tofurkey chunks.

I wish all of this had come to mind so I would have time to order this book, available (of course) at Amazon way cheap if you're willing to buy it used.

Next year, "The King" is coming to Thanksgiving.



previous - next


most recent entry

previous entries

random entry

my (neglected) webiste


the usual hecklers:


Alfred's Mom




take a look:

Stories of Strength & Courage

hosted by DiaryLand.com