Are you telling me that's an ABBA turd?

I love my new Waring commercial blender. I took a picture and then left the digial camera at home. It's just the slow-ass sort of day for uploading pictures of blenders, as well. Blender helped me make the most delicious margaritas last night. And coupled with, what else, fried pickles, no wonder I don't like going out. And in the spirit of also not liking people, I started the first season of House, M.D. which my sister bought me. I'm hoping there's at least one I somehow missed when it was originally on. Also very jazzed about season 2 coming out in August, as we don't have cable and have not been viewing. Sniff.

I also made the trek out to Whole Foods to explore their organic cat food and was treated to a bag of the most expensive kind by the guy stocking the shelves. They didn't have what I was looking for in-stock yet, so Castor & Pollux (which is $15.99 for a fucking 6-lb bag) was my second choice. He said it was too expensive so he marked it out as a sample and gave it to me! I was very surprised but was more than happy to saunter past the rush-hour check-out lines with my free bag of shi-shi kitty food. When I got home I plopped it down on the floor while I went into the kitchen to see about getting my hot new blender some counter-time. I should mention I was vaguely worried if the cats would be into the new hippy food, but at the sound of puncturing cardboard, I left the kitchen to see Bourdain had torn open the side of the bag (with a few unsuccessful attempts at the corner). So now the bag sits under the bathroom sink in its usual place, but with a closepin holding its side rather than the top).

They quite like it. Although I also have to hope there is no corrollation between the new food and the incredibly pungent odor I found wafting from the cat bathroom last night. Hope instead someone was just having a rough time of it...

Don't eat the green ones. They're not ripe yet.

I finished season 2 of The West Wing last night and oh, holy jesus. I was warned to have a little barf bag at the ready, but fuck me. I could practically visualize the writers stroking each other off while they watched the music crescendo against the most vomit-inducing, heavy-handed boatload of predictability I've seen in ages. The writers should all be forced to wear big black 'F's on their foreheads until they die, for "Foreshadowing Fuck Monster." Even more appalling, they left it as a cliffhanger? I've had bowel movements that were more suspenseful.

I'm told it will pick up.

The highlight of today is going to be moseying over to the restaurant supply store for a new blender. I'm actually quite excited. He will be the Chuck Norris of blenders and no one will fuck with him. And just cause he'll be stepping out for the first time in a new margarita tonight, doesn't mean I don't have higher purposes for him.

Well, rounded out the top four on the Netflix with Black Christmas, Maniac!, Critters, and Wolfen since the beau and I have some nights off coming up. Whores that they are, Netflix promised all day long "your next movie should ship today", then turned around and changed it to tomorrow. This isn't going to stop me from lying about when I returned stuff so they'll send something before the weekend hits. It's a vicious cycle.

And now to pick up Mouchette the Cat from the pseudo-vet over inside PetSmart. Apparently they want to knock out all his teeth, as they are rotten, and for some reason, gosh, I just don't trust them. But they are treating his ringworm, so I can't find them completely questionable. Just where it suits me. And of course I'm stubborn enough that Mouchette now has an appointment with his real vet back in Denton on Saturday. Poor Mouche.

This is useless. We just have to walk away like mothers in nursery school.

First of all, thanks oh so much to the goddamn fuckwit fartknocking donkey rapers who run the mailing list who were supposed to let me know when he was coming to town so I didn't end up getting fisted at the drive-thru. Now I have the dilemma of paying ticketmaster an extra SIXTEEN DOLLARS to fuck me in the ass sans lube for "processing" my money, or paying a small bit more for a far better seat from some sleazefuck Dallas scalper. I totally prefer the latter, but after perusing online, apparently those of us who'd just like to go by our lonesome to see Mr. Paul Simon can just go cry all the way home. You are not allowed to see concerts by yourself--all the tickets are sold in 2s. I don't care if you have no friends and no one wants to date you, you must still buy the seat next to you.

I fucking hate this concert bullshit so goddamn much it really is almost enough to keep me home. Not to mention that the cash whores at Nokia Stain Theatre charge $12 for parking and the 12 oz beers of Miller Goddamn Light, for fucks sake, are $6 a pop. A real steal for Dallas. Then hopefully you wouldn't be forced to assault the morons in front of you in a tedious line of cars that aren't moving as you wait to ooze your way back onto I-30. I could buy a male stripper, ride him on a Shetland Pony in the middle of my own bukkake party and still pay less. And not only would my ass hurt far less, I'm sure the whole process would take years off my face.

You know what, I'm fucking staying home. I've seen him from the fourth row, I'm sure he and his billion dollars understand if I'm not there this time.

May I take your purse as usual? Or...for the first time?

Uploading 37 rolls of wedding photos is actually quite dull though it does seem to give me time to type. My favorite wedding photos from yesterday included a bride never without a Miller Lite in her hand (okay, perhaps not during the actual ceremony). They even had little beer cozies made up for everyone. It was as if Miller Lite sponsored the wedding. Every shot of this elegant bride, kissing her flower girl, leaving the reception, caught her with bottle in-hand. Classy. Even dancing in line formation holding up her beer and train with the same hand.

