wrathfully raging liberal

The Wedding Chronicles

2011-01-03T18:39:00.003-05:00

Nothing new. Just organizing...

Table of Crazy

Part I

Part II: The Other Shower

Part III

Part IV: No Means No

Part VI.5

Update: Half wedding party stuck in Milwaukee, Hairdresser slated to stand in for best man.

Chateau Elan - The Most Overrated Place Ever (an illustrated guide)

"And the honeycomb will taste sweeter coming from my hand..."

Four Inappropriate Stories

Hey, it's been a while...

2009-09-27T18:40:00.005-04:00

And you don't even get anything funny. All you get is a recipe for magical vegan butternut squash soup, primarily because it's my own recipe, and I'm feeling rather proud of it. Here goes!

Stuff:
1 big ass butternut squash, peeled & chopped (the smaller you chop, the quicker it cooks, but the longer you chop)
1 big ass onion, cut up any old how you like
4 cups vegetable broth (barbarians can use chicken stock)
2 tbsp vegan margarine (yes, you could use butter)
2 tsp mild curry powder
1/2 tsp coriander
1/4 tsp oregano
1/4 tsp cinnamon
1/4 tsp nutmeg
1/4 tsp white pepper
lil bit o' salt
1 bay leaf

Do this:
In a big pot, melt the butter & saute the onions over medium heat for about 10 minutes til they are all floppy & caramelized. Then throw everything else in. Make sure there is enough liquid to cover all the vegetables; if not, you can add more stock, or just water would be fine also. Simmer until the chunks of squash are mushy - the smaller your chunks, the sooner this will happen. Just give them a poke with your spoon and if they dent easily, they're ready. Fish out the bay leaf and discard it. Put half the squash chunks, onion, and broth into the blender and puree. Be careful of the steam building up in your blender - open the little hole on the blender's lid and cover with a kitchen towel so the steam can escape, thus avoiding explosion and injury. Pour the pureed goodness into a container, and repeat for the other half of the veggies & broth.

Eat. Thank me later.

Feminism Fail: Glamour Magazine

2009-08-20T14:20:00.002-04:00

I know, you're going, "Feminism Fail? DUH! That's why they call it Glamour Magazine: An Illustrated Guide To How You Will Never EVER Be Thin, Beautiful, Or White Enough, Now With More Blowjob Tips That May Or May Not Keep Your Man (Because You Are Of Course Straight And Thus Interested In Such Activities!) From Cheating!!"

But seriously, these sneaky fuckers are trying to get all fat-acceptancey, and I am not buying it.

Oooh, look at this nice feel-good article -

Thank you, Glamour! Now that you have approved of a woman who is a good bit thinner, blonder, and whiter than many women, I, um, feel totally almost better about myself?

You are so totally pro-woman and stuff. I also really appreciate how you give me options such as: feeling good about myself the way I am, or, if that's not really my bag, you offer me a variety of alternatives, conveniently located in the margins of this very article.

I appreciate that. I like that they give me options. It's what choice is all about.

Spamalot

2009-07-22T21:36:00.002-04:00

And now, we wait.

Get Smart (or don't, whatever sells): a film review

2009-06-21T00:13:00.004-04:00

I gave the movie Get Smart approximately half an hour of my life, and in that time it has taught me several things:

- Bumbling, inexperienced men tend to be more capable than highly trained experienced women.
- Women tend to let their emotions interfere with their professional lives and other trifles such as national security. This is a good reminder as to why a woman should never be President.
- Fat people are funny. Fat women are REALLY funny, especially when portrayed in situations where you would normally expect to see only thin women, such as being asked to dance, or wearing a fancy dress, oh my goodness! Hilarity!
- Deaf people are hilarious as well, especially when they try to speak vocally. Silly deaf people, always mispronouncing shit!
- Brown people in turbans are highly likely to be bad guys. Especially when they are on planes.
- It is EXTREMELY HILARIOUS when it appears that two men might be gay! Especially gay with each other!!! Because of course you would never expect a man, let alone TWO MEN WHO HAPPEN TO BE IN THE SAME PLACE, to be gay in the first place, so like, WHOA!

Lest we forget how hilarious and absurd fat people, gays, and women are, Hollywood is here to remind us by recycling all those comfortably familiar stereotypes. Thanks, Hollywood!

------

VERY IMPORTANT UPDATE!!!!

Thank heavens I kept watching!! At the end of the movie, I also learned that it is totally funny to call grown men little girls!! Because as we all know, little girls turn into women, and what could POSSIBLY be worse than being a woman????? AHHAHAHAHAH!!!

*headdesk*

predictive text

2009-06-06T16:23:00.001-04:00

Words I have had to teach my phone:

bagels
burrito
fuck

Words my phone already knew:

Jesus
ass

quotes of the yesterday

2009-06-06T10:09:00.001-04:00

"I can't sign no papers. I gotta be LEGIT in '09!!!"
-- Client

"And you know I know he tryin' to talk to her because he's doing how I do when I wanna hold her with no clothes on!"
-- Client's boyfriend

Why does Tyler Perry still have a job?

