The Dude is a Thief and a Rapscallion

When we order Chinese, we order way too much Chinese.  Because that's what Americans do.  Plus, leftovers.

So when we prepare the next-day plates, it's a race to see who can fill their plate and get to the microwave first.  This time, I won by juking around the Dude and startling him into stillness.

A couple of minutes later, we realized I hadn't actually set the microwave to do anything other than sit there smugly with my plate of cold food.  The Dude reached it before me.  And took my plate out to reheat his.




On an entirely unrelated note:  this weekend I'm going to a prom-themed party.  Cute 60's style copper taffeta or terrible velvet long, puffy-sleeved bodice anchored by twelve layers of hot pink floral taffeta and the biggest rosette ever created?  Vote!

Bro-Dude the Hulk is one cool bro-dude.

I went to Georgia for work Wednesday and Thursday.  On the flight back to Chicago, I got a window seat.  (Yay!)  In the seat next to me was a hugely burly bro-dude.  (Nooo!)

To give you an idea, he looked rather like the soap guys from Hyperbole and a Half.  Except in a hot pink polo and a "vintage" baseball hat.

His muscles kind of hulked into my personal space, so it was a pretty cozy flight.  He was also super-embarrassed about it and not unintelligent, so we were cool.  I decided if our knees were going to touch even when we were both trying hard to not let our knees touch, I may as well just relax. 

Travelling can make for strange knee-fellows.

All was well until the woman sitting behind me asked her seatmate the distance from the airport to the suburb where I live.  I turned, apologized for accidentally overhearing, and answered.  She looked at me like I was wearing a horse mask and had invited her into my rusty, windowless white van.

I lurched around and tried to fall out the bottom of the plane, but that doesn't even work in really terrible romance novels.

Bro-Dude the Hulk leaned over.

"If you hadn't answered her, I would have."

Muscle on, Bro-Dude, my friend.  Muscle on.

It's Official. I am Too Old to Understand the Concept of "Cool."

Tomorrow is my birthday.  Happy birthday, me!

Happy birthday to me
Happy birthday to me
I look like a monkey
So I'm glad you can't see!

The Dude pointed out that the milk in the fridge expires tomorrow.  "Yeah," I said.  "Everything goes bad then."

I went to a concert this weekend at a college bar.  There was a group of guys flexing for photos, and I saw a woman who appeared to be wearing an unironic, metal-studded G-string on her head.

I am officially to old to go to concerts at college bars.


(True:  I learned this week what c-string is.  They look... uncomfortable.)

Office Supplies. They Matter.

My office recently switched to a new toilet paper, and it's pretty innovative.  The manufacturer has, it seems, discovered a way to make toilet paper that is just one molecule thick. 

This really makes peeing a thought-provoking experience.  Your tentative, gentle grasp punches your fingers through the tissue, simultaneously make one feel like the Hulk with a china teacup and driving home the fragility of human life.

And then there's the adventure of it:

There's only half a roll left--will this be enough to cover my needs?

And coping with menstruation under these circumstances becomes fraught with all the anxiety of the apocalypse.

It does make for great calisthenics, though.  I stretch my arm all the way out, as far as I can without tipping over, and then foldfoldfoldfold (haha, fourfold) to achieve something akin to the bare (lol) minimum of adequacy.

But don't blow your nose in it.  If there are no Kleenex to be had, I'd recommend using sandpaper before our new toilet paper.  It's softer, and you're infinitely less likely to shoot your snot right through it and onto your hands, desk, and any passers-by.

A sneeze would be catastrophic.

My Spirit Animal Is A Marsupial, But It Doesn't Matter Because I'm Dying.

I'm sick.  Not with the plague, as I was surprised to learn.  It's one of those unnotable, unspecial summer head colds that just make you want to die.  Someone asked me yesterday how I was feeling.

I answered promptly and with confidence:  "My head is wallaby."

Like this.

Suffice it to say I had a fever, as this word choice made perfect sense in that moment.  "Wallaby" sounds like it should be an adjective, and they live in Australia.  So, you know, they're upside down.  Which pretty accurately describes how my head felt yesterday--not right and generally askew.

(First it was the possums...  Now my blog collection of marsupials is growing.  Be afraid--very afraid.)

On a side note, I'd like to make it known that I do not have pink eye.  I scratched my cornea last weekend doing yard work.  My eye and my head are two completely separate things.

Oh, you know what I mean.  Don't judge me!

Also I'm never doing yard work again.


(True:  The Dude is also sick.  We spent last night feeling very, very sorry for ourselves and each other, and watching Doctor Who.  Which I think makes a pretty legit pity party.)

Bugs and Bubbles

That sounds like the title to a childrens "edutainment" program, doesn't it?