Speaking of alcohol, I added Grey Goose (just for the gay Republicans, mostly Morris) and Kahlua (for the more regular gay, shall we say) to the liquor cabinet last night. Trying to stock up on the goodies pre-wedding party. My liquor store guy has chosen to remember me, for whatever reason, so I try to always go on Mondays when he gives me the senior citizen (!) discount. Though he passes it off as the "frequent customer" discount. How bad is it to get that discount at the booze store and for the checkout guy to know you? He's probably even more baffled that I never buy the same thing twice, or at least quite rarely. I'm getting the scotch next time, that'll really throw him off.

Also have to finish finding the wedding music. Got soundtracks for Suspiria and Horror Express (I think the latter will be my actual walk-down-the-isle selection). For the obvious but good, I do want to snag the original Halloween soundtrack, but am a little surprised to see how highly coveted it is on ebay. Wtf? I'll also be swiping my dad's Deep Red CD to rip. The Argento soundtracks are just perfect for the occasion. And I need to preview the original Fog. Seems like it'd be good stuff but at the moment it's not coming to mind...

And speaking of horror movies, I was pretty disappointed in Night Watch. It had so much potential but frankly, it bored the shit out of me. Derek thought it was at least decent but doesn't need to own it.

And in a shameless display of not giving one rat's ass about saving money, we ate Chinese food last night (that five-flavored shrimp has crack in it, I'm convinced) and traded in our non-cool-TV-friendly copy of The Breakfast Club. (We just recently upgraded to the special edition--though only for the picture quality--the special features consist of the trailer and two recommendations. Who the fuck are they kidding that's the best they could come up with for a special edition? Who the fuck of that bunch is doing anything better? Well, save Paul Gleason, which is just a total downer). Also traded in our VHS Lost Boys, for space more than the $0.38 trade-in value. Picked up (finally) instead The Birdcage and Working Girl, both of which I was ashamed we didn't already own. Had a real hankering for the latter recently...I know, I know, Melanie Griffith. But it's her one movie. The Ford, Sigourney Weaver and Joan Cusack I like to think round it out quite nicely besides. It just has so many fucking good lines.

In the discombobulated spirit of today's post I think I should start drinking now. It's nearly 1:30 after all. Oh wait, have to finish working first...

Go Piss Up a Flagpole.

Wow, I am totally depressed at what an utter wanker I am. I had a nice relaxing day off, put photos away I had pulled for a wedding slideshow (however totally obvious and trendy it is to do, sometimes that stuff can be fun, too), cleaned and read my Norton book. I read it in two sits--the first half, very enjoyable and entertaining. The second half bothers me the more I think about it. And the fact that it bothers me so much bothers me.

I think I can safely rank it up on the list of most-bothered items. Silverlake Life: The View From Here will always hold the number one spot: an AIDS documentary of two guys shown on PBS I saw around the goddamn age of 10 or 11. REALLY stayed with me. Had very real nightmares of death that night, so that shit kinda made an impression. Well this book is so gut-wrenchingly sad, and it's quite genuine as the author is a real hard-ass cynical agnostic, right up my alley. And before Norton, he even used to hate cats. Obviously, that is no longer the case and the details of the second half of the book could not be more heart-mutilating than if it were someone's actual child. Seriously. So I pulled myself together after I read it and have been composed all the rest of the afternoon and evening. And it's only in the last hour or so that I've been reflecting on it, as one is likely to do after a read, and I just wanna sniffle all over again. However, the fiancee is home now and I really don't want to get into it. He has not read the books, though I did just hand him The Cat Who Went To Paris to start. He does not really read, so we'll see. Luckily he's a cat person, though you almost don't have to be to read these books.

But enough with the dead Scottish Fold and sniffling. And I realize it's a little wrong to draw parallels between pets and children (a delicate grey area, in any case), but when you take into consideration the import and prominence the subject plays in someone's life, well, who's to say? And this was not one of those pet weirdos; I'm sure Derek sees his fair share of those at PetSmart. Anyone dressing their cat is a red flag for sure.

Anyway, I've left Derek to finish Night of the Demons, a movie he is re-watching IN WHOLE just for the line, "Eat a bowl of fuck." Uh huh. I left him to that one. I also find myself really not wanting to watch the lesbian drama anymore, it's irritating me way more than it is entertaining me. I'll watch this disc (season 2, disc 2), but it's on some damn thin ice. Derek really enjoys it, but I may have to barf up a lung here pretty soon, I don't care how hot Shane is.

Off to read Already Dead, very entertaining, and at my dad's recommendation.

Poor Little Heather.

Ah, another glorious day at the Angelika yesterday. It wasn't too terribly bad. We have eight screens and two of them were videos. I don't mind running videos. I mind running the one I shall refer to as Little Bitch Projector. Jeremy insists it's because the bulb is about to go, and I'm sure it is, but I'm also pretty sure it hates me. It misfired all goddamn morning long until I had my cell phone out calling Jeremy, threatening it bodily harm, and then oh, it stayed on. And I built up a movie with more success than usual (keeping it smooth and even and happy) until I ran into the last reel that was all broken apart and putting it on was not only a chore but totally wrecked my build-up chi. It looked less messy than I anticipated at any rate.