2009-05-24T22:38:00.004-04:00

***

A scene from "Meet the Browns" - (Nice, Tyler Perry. Much more clever and subtle than "Meet the Blacks.")

[Scene - Wife is cooking breakfast. Tells husband she is preparing turkey bacon.]

Husband [in great surprise]: "Turkey bacon?! Cora, I didn't know pigs and turkeys be matin'!!!"

***

What. In. The. Hell.

foodurday - homemade bagels!

2009-05-23T12:27:00.012-04:00

Today I made deeeeelicious bagels. FOR. FREE. Or sort of free because I already had all the ingredients, so it felt free. I used the recipe found here. (BTW, give that URL a peek and notice that it says "nadrolled_water_bagels" - I don't have nads to roll with, so I just used my hands. Seemed to work okay.)

What I liked about this recipe is that it begins with just dumping all the ingredients in the bowl at the same time, but it's not easy to stir. I had to add about an extra 1/4 cup of water to the dough, but don't add any extra water til you can tell you definitely need it.

The dough looked all crumbly and awful, but once I kneaded it a little, it came together. Then I kneaded it for TEN FUCKING MINUTES because I do not have a KitchenAid stand mixer (HINT HINT HINT), and I got such a workout that I don't think I need to go to the gym today. Woot woot! Kneading is some hard fucking work.

Then divide it into eighths, which I did with a pizza cutter. Super easy.

Then I rolled them into balls. Heh. Balls.

NOW comes the hard part. After they've rested, if you want to do it the Right and Traditional and Respectable Way, you roll each ball out until it's a rope long enough to wrap around your hand with enough overlap to securely squish it closed into a loop, like so:

(This is a little different because the baker is working with one long roll of dough instead of little dough balls, but you get the idea.)

This is hard. I did it for the two of them on the far left of the picture below, but then I got irritated because I think my dough was a little too stiff or something because it didn't want to roll out worth a shit. SOOOO, I did it the Easy Way, which I found here. The Easy Way basically consists of squishing your thumb through the middle of the dough ball until you get a hole. Easy. Then because I am a culinary genius I figured out how to even it out and widen the hole without ripping the dough, of which method I have kindly provided an instructional video:

Results:

Then they need to rest a little while longer. Preheat the oven and get your big pot of water boiling. One of the recipes I read said the water needed to be barely simmering; the other didn't mention what manner of boil was appropriate. I tried both, and it seemed not to matter. Oh, ALSO, according to the recipes and photos, the bagels were supposed to sink and then float right back up when dropped into the water. This did not happen for me. They sank like rocks and stuck to the bottom, but I only had to loosen them off the bottom once right after they dropped, and then they were fine. They never actually floated UP, which made the flipping part rather moot. I was extremely concerned about this, and thought maybe my yeast didn't activate or something, but they turned out fine.

Okay, so after they boil for 2 minutes each, you can top them if you want. If not, you'll just have plain water bagels. I let mine drip on a cooling rack lined with paper towels for a minute til I could handle them, and then I squished them into a plate of coarse kosher salt, caraway seeds, and flax seeds.

Then I transferred them, topping side up, to a cookie sheet that I had sprayed and then dusted with cornmeal (this is not required, but suggested by the second recipe I linked above). I think just spraying the pan would have been fine.

Flip 'em after 10 minutes. This will not disturb the toppings (much).

And then eat them!! But let them cool first. I didn't, and I burned my mouth.

They actually taste more like a giant soft pretzel to me than an actual bagel, but giant soft pretzels are delicious, so whatever. Enjoy!

Note: If you're like my mom and track every calorie that passes your lips, these have a little over 200-250ish apiece. That includes the flax seed topping, which has more calories than I had thought it would, but they are quite good for you, I hear, so whatever.
_______________________________________________

EDIT:

This is a much better video for how to roll & twist them -

AND his dough looks totally different from mine. It was not nearly as pliable or stretchy, so I guess mine was too dry. I'll add more water next time, but as I said before, still yummers.

_______________________________________________

OMG EDIT # 2:

I think I forgot to put in the sugar. I bet that's why they are like giant pretzels. Whoops.

weirdest email ever

2009-05-22T20:47:00.002-04:00

Remember my fabulous family trip to Gatorland, in which my family and I got to feed ravenous, bloodthirsty alligators, and in which Ryan threw a slab of rotten steak onto one unlucky alligator's back and ruined its life? OF COURSE YOU DO.

And in that post, I included this video, which is really pretty anti-climactic because it is all blurry and shiz, and you cannot really see the bloodthirstiness of the gators or even the flying steaks, but can only hear some crummy plopping noises, so you totally do not get a good view of the imminent danger we were in, and thus might actually think it was a video from the inside of a rather large public toilet.

Anyhooters, regarding that video, I received this email, which even I think is totally weird.

wedding chronicles: anti-climactic update

2009-05-16T21:42:00.009-04:00

After not answering all TWO of her calls since December, I finally got a communication from Bridezilla......