It's not.  It's my workplace.  Though it is pretty juvenile.

Yesterday, because our office is oh-so-pretty and pristine, a dead bug flew out of the air vent and onto my head.  Laughter ensued--but not mine.

Today we're popping bubble wrap.  Not just any bubble wrap, though, the big, industrial-sized-bubbles bubble wrap.  Our boss said we have to.

I'm not sure whether we just crack up easily, or if we're just cracked.


(True:  I never cared for that magazing, but Spy vs. Spy was pretty awesome...)

Mr. Sandman, Bring Me a Dream. Not a Fucking Mess, You Asshole.

I live on the top floor of my building.  Heat rises.  So in the summer, my apartment gets really hot--generally, whatever the temperature is outside, it's ten to fifteen degrees warmer in my home.  (Thank god for my window AC--that keeps it about the same temp as outside.)  And in the winter, all the massive amounts of heat pumped out by our cast-iron registers--which is either on or off for the entire building--creeps up to my apartment.

I sleep with the windows open.

But something that happened last week is making me rethink the wisdom of that.  Because apparently, even on the third floor, weird shit can get in your windows.

Like sand.  I woke up one morning last week with a significant amount (maybe a cup or a cup and a half) of motherfucking sand all over the windowsills and nearby floor. 

How does that even happen?!


(True:  I just referenced The Chordettes in this post title.  I am officially old.)

I'm Alive! And Tan(nish)! And Clothed!

I know, I know.  I'm shocked, too.

As far as warm-locale vacations go, I'd say this one was a huge success:  this was the first one during which I did not get physically ill from a sunburn (My Sister the Lawyer's wedding--I almost missed my speech for the puking.*) or a permanent line from a blister-level sunburn (reaching all the way to my armpits--just a little uncomfortable, that**).  Three cheers for me!

And, it was relatively disaster-free.  Sure, my tank top strap broke, but it happened in the hotel room, so no biggie.  And there may have been a Marilyn Monroe moment, but no one was really looking.  And the clasp of my swimsuit top may have snapped, but the tankini portion held everything mostly decently in place, and the bit of plastic clasp that winged five feet away didn't take out a single bystander's eye.

So this was definitely my most low-key vacation.

*You know it's a good wedding when you puke through most of the reception dinner and still manage to have a great time.  Also, don't judge me.  I fell asleep on the beach and forgot to reapply my sunscreen.  It could happen to anybody.

**Yeah, okay, I forgot to put sunscreen on my neck and chest.  And then I fell asleep on the beach.  And while it could happen to anybody, it mostly just seems to happen to me.  You should probably feel sorry for me.  And send pity cookies.


(True:  I saw grown men play what was essentially floor hockey.  In the dark.  With bare feet.  With a ball that was on fire.  Did I mention the bare feet?)

You Didn't Find What You Were Looking For. Thank God.

I don't know about you, dear reader.  I worry about you.

Almost every day, I check what search terms bring traffic to this blog.  Frequently it's something like "sad dog" or "possum face" or "bees knees" or "hunger games nazi germany."

Okay.  I see where those are coming from.  I even see what posts those search terms would bring you to.

But every once in a while I get an outlier.

To the person who looked for "hairy ferrets":  Are there hairless ferrets?  Or are you trying to shave your ferret?  That sounds worrisome.  And wiggly.

To the person who came here looking for "hot chick with her mouth open":  What you're looking for is called porn.  This place called the internet is the land of plenty when it comes to porn, so I'm not really certain why you would choose to come to my small, self-depricating blog.  Unless you're talking about me in the summer, when my apartment is 110 degrees and I'm panting in an effort not to expire and sweating like a sweaty thing.  In which case you should know I don't post photos of myself.  And you're still a perv.

To the person who searched for "dear jesus loves everybody's":  Please finish that sentence.  Really.  Come back and let me know in the comments.  I'd really like to know.  You put in the apostrophe, so it can't be a typo.  Dear Jesus loves everybody's what?


(True:  I really hope some of these folks stick around and interesting content, even if it's not what they're looking for.  I try to be open-minded like that.  And to all you weird seach term-ers:  I wish you well and hope you find what you're looking for.  Just not here.  Because that shit's just bizarre.)

Just Say No--to Scissors

Don't run with scissors.

I'm pretty sure it's a warning exactly nobody takes seriously.  I mean, sure, children probably should avoid the motion + sharp objects equation, but we grown ups ought to be able to handle it, right?  As long as we aren't simultaneously making stabby motions with them?