I got to sneak in a couple chapters of my book at the very end, which helped a little.

And Tokyo One was very yummy, no surprise there. We started with meat samples, moved on to hibachi grill, then had them setup a shabu shabu pot (for cooking beef, chicken, shrimp, squid, etc), then cracked some crab legs and slurped udon noodles (I so miss my cheap noodle stalls in Tokyo, comfort food heaven), and then polished off a couple mini desserts. We both nearly gagged on the eggy creme brulee (yes, you can fuck that up, apparently), but the chocolate-dipped strawberries, cheesecake and fresh pineapple were plusses. Pluses? Anyway. Stuffed like peppers. And I stayed away from the bean desserts, they always kinda scared me in Tokyo, too. I didn't make the mistake but several did, that all the yummies in a bakery shop are not like yummies in a bakery shop here. Some have BEANS in them, for god's sake. Nothing like expecting cream in your pastry and being met with BEAN PASTE. Especially in the AM. Ugh.

Last night we went to Denton for the night; my parents gave me a real pasta maker, I am so excited to be able to make pasta that isn't the thickness of play-dough. I need to go read the directions and summon energy for making pasta. They also gave me the final installment in the Norton books, "The Cat Who'll Live Forever." Peter Gethers is a writer/screenwriter who, in the late 80s, became the owner of a little Scottish Fold who has become quite famous. The cat travels the world with him and sits on his shoulders; Gethers goes into hotels for meetings and leaves the cat to frolick outside. He can be gone for hours, come out and call his name once, and he appears. (If other try calling him it amounts to very little). He can also walk with him everywhere, sit with him at restaurants (Europeans are way more into this, apparently), fly with him on planes, you name it. As far as mingling with celebrities, he once shat in the bathtub (there was no litter box and this was his Plan B training) to the horror of Roman Polanski and Harrison Ford while the three of them were finishing the script for Frantic. And when Anthony Hopkins requested that Gethers bring Norton to his film premiere afterparty, Lauren Bacall asked Peter Gethers, "I don't know who you are or why you're here, but Tony Hopkins is an old friend and I'd like to chat with him. So why do I have to stand in line behind your fucking cat?" Apparently Anthony Hopkins and Norton had quite a crowd going. Anyway, though, this is the third and final book, which as you may have guessed, is going to be all about Norton DYING. Jesus. Pass the razor. I really want to read it, but I really really don't. Fuck.

My sister got me the first season of "House" on DVD, which after reading about Norton dying, should be a stroll through the park. At least some of them are upbeat. ish.

There he goes, off to write his hit song, "Alone in My Principles!"

I feel in a bit of a funk, as nothing this week has really set the days apart. Uneventful is wonderful, I'm not trying to tempt fate. But I couldn't tell you the difference between Tuesday and Thursday. Unless one of those was the day we had that midget porn.

I do have movies at home, that would even spice it up a bit more than the TV show marathon. We have Kamikaze Girls(at my sister's recommendation), Kiss Kiss Bang Bang (which is going to be mediocre at best with two good lines, you know it), another disc of The L Word and...oh yes, Nightwatch! That I actually am looking forward to a bit. We ran it at the Angelika, and though I never watched it, it certainly had some cool looking moments.

But luckily, here I am at work printing thousands of pictures of Spain for Mr. Ass Clown Franklin. How embarrassing; no one told him that Italy was so the place to go this year. (As evidenced by the thousands of pictures everyone else brought in). Except for that one family that always goes to DisneyWorld. That actually usually makes me feel better. Thank God I was in Dallas and not DisneyWorld. Right. Who the fuck am I kidding--I'd take DisneyWorld any day of the week over Dallas, it's all a lie.

The students always go to London, the rich families always hit Italy, the ones with kids hit Disneyland. African safaris get more screen time than you'd think. I never could decide if the uber-touristy aspect appalled me or not. Like I'd go to Africa without the aide of guides.

I'm still waiting for pictures from the Czech Republic (read me arrogantly assuming I'd fucking recognize pictures from the Czech Republic) or shit, how about South America? China? No one goes to Asia. I mean damn! Japan has Tokyo Disney Sea, which is one of the most delightfully fucked up things I've ever seen!

Hmm. I guess most people don't shoot for 'fucked up' in their vacation plans. Knobs.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have my oh-so-obvious honeymoon to Ireland to plan. Not that I have any idea what I'd like to see...I mean, aside from Kilmainhem (I so fucked that) Gaol and the GPO where the Easter Uprising started, there's not too much on the list. Just...you know...Ireland. Pretty. Beer. Enjoy. And I'm quite happy to leave it at that--I just don't want to get home and go, "D'oh!" Shoulda done fill in the blank.