From this e-mail we can infer that Groom & 'Zilla are STILL living in different states (FIVE MONTHS after their wedding!), and that 'Zilla has still either not noticed that I'm not talking to her OR she's too self-centered to realize that it might have something to do with her behavior.

Suffice it to say, I'm not going. There were several invitees, so I just can't afford it.

Happy Caturday!!

2009-05-16T11:27:00.003-04:00

I got jealous of all Reagan's kitty posts, so here it is.....Caturday!

Steve tries out the new couch:

Pickles sticks with the old one:

And Bitty Kitty claims the Ikea chair:

Happy Caturday, everyone! Off to the beach. Be jealous.

res ipsa loquitur

2009-05-05T12:00:00.002-04:00

Facebook pretty much did all the heavy lifting for me on this one.

i'm faaaaaamous, i'm faaaaaaamous!!!!!!!!!

2009-05-05T10:18:00.004-04:00

Ryan and I are now accepting applications for a publicist because we are DOUBLE FAMOUS!

Go and see how awesome we are here at Photobomb.

And then go READ our awesome story over HERE at The Devil's Daughter in Law. (If you are not yet familiar with DDIL, you should be. It's therapeutic. )

We're FAAAAAMOUS, we're FAAAAAAMOUS!!!!!

Why I (Really Really) Hate Football

2009-05-02T22:42:00.011-04:00

I hate Sports. I hate Sports a lot. I've even given Sports multiple chances to prove themselves, but so far I've been pretty disappointed, with the sole exception of Baseball. Extending an olive branch, Baseball offered me $2 beers and gratuitous fireworks on warm summer evenings during my Season of Voluntary Unemployment, and for that I remain grateful. Thanks for the memories, Baseball, or rather, the lack thereof (see: $2 beers).

I suppose it wasn't entirely fair of me to hold a grudge against Baseball, but the alternative was holding a grudge against my grandparents, so Baseball just had to take one for the team, so to speak. You see, when I was a leetle Jeannie, my parents and I lived with my grandparents, in the mostly finished basement of their ranch-style house.

(What? If your dad was a musician, and not the orchestra kind, the tortured lead guitarist kind, you probably lived in your grandparents' basement too.)

My bedroom was located directly and unfortunately beneath my grandparents' living room. The living room was their sanctuary, the television the heart of their home. It was a fairly large set for the time (mid- to late 80's, I think), and it routinely beamed the Braves game into their living room in pixels large enough for their aging eyes. I don't remember Nannaw and Pappaw having too many social friends, but I do remember another couple who never missed a game at our house, Buddy and Charlotte.

On game nights, my grandparents and their friends were transformed. Gone was the sluggishness caused by diabetes, digestive ailments, arthritis, and glaucoma, and in its place was the screaming, stomping, rabid, unadulterated rage that only a bad play taken personally can provoke.

Those same nights, I lay awake in my bed, listening as eight orthopedically shod feet stomped the floor in fury. DAMMIT, BLAUSER!!!!! they'd scream. GOD DAMMIT!!!!!!!!!!! COME ON!!!!!

Loathing rankled in my underslept heart, because didn't they realize I had to be up at seven the next morning? Seven! Had they no idea how hard my life was? How could I be expected to stay on the honor roll under these sorts of living conditions? Why, it was child abuse, that's what it was!!

But I couldn't hate my grandparents, could I? Of course not. Not Nannaw who always gave me an oatmeal cream pie or a Starcrunch, whether I'd finished my dinner or not (although it was many years before I'd completely forgive her for repeatedly forcing my hair into sponge rollers in a relentless effort to make me resemble something she described as "ladylike"). Not Pappaw, who always patted me on the head, called me "Little Sweetie," and seemed to have an endless supply of Tootsie Rolls. And neither could I hold a grudge against Charlotte, whose curly hair looked not unlike that of my beloved Hugga Bunch doll, nor against Buddy who was the spitting image of Count von Count.

So Baseball had to take one for the team. Oh, Baseball, how I hate hate hated your guts, as well as those of your stooge Blauser, an incompetent muttonhead whose inadequacies so often prompted the outraged screaming that blasted through the floorboards and into my brain.

I suppose that in the many years that I did not live and attempt to sleep beneath my grandparent's living room, my hatred for Baseball dulled. The sleepless nights became nothing more than a memory, as we moved to our own house shortly before I turned eleven. As an adult, my attitude toward Baseball was fairly indifferent, albeit tinged with remnants of childhood loathing. In the past few years, however, Baseball has wooed me, and successfully so. It tantalized me with the promise of Other Things To Do when I tired of drinking at the pool, sweetening the deal with $5 tickets.

Okay, Baseball, I thought skeptically. I'll give you a chance. One chance.

Baseball met and even exceeded my expectations that by offering me a free shuttle that enabled me to drink as many of Baseball's $2 (TWO DOLLARS!) beers as I could afford. And because of the enormous quantity of affordable beers I had consumed, I slept beautifully that night. Baseball made its amends, and all is forgiven.