Not me.  At least, I assume not--I haven't actually had a run-in with scissors yet.  But last week, I split my thumbnail smack down the middle with an apple slicer.  Two weeks ago I took a chunk out of my index finger when I was chopping vegetables and missed.  I have a nasty scar on the knobby bit of my wrist from when I juggled a razor in the shower.

If scissors are a gateway cutting tool, I've skipped straight to the hard stuff.


(True:  Super glue is a useful tool to have in one's first aid kit.)

It's a Grisly Affair

When I was little, I thought Barbie was what being a grown-up woman was all about.  She was a doctor/veterinarian with impeccable clothes and hair who balanced her career, glamorous outings with Ken (or more likely, G.I. Joe) on the jet-ski, and possibly a family (a beautiful, silent baby) with ease and long vacations to Italy.

When I was little, I was stupid.

Here is what being an adult woman is really like:

• WORKWORKWORKWORKWORKWORKWORKweekend.
• BILLSBILLSBILLSBILLSBILLSBILLSBILLSBILLSmoney?
• NO ONE REALLY LOOKS LIKE THE KARDASHIANS DO ON TV.  THE KARDASHIANS DON'T EVEN LOOK LIKE THE KARDASHIANS DO ON TV.  Stop judging my sweatpants.
• Uncomfortable bras, and worst of all, strapless bras.
• You only get your period when you think it's safe to wear your favorite underwear.
• I could go out.  Or I could stay in, gorge on pizza puffs, watch bad television, and be in bed before the ten o'clock news.
• That event so awful I won't name it here.  (But it involves stirrups and a vicious lie along the lines of, "It'll just be a pinch.")
• Wolf whistles.
• Grubby children pulling your birth control out of your purse in front of mixed company.
• Childbirth war stories.  (Seriously--can mothers answer me why none of you seem to have PTSD?)
• The expectation of the general populace that you just can't wait to experience that particular miracle.

And what women have to look forward to:

• Smashing, painful mammograms.  For years.
• Menopause and the accompanying misery.  For years.
• Death.

Surprisingly, I'm not saying being a woman is such a bad thing.  It's worked out pretty well for me so far.  I'm just saying, thank the ladies in your life for being seriously hardcore.  And that maybe women deserve a little something for tolerating all the shit we do--like the Permanent Fund Dividend in Alaska, where they give you money for living there year-round.

Because, fuck.

Via

(True:  Today I had the grisly distinction of bearing witness to several women's very detailed discussion of mammograms.  I am suddenly terrified of life.)

In a Surprise Twist, I Actually Survived

And mostly intact!  WhirlyBall was pretty much more fun than ought to be legal, although I did end up with some bruising on the insides of my legs that might raise some eyebrows if I decide to sport my Daisy Dukes this weekend.  You know, if I had any.  Or thought that was a good look for me anyone me.

But what can I say?  A center steering column in a bumper car leads to suspicious bruising.

In other news, overnight my voice has subsided to a subauditory squeak.  I went to lunch with some friends, and they spent the entire meal pretending (sort of pretending) they couldn't hear me, and the entire ride back mocking me.

I'd write up a proper post, but I have Frutti di Bosco gelato to eat, so you're out of luck.


(True:  I am wearing a ponytail today.  One of our salespeople came up behind me and pulled it.  To be perfectly clear, my ponytail is not an invitation to touch me, no matter how often we talk on the phone.  Especially from behind, without announcing your presence.  Geez, people!  Haven't we moved past this yet?)

Some Things I Just Can't Wrap My Head Around

I like Geekologie.  It's pretty much the place to go for your science news spun raunchy--that is, if you like your geek with a side of alcoholism.  And let's be honest:  who doesn't?

Today I learned two things I'm having a difficult time wrapping my head around.

First, the universe is 80 million years older than we'd thought.  Okay, in the grand scheme of the universe, that's not so hard to imagine.  The universe was already pretty frickin' old.  But the idea that it might have expanded from something smaller than an atom into, you know, the universe more-or-less as we know it?  In less than a second?

Whoa.

Because that means it expanded faster than the speed of light.  And that means time travel.  I know that because of movies.

And that's how you suddenly age 80 million years, Universe.  You've no one to blame but yourself.

And that brings a whole new meaning to A Wrinkle in Time.


I also learned Chuck Norris is a modern-day Samson.

The world gets weirder every day, yo.


(True:  I went to the Museum of Science and Industry this weekend.  So blame this post on the fact that I'm all smarted out.)

Let Me Show You the Door

Not that I'm trying to get rid of you.  You people crazy enough to read this silly, self-absorbed little blog of mine are my favorite people of all.  (And the rest are hardly worth my time.)

What I mean by the title is rather more literal.  Though not completely literal, because I never remember to take photos of the wtf in my life.  So I'll have to tell you instead.