And SQUEE! Derek is taking me to Tokyo One tonight for my birthday, which is very exciting. Have not been in ages, and they have every single kind of Japanese food you could ever want. YUM. Except sushi--gross, who cares. I know he wanted to take me on Tuesday (my actual birthday), but he is learning that patience is not my strong suit. I apologize, but I happen to have a hankering for going out tonight, it so seldom happens...So I must throw together a most foxy ensemble this evening, especially as I have been a less-than-doting fiancee all week, mostly slothing on the sofa draining vodka and West Wing. Hot, I know.

And on a totally unrelated side-note, I just discovered that I cannot always lie well off the cuff. The personnel manager walked in and started making fun of the ex-owner's (previously written of as 'Crazy Train') cackle (as he was visiting us, apparently). I yelled after him as he left, "Yeah, I know! I heard it earlier!" Enter Crazy Train. "Heard what?" I mean jesus, we even have construction going on outside but do I reference this? No, I make some lame ass reference to FuckWit Knob that made no sense whatsoever. If he weren't crazy, that would have been such a bust. I'm a disgrace to lyin' bitches everywhere.

Still can't look at that man the same way ever since Mark and I stumbled across his sex journal while cleaning out his old office. Shudder.

Melodrama coming from you is about as natural as an oral bowel movement.

AH. Thank you OH SO MUCH to Dear Bastards for pointing me in the right direction. I get so frustrated with HTML since like, you know, I don't know it. And I was almost positive that it couldn't be an HTML problem since my old comments were showing up but not new ones. I checked the settings (but obviously did that thing where my brain decides for itself what it's going to see, not what is there), and had to walk away from it like algebra homework.

Then today, I was trying out the link when I went back to check the settings again. So yes, one should not check "new posts do not have comments," when infact, you WOULD like the posts to have comments. In case anyone was going to be trying that...

So I'm not any better at new things than I was in high school, that's a confidence builder.

May I admire you again today?

Well apparently I don't get to have comments anymore. Blogger just stopped letting me have them. All my old posts have a place for it but the new ones don't. I tried looking at the template but it's a little bit like trying to see the 3D image; it'll never happen.

I'm flirting with the idea of a condo rather than a house. I'm sure I'll fall out of love with the idea in 24 hours, but since the Weyborn house has obviously been cheating on me (infact, I shall now refer to it as the "Arlington house" to put some distance between us), I feel I should do something radical in retaliation. I mean, sure, it could still call, but in the meantime, there's nothing to stop me from looking at condos, bitch. And I will look the shit out of them. Cheating whore. And I just don't think it'll notice if I dye my hair.

A condo would mean we could have niceness, but it would be approximately the same size and honestly, I'm afraid it would just feel like another apartment. Classy neighbors would be a plus. Hopefully no more Smelly Lady of 80,000 Cats or the clownhouse below of 60 family members, none of whom you ever see twice. However, I've really fallen in love with the whole "separate tub and shower" business and it hurts to see it any other way. That, plus a big kitchen and two stories, jeez, what's so hard about that?

And I'm a very terrible friend, as my friend's birthday is tomorrow and I was *going* to make her something--I have pumpkin ginger cheesecake I've been dying to make. Derek might kill me if I made that and then took it outside the house, plus I got home at 11pm and there is no goddamn way me and cheesecake are happening tonight. And of course I work with her and she's five days older than me. She and her husband are incredibly terribly poor, so I have to cook something rather than buy her something to avoid the awkwardness five days from now. Not that I have money to blow, but you see where I'm headed. I forsee buying something at the grocery store...

I think I'll mention the condo thing to Derek to see what happens. It will be the next step beyond flirting, whatever that is. Courting? Just SEE if I care, Arlington house! I don't NEED your goddamn jet tub!

I Will Never Want That Wagon Wheel Coffee Table.

So last night Derek was very sweet and let me keep watching my show (actually, as he put it, "Hey, I'm drinking, I don't care what we watch!"). Unfortunately, it was a very Bradley-Whitford-focused episode and at least twice Derek said, "Man, he really makes me want to watch Happy Gilmore." Not only does this just make me shudder from shame and make me gag keeping down the hot spits, it also seems vaguely akin to eating a creme brulee, only to look up moments later with disappointment and say, "Man, does anyone have any Cheez Whiz? And I don't need anything to put it on; I'd just like to squirt it right into my mouth if that's okay."

Today, on a completely different topic, I had to explain to Derek that "30 plus days" is actually not "3-4 weeks." The former is the time frame his father gave him for when the grandparents' house may close and the latter is what Derek decided to tell me (and of course I passed on to my lender and realtor). Having found out the proper time frame from my future mother-in-law, I had to call everyone back to figure out how to make an offer. Turns out, some sexual pervert deviant has decided to buy the house before us. However, apparently the buyer seems really shady and both Sam and the other realtor think it will fall apart before the 10-day inspection. So fingers crossed. June 29th is Day 10.