However, Baseball's thoughtful research into my personal interests (see: $2 beers & free ride) couldn't cure my hatred for Sports as a whole because of that sluggish bastard, Football.

Fuck you, Football. Get a fucking watch. I loathe tardiness in general, but Football just takes it to a whole 'nother level.

Why is it exactly that Football is allowed to turn ONE hour into THREE hours? What's so damn special about Football that it gets to, oh, I don't know, STOP TIME? I still don't know. All I know is that when I was a kid, Football routinely took advantage of my youthful naivete and at every opportunity, ruined my life.

Homework completed just in time, I'd often rush excitedly to the TV, eager to see what new feats of derring-do those Rescue Rangers might accomplish, or what zany predicament Huey, Duey, and Luey would get themselves into now. I'd inevitably switch on the set during a commercial break, and I'd wait patiently for the half-hour to arrive, and with it, animated bliss.

But no, what was this? It's four-thirty. Where are the Rescue Rangers? Where is Darkwing Duck? Duck Tales? No? What is this?!

Football, that's what. Fucking football.

Wincing in dispair, I'd glance at the little time clock in the corner of the screen. Oh, I'd think to myself. Well, there's only 38 minutes left, so it's just one show, maybe a little extra. I can wait! I wasn't selfish. I was willing to compromise. Football could have the TV for a little while.

Because there was an odd amount of time left on the clock, I expected that my show would start a little late, displaced by the end of the game. This too was okay, but of course I had to sit there holding vigil over the TV, lest I forget that my displaced show would begin at an odd time, causing me to miss a second show altogether.

And I'd wait. And wait. And wait. Thirty-eight actual minutes would come and go, and somehow there would still be time left on the clock, but it didn't seem like much time really........So I'd wait some more.

And finally, at long last, after what seemed like an eternity, Football would relinquish the TV, just in time for.......THE EVENING NEWS.

Time and time again this happened, for surely, I believed, at some point Football would catch on and get its clock fixed. Any day now, Football would think to itself, Say, aren't I about, oh, five years late for.......everything? And realizing that its chronic tardiness was due to a long busted time clock, Football would either have its clock repaired, or perhaps even get a new clock, who knew, maybe even one that was fast rather than agonizingly slow. Time and time again, I had faith that Football would finally get it right, finally get its clock fixed, finally stop lying to me.

But no. Football never got its clock fixed, and to this day it doesn't even have the courage to be honest about just how long it plans to swallow up my regularly scheduled programming. So fuck you, Football. No amount of cheap beer or seasonal entertainment can make up for this because YOU'RE STILL DOING IT! Baseball got its shit together and quit waking me up at night, and it even made amends, but you??? You think you're too good. You don't just think you're too cool for school, you think you're too cool for time!!! TIME IS IN THE FUCKING BIBLE, FOOTBALL! IT'S SCIENCE! YOU CANNOT DISREGARD IT! But Football is the original hipster, scorning tradition and not caring when innocent children get hurt in the process.

So fuck you, Football. No more chances for you. Your time is finally up.

Quote of the Day

2009-04-28T19:03:00.000-04:00

*ring ring or whatever obnoxious fake song my phone plays*

"Hey, real quick, I have a customer here who's trying to remember the name of the celebrity who's been in a feud with Katy Perry, and I figured you would know."
-- the Huz

UPDATE: I knew.

cleavage fail: weighing in on Miss California because it's slightly less boring than studying

2009-04-22T13:41:00.011-04:00

So everyone's all up in arms, and Bill O'Reilly is like, "YOU CAN'T PUNISH SOMEONE FOR THEIR OPINION!!! THIS IS AMERICA!!!!"

I know it's unfairly easy to take shots at Bill O'Reilly, and because I'm feeling fairly lazy (see: not studying), that's just what I'm gonna do for a sec.

Right, dummy, the government can't punish you for your opinion, but the judges of the contest that you chose to enter can certainly dislike your glib, ill-conceived answer. Perhaps people would still criticize her for her point of view (I would), but I doubt if she had given a more thoughtful answer that she would be coming under such fire, which, btdubs, has probably brought her a degree of celebrity rarely enjoyed by a runner-up. Expect her country/Christian album to drop this fall.

Here's the deal - Miss ~~Proposition 8~~ California can say whatever she wants to say, but any idiot in a contest knows you have to consider your judges - some of whom are raging homosexuals. This was no secret. Barbie knew her audience, and she was foolish not to expect such a question and prepare a more thoughtful response in advance. I hope she fired her coach immediately, because really, who didn't see that coming?

Anyhoo, my point is that I don't think she's being crucified for being true to herself or whatever because there was certainly another way to express much the same thing without seeming like such a fucking twit. Frankly, it sounded like what she meant was something along the lines of, "Hey, I'm okay with my hairstylist being able to visit his boyfriend in the hospital, I'm just too stupid to consider the distinction between religious and civil marriage." For that, I think she could easily be forgiven.

