Thursday, July 27, 2006

Off to a Great Typical Start

I would be crying if it weren't for the fact I was totally expecting something like this to happen. Normally the catastrophe has something to do with the first round draft pick. Now it's our free agents.


Thursday, July 13, 2006

Shows and Hoes

Cousin Rick is coming to town this weekend to go see CAKE play at a church festival (not even kidding) and hang out with his favorite cousin (me). He will be bringing along a grown up friend and another cousin of ours, who is 11.

While I greatly look forward to said visit and concert, I've come up with two potential problems.

The first is where the hell am I going to put three people in my apartment? Rick says they can all sleep on the floor, but what floor? I haven't seen my floor in two weeks. Should I store them in the beer boxes? The attic? Out on the porch? No matter where I stick them I need to clean my house.

The second problem came to me just this morning while I merrily showered (what, you don't shower merrily?): my house is not in any way childproof. I don't mean in a hide the cleaning supplies and put plastic covers on the outlets sort of way. What I mean is that my refridgerator is covered in erotic magnetic poetry, my shower curtain sports Playboy covers through the years, more Playboys litter my dining room table (they came free with the roommate) and my bedroom wall features 11 photographs of naked lady parts (and a Sports Illustrated cover of Danica Patrick. Shut up). So, you know, maybe not entirely appropriate for an 11 year old kid. Or many adults for that matter.

Seems I have more cleaning to do than I thought.

Tuesday, July 11, 2006

Roommate: Week One

The bartender has lived at my place for a full week now.
  • He talks to himself in the bathroom. This is not the typical "singing in the shower" thing that many of us are guilty of (I am the best wet and soapy Eponine from Les Miserables ever). This is more like an internal argument, except without the "internal". I figured this out when I heard him in there, mumbling about something, and then heard him saying quite clearly, "Well, now that part is true." I thought maybe he'd brought his phone in there to chat with someone while he dropped the kids off at the lake, but no. Phone was safely being charged in his room. Whatever, it seems whatever the problem was got resolved.
  • The bad news is that I'll never ever ever be a supermodel and neither will Kristen. The good news is I've finally found a name for my apartment. We will either be calling it the House of Fat or the Fat Palace. This is in no small part to the fact that the bartender seems to be genetically programmed to feed everything in sight. I've had chocolate muffins for breakfast for the last 4 days in a row. Kristen stopped finishing her breakfast, which I quickly deduced was because the bartender was feeding her turkey and cheese every time he walked in the door. He also leaves bags of Chex Mix laying around with notes on them: "YES!" "Your fav?" "The cheese kind!" He then acts surprised about the fact that Krissy associates his presence with food.
  • Aging punk rockers tend to have a boatload of CDs, and I base that on the one aging punk rocker I know. Six. Six friggin boxes of CDs that I crazily offered to alphabetize, which took me two days. It was a learning experience. Aside from the expected assortment of Ramones/Social D/NOFX/Anti-Flag/Clash/Rancid/etc. records, I came across a few unexpected items that were occasionally downright scary. I thought at first they were things that just got left by ex-girlfriends, but it turns out that was not the case. Enya? "I like her music." Shania Twain? "She's fuckin' hot!" I suggested he could have just bought a poster like a normal person. "Yeah, but that album was produced by the guy who produces AC/DC." Oh, well in that case... Movies are my next assignment, but my question is, do I need to alphabetize all the porn, or should I just keep them all in the same spot (maybe under P, for "porn")?
  • A fax machine? Why, and what the hell? "You never know when you might need to fax something in an emergency." He seemed undeterred by the fact that we don't have a phone line.
  • I've been trying to come up with some kind of altered name for my roommate/bartender, but it's not working out too well. "Barmate" sounds like my drinking buddy and "roomtender" sounds like my maid, neither of which are particularly true. I may need something more descriptive of him, like "Spike the Cheese-eater" or "Drunky McSnore" or "Fart Master J".

Bathroom Faux Pas

Just moments ago, my refreshing private pee was interrupted by another person coming into the bathroom. It turns out it was my co-worker. I learned this not because we ran into each other at the sinks later, but because upon entering she inexplicably announced, "Hey, Amber is in here! I see her toes under there!"



Apparently some people are not familiar with The Rules. You are supposed to pretend you don't notice that there is anyone else besides you in the bathroom at any time. You don't strike up a conversation with someone behind the stall doors, and you certainly don't out the other pee-ers by announcing who they are to anyone else who happens to be peeing. That's why there's doors on the stalls fer chrissakes. Geesh.

I feel so exposed.

Thursday, July 06, 2006

Not The Crunchiest Peanut in the Turd

Seriously you guys, I swear I am a very intelligent person. For reals. I do math for a living. I read often and faster than a speeding bullet. I enjoy studying history, chemistry and geology just for fun. I know lots and lots of big words, mainly from nerdily reading the dictionary. I excel at logistical problem solving. I finished my degree early. So really I'm pretty smart.

My problem is that I lack even the faintest shred of common sense.

A couple of weeks ago, my Snapple cap told me that chewing gum while cutting onions will prevent you from crying. I decided to test this out last night while making dinner.

When the bartender walked in the kitchen and saw me holding toilet paper against my profusely bleeding bottom lip he asked the obvious question, "What did you do, taste the knife?"

But of course I hadn't. "No. I read about how chewing gum will keep you from tearing up when you're chopping onions, right? So I went to get a piece of gum to see if it would work. But, um, instead of just putting the gum in my mouth like you're supposed to, I thought I'd save time and just bite it out of the package. And so I sort of gave myself a papercut, only with foil. Do you know how to make this stop bleeding?" He stared at me for a moment and then silently left the room.

Natural selection may just get me yet.

Wednesday, July 05, 2006

Amberance: Fledgling Conspiracy Theorist

Fish: did you see that ken lay bought the farm yesterday?
PGS DenMILF: yeah. what does it say about me that my first thought was that he staged it and secretly left the country to live a life of luxury in a non-extradition tropical country?
Fish: well, it was my first thought too
Fish: so I guess it says that we watch too much x-files
PGS DenMILF: i take comfort knowing i was not the only one

Monday, July 03, 2006

Roommate v. 2.0

I am currently sitting in my living room staring at beer cases that run from the bay window in my living room to the opposing wall in my dining room and are stacked five feet high. No lie.

Before you all suggest that maybe I should lay off the suds, I would like to point out two things: 1) they are not mine, and 2) none of them contain beer. What they do contain are all of the bartender's personal belongings. Let me just go on record here as saying the boy has got A LOT of shit.

The bartender has been threatening to move in with me on and off since last September, but our recent Vegas trip with his old roommate Fuckwit finally pushed him into action. He stealth moved this morning leaving Fuckwit to wonder who ordered all that pay-per-view porn last month.

I came home from work today to find that my apartment was missing. Not really missing actually, more like transformed. You know in the movie Labyrinth when Sarah eats the peach and forgets everything? She goes into her "room" and all her stuff is there, but something doesn't feel right. She opens her bedroom door and instead of the hallway she finds a vast wasteland of junk stretching as far as the eye can see. That's pretty much the feeling I had walking into my apartment when I came home from work today.

What does it say about me that my bartender now lives in my apartment? One thing is for sure - I expect to have lots to write about. Let the drama begin!