Oddly, I'm not really worried. It's kind of blissful, actually--it's out of my hands, the fuck you gonna do. On the down side but potentially good side--these people do not have money for repairs (the seller, that is). So unless anything major is screwed, we'll be making an offer, but for lower than they're asking. As long as the roof isn't 20 years old and about to cave in. The carpet, I may have mentioned, has several dark stains upstairs (the carpet itself is dark as well, so I'm not really sweating it). However, Sam and I always attributed these stains to a dog. Turns out, the old woman who lived here died and she used to take care of children so the stains are likely from the children. !! The hell is that supposed to mean?! They are brown, noless--or possibly incredibly dark red?!!? The fuck was wrong with these children or what the fuck was being done to them? All over the upstairs, apparently!!

I'm a little disgusted.

But I'm still buying it.

I am feeling fat and sassy.

Ok, so the porno today included a new one: a midget fucking a woman. It was a first and I thank someone for taking into consideration my job boredom.

In other news, we might get to make an offer on the Weyborn house if we can figure out when Derek's grandparents' house will close. This involves me asking Derek's parents, which makes me feel like a moneygrubbing whore. (I feel as though they're hearing, "Uh, so, when can we have that money already?") But since they know I'm the one dealing with the house shite, I assume no one's going to start secretly hating me. But hey, we'll see shall we?

Ok, so this is the myspace site of the fuckwit knob who sometimes works here in the afternoon. Just don't even go there if you've already lost all faith or hope in Generation Y (is that what we're calling them?); it's that fucking sad.

But on a more positive and pleasant note, I want this guy to do my wedding photography. He doesn't usually do weddings (unless forced), but I really like his stuff. I work with him here at the lab but he often has much more interesting (or at least comical) experiences doing cinematography. You'd think working in a professional lab like this, we'd see bunches of real photographers come through here. Instead, it has simply taught me how any yokel can pass themselves off as a "professional," charge whatever they want, take what are basically snapshots and pretend they are not paper turds. I have infact, in three years, seen one and and only one customer whose photographer I would have hired. And really, I'd still pick Mark for originality.

Tonight is just going to be a boring dinner of fruit and veggies. Health, blah, whatever. Plus I want to cram in as much show as possible before Derek gets home and wants to watch The L Word instead. He's actually into more than I, it's hysterical. Derek, not the show. The show is terribly mediocre--infact, if they weren't lesbians, no one would ever watch it. It would be like every other half-assed soap opera. But it's got us watching, who am I to throw turds.

And to paint an even better picture of my life skills, I should note that for several hours last night I seem to have been quite content with chocolate on my neck. How does one even get chocolate on one's neck? And not a speck, no. More like a smear all along one side. I just like to look like I'm having way more fun than everyone else.

Keep your hands off the suit, buddy.

Oh my fuck. I have found my house. I will barf if somebody snakes it. Which reminds me, not only did it rain after I washed my car, but I swear somebody goddamn VOMITED frappucino shake all over the side of the car. I step into the Studio Grill for an hour to help Jeremy finalize/edit the move trivia slides, I come out and bam. Thought you'd enjoy my innards on the side of your car. I just wept and let it bake on, what do I care.

Anyway, my house. It is So. Perfect. Huge and spacious and not that anyone much is coming to my wedding, but those that do will be able to fit in the living room! It is just so perfect. I want to marry the kitchen and have its offspring. My hoosier will fit, there is space, a smooth-top cooking range...le sigh. I am trying not to get worked up because it will be 3-4 weeks before we can really offer the down payment, but I wanted to make sure I liked the neighborhood, sue me. If this ends up kicking me in the gut, I only brought it upon myself. But that doesn't mean that if someone buys my house I won't beat the everliving fuck out of them. I mean, come on, it's mine. I admit it needs trees. In the front and on the sides. Big coconut ones on the side to drop big coconut bombs on the annoying fucking dogs that live next door. Then it will be perfect.

And I lied, I never made anything butterscotch. I did double dip some huge strawberries from the farmers market in both milk and white chocolate--it was very Billy & Karmen's wedding. Damn they were good. Good and messy just like the wedding (wow, upon proofing this it occurs to me that I should clarify that the strawberries were good and messy, not the wedding. Though I'm sure that would make a great blog entry as well), only this time I wasn't trying to remain composed while shoveling wet strawberry mess into my face. And I dipped some pretzels, too. Derek has accused me lately of going out of my way to find things to deep fry or dip in chocolate...he may not be completely off base.

Anyhoo, as the chocolate was so much easier to temper this time, it dried beautifully and shiny like it's supposed to. I had one get the fat streaks Fine Cooking talked about, but I ate the fucker and no one was the wiser. Then I made dark chocolate brownies and apparently they are the only brownies Derek has ever liked. I was hella impressed, as I found them vaguely mediocre. But dark and chocolatey, so really, no big loss. I was hoping they might be an addition to the Dessert Table of the wedding (mine), but the ice cream is paramount and who the fuck is going to serve ice cream at a wedding? (Ok, it doesn't count if you have a whole Paciugo shop set up AT your wedding, that would be an exception).

And I figured out how to LINK, how amazing am I.

There's this old guy outside who wants his bedroom slippers!