So here's what Barbie might have said, had she considered the topic in advance:

"Regardless of my personal religious convictions, I am glad that we live in a country where citizens are allowed to express their opinions and vote on important issues such as this. I think as was done in Vermont, states should continue letting the people choose what the laws in their state should be."

There you go. A total non-answer that would have been unlikely to offend anyone. It would pretty much reveal her opinion but also establish that she isn't a complete idiot. At worst, it'd earn her a hearty eye-roll from raging liberals such as myself, of which there are probably only five or six anyway. And also, at least we'd know she isn't so silly that it never occurred to her that such a question might be asked, because, really????

For the purposes of illustration, let’s pick a different topic, and compare some possible answers that might be given.

Question: Do you think race-based affirmative action, whether in education or in the workplace, is a good policy, and why?

Answer 1:
No way! Racial people shouldn’t be allowed to, uh, take jobs away from, like, regular people just ‘cuz they’re, like, black!

Answer 2:
I believe that the disadvantages faced by many Americans are a very real problem; however, I think there has to be a better solution to this problem because I believe that each person should be evaluated on the basis of his or her individual merits or qualifications.

Answer 3:
I personally believe that U.S. Americans are unable to do so because, uh, some, people out there in our nation don't have maps and, uh, I believe that our, uh, education like such as, uh, South Africa and, uh, the Iraq, everywhere like such as, and, I believe that they should, our education over here in the U.S. should help the U.S., uh, or, uh, should help South Africa and should help the Iraq and the Asian countries, so we will be able to build up our future, for our children.

Answer 1:
Bad.

Answer 2:
Good. Essentially the same as Answer 1, only displays forethought and sensitivity rather than peroxide poisoning that has reached the nervous system.

Answer 3:
Drugs. Good ones.

Anyway. The girl's probably a nice girl, but she's a poor speaker, her implants look like shit, and she's dumb for not being better prepared.

That's all.

size matters

2009-04-20T02:10:00.006-04:00

So I'm up WAY too late after drinking WAY too much coffee, but I got lots of studying done, so whatever. Anyhoo, I'm up in the middle of the night watching South Park, and I just saw a silly commercial for this

Excuse me, excuse me, but just what the hell is that supposed to do for me? Well, I mean, I know what it's supposed to do, but seriously? This thing looks like it runs on a one-time-use watch battery. And for nineteen ninety-nine?!

Sorry, Trojan, but I'm a grown-ass woman, so I need a little more than a buzzing thimble, knumsayin'? I think we can all agree that in one way or another size matters. For example, (straight) boys like their double D's

and I like mine.

Nuff said. Nite.

yummiest thing ever

2009-04-19T13:26:00.006-04:00

Thanks to Alyssa for pointing me toward Vegan Dad's blog, which has an assortment of the most DELICIOUS animal-less foods ever. Today I made his recipe for Vegan Sausages. I must admit I was skeptical because fake meats from the grocery store are decidedly freak-nasty, but these things came out AWESOME. Even Ryan is chowing down on them. I am not going to repost the recipe (linked above) here because it's probably copyrighted or something, but I made it exactly as directed, except I changed the seasoning. Instead of the Italian spices, I substituted

1/4 teaspoon ground allspice
1/2 teaspoon crushed caraway seeds
1/2 teaspoon dried marjoram
1 teaspoon freshly ground white-pepper
1 teaspoon salt, or to taste

because I was more in the mood for bratwurst. Italian sausage tends to give me acid reflux, if you must know.

Anyway, they were super easy to make and magically delicious, and they both look and taste like meat. They even have a meaty texture, I swear. (That's what she said? *shrug*)

After the directed 40 minutes of steaming, I threw them on the grill (at like 400 degrees, just regular grilling temp) for about 5 minutes, until they had nice crispy grill marks on both sides. Then I completely ruined their veganness by covering them in cheddar cheese, but hey. No dead pigs.

Yummayyyy!

I would post a picture, but I can't find my camera. Hmm.

wal-mart butt

2009-04-17T21:52:00.006-04:00

Did you ever have the kind of day where you decided to go to Wal-mart, yes, Wal-mart in search of cheap weights, but instead of cheap weights you encountered, can it be, the fabled Perfect Pair of Jeans?

That's what kind of day I had. Of course, I had some trepidation about purchasing jeans from Wal-mart, nay, even being at Wal-mart, because really, what does it say about my body and proportions if I find the most perfectest pair of jeans ever in a store where almost all the female shoppers have had at least twenty children?

And is The Greasy-Shirted Poverty contagious? And what about The Unplanned Pregnancy? Because there was a SHITload of that going around.

But fuck it, they fit well, they are actually comfortable, they do NOT show my asscrack when I bend over (miracle!), and they were only eighteen dollars!

Eighteen dollars! Can I get a HELL YEAH??

HELL YEAH!!!