On Monday evening, it was windy.  Really windy.  Windy enough that it tore my storm door out.  Not off its hinges, mind you--well and truly out of the wall, frame and all. 

My landlord loves me.


(True:  I am a wimpy, wimpy weakling.  So I couldn't move the broken door out of the way.  So yesterday I took my trash out by removing the storm door window and climbing through.  I am a class act.)

Life-Threateners

Yesterday I scored two Lifesavers from HR.  Having a bit of a sweet-tooth as I do, I was a bit excited.  And so, when I ran into coworker M, I waved the candies in his direction.  And okay, maybe I was kind of exuberant about it.

But I swear I never meant for one of the candies to be hurled toward M's face, narrowly missing and exploding against the wall, scattering shard of the sweetest shrapnel all over the hallway.

The worst part is, the one that didn't explode/nearly brain my coworker?  Yeah, it was watermelon-flavored.  And if that isn't the saddest story you've ever heard, I just don't want to live in this world anymore.


(True:  The best Lifesaver flavor is, without a doubt, Butter Rum.  More candy should be booze-flavored and workplace-friendly.  But I guess pineapple is pretty good, too.)

Quick! I Need an Icepick!

I had a really clever idea for what to blog about today, but then the guys in my department started talking about the etymology of the Brazilian wax and I had to perform an emergency auto-lobotomy.


(True:  The word "I" comes from the Latin idem, which means "the same."  Because I'm unique.  Just like everyone else.)

Mad Motor Skillz, Yo. I've Got Them.

While bowling this weekend with friends, we got to talking about how in the US, we count on our fingers starting with our index finger, while in Europe, they start with their thumb.  It was just a curious, one-off observation until C tried to demonstrate the number four, European-style.

I am twenty-mumblemumble years old, and I should probably not find someone not being able to move their ring and pinkie fingers independently as funny as I do.

I my defence, he looked like a velociraptor, and velociraptors are always funny.  They are even funnier when they try to redeem themselves by doing a Vulcan salute (i.e., a Spock hand).  (I had no redeeming to do.  Not only can I fold my pinkie down solo, I can also snap my fingers on one hand in the shape of a triangle while simultaneously snapping the shape of an L with my other hand.  With a high-demand talent like that, it's a shock I'm not filthy rich.)

Also, I discovered that some people are totally incapable of not checking out a fellow bowler's butt.

I am not one of those people.

After bowling (and barbecue!  Sweet, sweet barbecue...), we hit downtown for drinks and karaoke.  It's been a while since I've been to a bar in a college town.  So it was something of a revelation to get hit on by a guy calling himself "Rhino" who opened with, "How old are you?  Are you way too old for me?" 


(True:  Try moving your right foot in a clockwise circle.  Now draw a six in the air.  Your foot just changed direction and also you look very silly.)

The More You Know

I try to learn something new every day.  I find it keeps my mind open and sharp.

Today I learned that a can of Mountain Dew that is mostly slush can still explode if you drop it--it's just a slow-motion explosion that lasts about ten minutes.

My life will be much richer for this information.  And my desk much stickier.


(Want to know how to traumatize me at 8:07 in the morning?  Give me a can of soda--sweet, sweet caffeine--that is puking like a slushie volcano.  And that's probably the most mixed metaphor I've ever conceieved.  You're welcome.)

Prepare to Squee

Okay, guys, I have to apologize.  I was going to do a proper blog post today, but I ate too much macaroni and cheese instead.

So here is a comic to distract you from the sense of loss I'm sure you're feeling right now:

(You'll have to go to the link to embiggen, sorry.)  Thanks go to my friend Marcin for sending this to me!


(True:  The words "I really want to see warm bodies" may have just come out of my mouth, but I meant the movie Warm Bodies, with no implications that the bodies I normally see are cold.  Or that I see any bodies.  Crap.  There's really just no way to turn that around, is there?  On the plus side, at least my co-workers think I am a harmless sort of strange.)

But At Least I Ordered Great Pizza.

My parents came down for the weekend, which was awesome.  Unfortunately for them, they crashed at my place.

My building has the old fashioned cast iron radiators that occasionally make a rattling sound if there is air in the pipes.  On Saturday night, there was not air in the pipes.  There was an entire steel drum band made up of people with no rhythm on crack, and I thought we were all going to die.  (We didn't die, as it turned out.  We just didn't sleep.)

And Sunday, I locked myself out of my apartment while heading downstairs to let in my parents, who had locked themselves out of the building.

It's a really good thing that people aren't rated for their hosting skills on Yelp the way hotels are. 


(True:  My parents surprised me with bookshelves this weekend.  I officially have the coolest parents ever.)