Spent a decent amount of time last night looking at Arlington's crime statistics, thanks to my friend Jeremy who's also moving there and pointed me towards the site. We both decided not to get freaked out about the fact that oh my god, there's CRIME!?! But rather, to get over it and focus on HOW MUCH. The Weyborn house, my favorite at the moment, has very little residential burglary crime. I must repeat this sentence to myself rather than, "Residential crime makes up 2% of that neighborhood's crime." In either case, both Jeremy and I decided that an alarm system is a must-have. As with my Vobeast, I don't really expect that no one's going to steal my car because of it, but I DO think most criminals will be *deterred* from even trying. I cannot fathom how icky it would be to have your house broken into; you'd be stuck living there with the creepy unease of knowing that someone else has been in there doing whatever they pleased.

Hoping to look at said Arlington house tomorrow, but Sam my Real Estate Agent Friend, seems to be undergoing severe drama and busy-ness (which I have yet to be briefed on) and has been amiss in calling or emailing this week. Given my lack of patience, it makes me a little antsy. WANT HOUSE!

And on a completely different but equally important note, why is it that when I blog at work I can do italics but when I blog at home it won't let me? I have a Mac at home and even when I right-click the text, the italics option is shaded, meaning I'm being denied. I tried settling for bold, but it bolded the entire blog. It's annoying and until I figure it out, you'll have to settling for me YELLING the occasional word or just being *lame.*

Back to watching season 2 of The West Wing and trying to ignore the realization that while the rest of the world is ogling the Rob Lowe eye candy (can he PLEASE use his whole mouth to speak?!), I seem to have the steamy twitches for the arrogant, stubborn smart ass Deputy Chief of Staff. I mean really, what does this say about me? It must be good writing in the show, cause I spent the better part of my life loathing this fucker cause he was the sleazebag boyfriend from "Adventures in Babysitting." Wow, on second thought, I've revealed about eight things too many in this paragraph. Better go have a lie-down.

How Did This Chocolate Get In My Pocket?

It's not fair. My car looks like a moist dirt monster vomited all over it. And its inspection is up, so after I get it inspected, they'll give it a nice happy bath for free. However, in this desert pit known as Dallas, this would be the one weekend in months (and for the following three months to come) that it may thunderstorm. Like, 40%. I get that carwash I goddamn guarantee you it's gonna rain. Poor Vobeast will never get the chance to stay clean. If he has to live in Dallas, you'd think I'd at least try to keep him clean. I do not, but he has yet to avenge his anger upon me thus far. My days are numbered.

On a completely different note, I should come out and admit that I'm boring. I just seldom go out. Quite happy to sit at home and lick my dick. Read, write, watch movies, and no, drinking alone after 10pm does not mean I have a problem. Tonight, for example, I think I am going to decline joining Rob and Derek for a night of Nacho Libre. I'm pretty sure it's going to be my next Raising Arizona, which is where the entire world loves a movie--including those whose opinions I highly respect--but me. I just. Don't. Get. It. That movie is not funny to me. I can appreciate why it might be funny to some, but yeah, no laughs. Not a giggle, not a sound. Just not my thing. Yet people swear by it. I meet more people who have seen Streets of Fire (3 so far) than don't like Raising Arizona. Maybe because I live in Texas? I don't know, I've wrestled with this one for years; I try to let it go.

My point. Oh yes, I have dessert recipes I want to try. Rather than go out to a crowded theatre (that's another thing--I think tech screening stuff at my theatre job and having the sweet TV at home has spoiled me. Why go out when the quality is so incredible at home? And there are no invisible green clouds of odor wafting through the air?) I will stay home with my two kitties and make something butterscotch. Oh yes.

Personal Space. Mine. Fuck Off. Thoughts.

You know, the wonderful world of retail really does service me with enough people-time. Therefore, when I grocery shop, if able I frankly do prefer the self-checkout. I can stomach it asking me if I'm done scanning or if I've "forgotten" anything in the basket. I don't mind it yelling "undetected item in bag," or whatever the fuck it says to imply stealing from it, I just want to scan my OJ and go the fuck home.

I should also note that I had to go out for OJ because Derek drank it all. I was really planning on screwdrivers and West Wing (yes, just ignore that whole "My Dinner With Andre" blog, there are definitely West-goddamn-Wing nights, thank you very much). There was only cranberry juice. Cosmos are great but honestly, a little more high falutin than I was aiming for tonight, as could be witnessed by anyone on my grocery store excursion. I mean, first of all I went to the Albertsons across the street, where we only go if someone's ass is vomiting liquid or something. And I was just wearing my workout shorts and a really old Express cami (and I SEE other women similarly dressed but naturally they pull it off--it's like they dress up to look casual whereas I am geuinely roughing it tonight and don't give a fuck, I just want my goddamn orange juice).

Anyhoo, so I'm vaguely buzzed to where I can hear clips and bits of obnoxious conversation still getting through the filter and it just makes me smile rather than cringe. Apparently the cosmo hasn't sent me into Superior Mode and I can still manage to walk without sneering at everything. But I do cringe terribly when I am at the self-checkout (aha, we arrive at our point) and some wench like, JOINS me and shit. There are several self-checkout stops, just wait at the center until one opens up. You don't have to pick one and then hover over the shoulder over the fucking sap trying helplessly to scan her catfood while it asks for the cashier to verify the item code. Perhaps I am too precious with my personal space, but GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME UNTIL I FINISH CHECKING OUT. It's nearly nine at night, calm the fuck down and get away from my check-out area.