So I buy my jeans, and I'm all, "So what if I bought pants from Wally World? Damn, I look magically lean and fabulous in these EIGHTEEN DOLLAR jeans! This is the best day of my life!" But I was a little disappointed that they didn't have the blue denim in my size, only black, so I thought, "I'll check the website when I get home." Which of course prompted me to have another "Is it okay that The Perfect Pair of Jeans" came from Wal-mart conversation with myself, only this time was worse because I planned to special order my CLOTHING from Wal-mart.

For a second time, I put aside my corporate prejudices and my worry that I might just be a member of Wal-mart's target consumer group (unemployed? check!) and checked the tag of my awesome new jeans that magically cover my bum and make me look and feel ever so skinny to determine the exact magical style so I could order the right ones in blue, and discovered a tag that read......

"HIDDEN SLIMMING PANEL."

And then I jumped off a bridge. Been nice knowing you all.

Quote of the Day

2009-04-16T17:26:00.002-04:00

"Pregnancy tests and ultrasounds are tools we use to share Jesus."
-- Tricia Parker, director of Athens Pregnancy Center

A Day Like Any Other

2009-04-15T12:49:00.006-04:00

Did you ever have the kind of day where you walked in to your Constitutional Law class, settled into your front row seat, and then were pleased to notice that your professor was looking especially SMOKIN' fucking hot, and then g-chat to your friend that you wouldn't mind giving your professor's ankle a little nibble on account of those sexy ass shoes she's wearing, only to have your professor then confiscate your laptop in the middle of class after you inadvertently click a youtube link that makes it BLARE music not once but twice?

And then did you nearly pee your pants with worry for the remaining 40 minutes of class that she might demand to see what kind of screwing around you were doing on the internets during her fascinating Free Exercise Clause lecture and thus might see the still-open chat window, revealing your newly developed foot fetish, which exists entirely because of her?

And then when all said and done, did you end up loving her extra because when you went to her office to apologize for being a douchey idiot, she immediately started to laugh and apologized to you because she felt guilty for embarrassing you and prancing around with your laptop in front of 80 people?

Anybody? No? Just me? Come on!

Straight people, listen up.

2009-04-10T18:47:00.002-04:00

Sorry for the repost, facebookers.

---------------------------------

This story (also copied below) makes it painfully impossible to ignore that anti-gay discrimination and hate speech affect us all. Think of this child's mother, finding her little boy dangling dead from an electrical cord. Any suicide is a tragedy, but an eleven year old feeling so bereft and terrified that he preferred to die rather than keep going to school each day to face ridicule and abuse is unthinkable. Or it should be, but now it's not because it happened.

By all accounts, Carl Walker-Hoover did not identify as gay. This fact should be irrelevant to the tragedy of his death; however, it throws into sharp relief the problems every single member of our society faces as a result of discrimination that is overwhelmingly participated in or tacitly approved of. Each time someone uses anti-gay hate speech, whether it be calling someone a fag or something as seemingly innocuous as using the word "gay" to describe something as stupid or pointless, it contributes to the cultural climate that led to this child's death. Each time you don't speak up when you hear this sort of speech, you approve.

Consider, if being gay weren't so often considered a terrible, terrible thing, would this have happened? Maybe. Maybe Carl would have been bullied in some other way, but I think we all know that because of the especially hateful and shameful stigma we have permitted to follow gayness, there is little worse that can be said to an adolescent boy.

Perhaps you are not gay. Perhaps you don't know anyone who is gay. Perhaps you think "gay issues" are someone else's fight. You are wrong. Carl wasn't gay, but hatred for gays and the abuse that so often comes with it killed him. Next time it could be you, your son, your sister. Anyone can suffer because of this.

I'm not asking everyone to march in a parade, go to a protest, or vote one way or another. I'm not even asking you to morally approve. What I ask, what I believe we need, is far more basic and fundamental and so very easy. All I ask is for you to consider, was Carl's life really worth less than all the times you've called someone a fag? Is it really worth it to be able to say "that's so gay" when you think something is ridiculous? I think we all know the answer to that. So please, think about what you say. Speak up when you hear someone saying something hateful. Don't approve. Don't be complacent. Stand up for us all, and stand up for our children, who Carl illustrates all too painfully, suffer the most.

----------------------------------------------------

http://www.glsen.org/cgi-bin/iowa/all/news/record/2400.html

GLSEN Calls on Schools, Nation to Embrace Solutions to Bullying Problem

NEW YORK, April 9, 2009 - An 11-year-old Massachusetts boy, Carl Joseph Walker-Hoover, hung himself Monday after enduring bullying at school, including daily taunts of being gay, despite his mother’s weekly pleas to the school to address the problem. This is at least the fourth suicide of a middle-school aged child linked to bullying this year.

Carl, a junior at New Leadership Charter School in Springfield who did not identify as gay, would have turned 12 on April 17, the same day hundreds of thousands of students will participate in the 13th annual National Day of Silence by taking some form of a vow of silence to bring attention to anti-LGBT (lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender) bullying and harassment at school. The other three known cases of suicide among middle-school students took place in Chatham, Evanston and Chicago, Ill., in the month of February.

"Our hearts go out to Carl’s mother, Sirdeaner L. Walker, and other members of Carl's family, as well as to the community suffering from this loss," GLSEN Executive Director Eliza Byard said. "As we mourn yet another tragedy involving bullying at school, we must heed Ms. Walker’s urgent call for real, systemic, effective responses to the endemic problem of bullying and harassment. Especially in this time of societal crisis, adults in schools must be alert to the heightened pressure children face, and take action to create safe learning environments for the students in their care. In order to do that effectively, as this case so tragically illustrates, schools must deal head-on with anti-gay language and behavior."

Two of the top three reasons students said their peers were most often bullied at school were actual or perceived sexual orientation and gender expression, according to From Teasing to Torment: School Climate in America, a 2005 report by GLSEN and Harris Interactive. The top reason was physical appearance.

"As was the case with Carl, you do not have to identify as gay to be attacked with anti-LGBT language," Byard said. "From their earliest years on the school playground, students learn to use anti-LGBT language as the ultimate weapon to degrade their peers. In many cases, schools and teachers either ignore the behavior or don’t know how to intervene."

Nearly 9 out of 10 LGBT youth (86.2%) reported being verbally harassed at school in the past year because of their sexual orientation, nearly half (44.1%) reported being physically harassed and about a quarter (22.1%) reported being physically assaulted, according to GLSEN’s 2007 National School Climate Survey of more than 6,000 LGBT students.

In most cases, the harassment is unreported. Nearly two-thirds of LGBT students (60.8%) who experience harassment or assault never reported the incident to the school. The most common reason given was that they didn’t believe anything would be done to address the situation. Of those who did report the incident, nearly a third (31.1%) said the school staff did nothing in response. While LGBT youth face extreme victimization, bullying in general is also a widespread problem. More than a third of middle and high school students (37%) said that bullying, name-calling or harassment is a somewhat or very serious problem at their school, according to From Teasing to Torment. Bullying is even more severe in middle school. Two-thirds of middle school students (65%) reported being assaulted or harassed in the previous year and only 41% said they felt very safe at school.

Carl's suicide comes about a year after eighth-grader Lawrence King was shot and killed by a fellow student in a California classroom, allegedly because he was gay.

GLSEN recommends four simple approaches schools can take to begin addressing bullying now.

Said Walker in the Springfield Republican: "If anything can come of this, it's that another child doesn't have to suffer like this and there can be some justice for some other child. I don't want any other parent to go through this."

About GLSEN
GLSEN, the Gay, Lesbian and Straight Education Network, is the leading national education organization focused on ensuring safe schools for all students. Established nationally in 1995, GLSEN envisions a world in which every child learns to respect and accept all people, regardless of sexual orientation or gender identity/expression. GLSEN seeks to develop school climates where difference is valued for the positive contribution it makes to creating a more vibrant and diverse community. For information on GLSEN's research, educational resources, public policy advocacy, student organizing programs and educator training initiatives, visit www.glsen.org.

public service announcement: cosmetics edition

2009-03-18T21:32:00.013-04:00

Okay, so from time to time, this and that kind of makeup will be deemed out of style or whatever. This is often a Good Thing. For example,

Thank heavens that we now all know we should not use the paint-by-number method on our faces, nor should we draw on massive fake moles.

Gross!

Naturally, sometimes things also come into style that are just wretched (see: above). I'd like to clue you all in on one of them. The "V."

Oh, the "V."

Okay, so like, say you want a smoky eye or something. Here is what the makeup powers that be are now telling you to do. First, you put a light color all over your lid. THEN you make some crazy sideways V-shape with a much, MUCH darker color, along your lashline and in the crease.

BARF.

You know what this looks like? I'll tell you what this looks like. This looks like drag queen makeup. Know why? Because it is drag queen makeup. I do not think there is anything wrong with drag queen makeup; in fact, I quite love it, but only on drag queens. Behold, the lovely and talented Jackie Beat:

Mmm-hm!

Or the girlfriends of Hugh Hefner. They totally look drag queenish as well, and I suppose that's fine. Look at these queens:

Good lord. Kendra looks like the Rock of Love Bus threw up all over her. And while I'm at it, what the fuck is up with Bridget's thigh highs? Those are like grandma stockings or something. Also, what is that butt floating in the air above them? A collective thought bubble? A not-so-classical ceiling fresco? I guess I'll never know.

And SPEAKING of Rock of Love Bus!!!! Natasha, honey, the "V" ain't doing you any favors keeping your "T" a secret.

Mm-HM!

Anyway, I am seeing this new "style" everywhere from Sports Center idiot Cindy Brunson:

(btdubs, Cindy, your puns are GOD AWFUL.)

to the ladies of the Tool Academy:

to the Clinique lady who recently instructed JPo on eyeshadow application. Granted, the colors she used were entirely inoffensive in the "V" configuration, but she is spreading around the same dangerous principle.

And, also, I ask you, what the heck is the point??? When your eyes are OPEN, it looks just like it would if you had the darker color all over your lid, and when your eyes are CLOSED, you look......well......