I almost asked her if she wanted to rub my nipples while I checked out, I mean, she clearly needed SOMETHING pretty damn fast. I was worried she was going to start humping my leg if I didn't get a move on.

And now for my little show and my little drink. So peaceful. So happy.

Thoughts on Stupid Fuckers Who Make the Day Longer

You have to understand before I begin this tirade on this one individual just how long I've put up with the stupidity of it all. I probably will come off as a mean old bitch, but I seriously think the 18-year-old kid (who REALLY seems 16, if not 12) who works the afternoons here might just be the dumbest motherfucker on the planet.

For amusement or perhaps for the purposes of self-inflicted pain, we regularly look at his myspace account (in the mornings) just to stare in bewilderment at his friends' comments, shake our heads and cry. No, really. Two prime common and typical examples:

wuts up nigga
just keepin it real homie roll and free toll know wat im sayN
Wat U DOIN FOOL?

and the vastly different:

I'm talkin so much poop ita hurt cha eyeees....
HAHAHA yea man its fun talkin bout all that shit every once in a while. KEEPIN IT STRAAAAAAAIGHT...peacey

I fully admit that I am especially anal when it comes to language use and grammar, but let's pretend just for a moment here that any of these monosyllabic slugs would know the difference between "your" and "you're" if someone threatened to put a fist up their ass. Even if it's all just a facade and it's all good and hip, jesus, it's still utterly depressing.

And I'm VERY sure I hardly need to point out that these are the whitest dorkiest fuckwits on the planet. They could not even begin to feign cool, they look like they play video games all day long with a tepid Mountain Dew perpetually in one hand. But alas, no, they also clearly consume large quantites of alcohol. Christ, what words could possibly serve me to describe that scene. Drunk. Morons. People who are ALREADY morons. And then they drink. Tons. If only they could just off each other in the process, it would bring me sheer joy. Or perhaps just a case of mass alcohol poisoning amongst the group? Surely we'd all be better off.

Also, something else that truly has us baffled with this kid is the fact that he has had at least one (cute!) longterm girlfriend, not to mention a couple others after. Ok, seriously? Are the pickins at RL Turner High just that goddamn slim? Dorks can certainly be endearing, don't misunderstand me, but outright stupidity? And it's not like he's got the face to pull this kinda shit off, either. Since some of us realize the importance of what a personality can do for one's looks, you'd think this would be one charismatic bitch. And yet...I have to say I'd rather attempt meaningful conversation with a pair of ostrich balls than this numbnuts.

I realize these kids are young, and mostly guys to boot. And juvenile behavior is one thing; the use of ignorant slang is also something I can let slide. Go for it. But when you work here for nine months and you still don't know whether or not we can run true black and white film...you, my friend, are a goddamn fuckwit. I feel no shame or pity, just unabashed hatred of your presence.

I might have to start taking Xanax because the physical pain my brain has to endure at comprehending the daily shenanigans and situations is acutely sharp. I just cannot. It. Hurts. I cannot even stop ranting, however much I may be repeating myself.

I should also interrupt to clarify that the lab here is incredibly lax (in case you're wondering how he has not been fired). He is a warm body who can answer the phone (though lately he's been borderline-lying to customers, so even that has been called into doubt) and no one likes to fire people, I guess. He doesn't know jack, he sits on his ass and surfs the net, chats on myspace...it fails me how he can be so clueless as to what is and is not appropriate at the workplace. He's been reprimanded and even written up (fairly drastic measures around here), but almost immediately failed to comply.

*Drops head into hands, sighs deeply.*

This is why I really question whether or not I want kids. It's a total crapshoot. You could have a great kid who meets the wrong people...or maybe you just have a fuckup for a child anyway, sorry 'bout that.

If this worthless flesh-colored stain was my offspring, I'd off the bitch myself, get down on both knees and beg the world's forgiveness.

Loose Ends Thoughts

I am positively glazed over from burning hi-res CDs from hi-res files all morning. It takes FOREVER. But leaves me free to blog-surf. Then I feel guilty for doing jack-shit all morning. For like, a minute.

I've noticed that not only am I a fairly inconsistent blogger (which I will legitimately try to remedy), but I totally fail to follow up on past events. The drunken fight between Rico and Clark? And really, why the need for psuedonyms? I guess I was trying to be thoughtful or PC, neither of which is in my nature. Anyhoo, they'll never read this and even if they do, who cares. Rico is just Rob, our old roommate. Very mellow laid-back dude. Clark is Jim, a friend of everyone's but Rob has known him since high school.

To go into Jim's issues, history and all the weird shit, well...that would take eons. But the man is not responsible, takes advantage without realizing it...very sweet guy, which is what makes it hard. But long story short, Jim sits at home and does nothing until Rob comes home and then bugs him like a deranged girlfriend. "What's for dinner? What do you want to eat? How was work? Did you have a good day?" Just sweet and clueless and I would have backhanded the dude months ago.

Add onto this that Rob makes good money and is extremely responsible. Jim is secretly resentful and jealous. That night in the car, when he speaks very foolish out of turn in this regard (after Rob dropped at least $100 on him that night for his birthday), Rob was totally justified in kicking his ass to the curb. I was wrong to question Rob's motives (luckily he has no idea that I harbored such thoughts, so who gives one wet donkey fart).

Nuff said. We have not heard from Jim in a while, but the state will surely find him before we do, as they'll be there to continually garnish his wages for the child support he does not pay. Need I say more.

And on that note, as Agent Cooper once said to Sheriff Truman, "Harry, I really have to urinate."

Thoughts on Vacillating

So I have a legitimate head-scratcher. How far would you drive for a bigger, cuter house? You have to drive 30 minutes to the regular cute house, or you could drive 15 minutes more and have a borderline large home that is positively damn cute. And the former drive would consist mostly of stoplights, the latter of highway driving. Both in rush hour, both plagued with stoppage.

As the girl, and as someone who used to commute alot, I opt for the grand house. Derek is opting for the drivetime benefit. Grumble. Not that anyone reading this knows the area, but he wants to live in Plano, where the neighborhood is nice but the houses in our price range are on the smallish side. Do-able, but smallish and just cute. Cozy would be a good deceiving word for a real estate agent to use.

The wife is leaning towards Arlington, a 45 minute drive to a regular town--nothing super nice, just average. It actually seems to be a peculiar mix of nice neighborhoods fringed with a touch of ghetto. But the houses are between 1700--2200 sq ft (Plano would be around 1400), two-story and sexy. And I won't see the insides til my real estate agent Sam makes me a date, but it may be all over when I do.

I keep trying to emphasize that we may not always be working in the same location; we should buy the house strictly on its own merits, including its neighborhood, but drivetime to work shouldn't be a huge factor. He works for a corporation that is going to move him around, there's no question. Hopefully, yes, not to Frisco or even further out in BFE from home. And since the little woman wants to one day trade in the photolab work for an airline job at the airport (free travel, bitches, it's mine), well gosh, Arlington sounds pretty decent.

But driving does suck, no matter which way you cut it.

Jesus. And now I feel like kind of a dick because the delivery guy from our B&W lab is just flat-out super creepy. Real nice guy, but seriously creepy yucky. What makes it so skin-crawlingly bad is his over-familiarity. Like we're buds. And I've just been real short with him lately, as often as possible. However phony his schtick with the ladies, I still feel like a dick playing it as distant as humanly possible.

a cute charming cheap house thoughts

And so begins the search for the house.

I have looked in Lewisville, Corinth, The Colony, whatever. There seems to be a trend I luckily avoided in my youth, of living in a neighborhood of clutter. I turn down these streets and I physically start to feel claustrophobic. The street is narrow, you can barely drive down it as both sides are flanked with parked cars (despite the readiness of each home's garage which is what, filled with shit?) and the houses themselves are positively crowded together. I keep feeling like I'm the Emperor in "Amadeus," muttering, "Too many notes." My neighbors would practically be in my lap, the backyard is big enough for two people to lie down in...and frankly, so far I've just been too afraid to venture inside.

I found one neighborhood I liked and unfortunately, we both seem to really want a house there. Falling in love is such a bad idea. I try to break out from the closing gap, but I always return to it. I'm going with my realtor friend tomorrow to look at a few. I don't expect to love them or anything and I can't decide what would be worse. Falling in love three weeks too early in a zip code where my heart will surely be splattered (these houses seem to be more sought after than cherry-filled chocolate dildos) and I'll have to spend the rest of my life (or whatever, the next five years) knowing that someone else is living in MY house. OR--finding only mediocrity as the need for a house draws ulcer-tighteningly closer. Dunno. Since I have the patience of a gnat, I opt for the first one.

On a far more interesting note, I made ganache centered truffles and they worked! They came out as delicious lumps of chocolate and I could not have asked for more. I tempered the chocolate like a mofo and that is just some tedious-ass shit not for someone of my (as previously noted) patience. Some were still tacky in the end but that's what the powdered sugar and cocoa is for. And really, I got so bored I rolled most of them anyway. They tasted wonderful (rum is so funny that way) that next time I hope to divide the ganache into three batches and have orange liquor, cherry and...well, we seem to have a rather large bottle of mango rum from a day during which the fiancee decided he'd like to make daiquiris. He did. It sits. And waits.

I am also beginning the stock-up on the alcohol for the wedding. Trying to avoid large pocket-emptying runs to the liquor store days before. I don't know which looks worse to my regular cashier at Siegels: my steady buys of ginormous bottles of vodka, gin and wine or just one big ass-pounder of a buyout one Wednesday morning in October. He has started giving me the Monday senior discount, so in either case I'll be buying on Mondays from now on...and it's also starting to occur to me that when I get the same cashiers I can't always remember the outageous off-the-cuff lies I sometimes espouse on a whim. Note to self...