Quote of the Three Wednesdays Ago (for which we paid money)

2009-03-10T19:46:00.003-04:00

"I don't use adjectives to brag about things any more than is already documented!"

--Count von Count, on what sets him apart from those sharky Itlanna lawyahs

a super-sized helping of crazy

2009-03-09T00:00:00.012-04:00

Recently I have been making a couple of cuts in the friend department - Bridezilla and that me-dissing, bed-mussing, stinky-haired lunatic. It feels a little weird to just sort of break up with people who have been around for years, but it needed to be done.

Anyway, I have decided that if I wouldn't tolerate certain behaviors out of certain people were I to meet them today, I am not going to tolerate them out of the people I've known for quite some time. Thus, I would like to discuss this ridiculous email I received today from my stinky-haired, selfish, room-using former friend,whose calls I have not answered since he totally crapped all over me a few weeks back...

-----------------------------------------
Here is my secret gmail account since my hotmail account is not professional enough for you, haha. (I do not like your stupid comma plus haha construction. It's annoying.)

I haven't been able to get a hold of you the last few calls, so I thought I would drop u (Seriously? I am not even worth a fully-spelled "you?") a line.

I am about to leave Atlanta for good in a few weeks (oh, NO) so I have been acknowledging people that meant a lot to me during my time here (because they always had apartments located conveniently near places I like to frequent). I really have appreciated our friendship the last few years (particularly because you would always pick me up when I was drunk in the middle of the night, be nice to me when I tried to date self-destructively out of my league and got repeatedly rejected, AND let me crash at your place allthefucking time even though I never failed to complain that your place was messy, and you have too many pets). It has meant a lot to me (to always have a place to pass out after I party too much), I appreciate how we can push each other's buttons and still be friends in the end. I think you are an incredibly powerful person (Jeannie does NOT appreciate canned compliments straight from your creepy DEFINITELYNOTTAcult's brochure. She selfishly prefers that you come up with things that actually apply to her as an individual.), I really hope that you find your true passion (how the hell do you know I haven't???), what inspires you (ditching selfish dickholes like you does that, actually), and take that to the next level. (What the fuck does "the next level" even mean? Does anyone even know? Possibly I should get more serious about cupcakes? Or perhaps I should take my passion for strong language to the next level, and say, "Fuck you, you fucking lunatic." I like that. Good suggestion, actually.)

One of my favorite persons (that'd be YOURSELF, right?) states, "the genius is one who listens to the light of his/her own soul and obeys." I know that sounds a little esoteric (It in fact does not sound esoteric at all. esoteric - adj: understood by or meant for only the select few who have special knowledge or interest. It's nice that you've purchased a thesaurus, but I highly suggest familiarizing yourself with a dictionary first.) but I believe it is one of the most pragmatic (what?) statements that I have ever heard (really????). I believe when you shed some of the layers that hold you back (oooh, I am a big fucking onion! sweet!), you will be able to reach unimaginable heights (SNORE). I did not mean to push [NAME OF PROGRAM DELETED BECAUSE IT LIKES TO SUE] (the corporate NONcrazy NONcult with the really good attorneys) on you (yes, you did) but I saw something that could unlock that tremendous potential of yours (BIGGEST EYE ROLL EVA). I know you will find it in your own way, on your own time (Thank god. Your assurance is so comforting; now I can finally stop worrying that I'll be a complete failure.).

Take care of Ryan like he takes care of you (do what??? I will surely take this astonishingly profound tidbit to heart, especially considering your excellent track record of successful two-week relationships. After all, "Quantity over quality" has always been my motto as well, especially where pussy is concerned!). He's a great guy and I want nothing but the best for both of you. Once again thanks for all the times we shared, the good, the bad, the ugly, the embarrassing, and the humorous. I felt I have grown the most in the last 3 years and you definitely (Aw, the only thing that could have made me throw up on your face MORE was if you had spelled that "definately." I am truly disappointed, and I feel like you probably spelled it correctly on purpose, just to spite me.) played a part in that.

Good luck with the rest of school and I am sure I will see you around my friend (Really? Because last time I saw you, you said, "BYE, JEANNIE-POO! I will probably NEVER SEE YOU AGAIN! Off to BRUNCH NOW! BuhBYE!").

Yours in health (BARRRRRF)

Captain Selfish A-hole
----------------------------------

Here is all (else) I have to say in reply -

RE: countless comma splices

Dear Cpt. Ego,

THIS --> ; is called a semi-colon. Sharing a key with the colon, with which it should never be confused, it is located immediately to the right of the "L" on your standard QWERTY keyboard.

Do the world (and yourself) a favor and look it up, learn about it, and start using it.

Sincerely,

Jeannie

THE END.

Beelzebub has a devil put aside for meeeeeeeeee!!

2009-03-08T19:35:00.004-04:00

The weather is BEAUTY-FULL, and I am having the best days ever of no school and sun and warmth, etc, so I am being less life-lazy and more blog-lazy and poaching funny from the library's most recent newsletter crossword puzzle.

I bet I could have gotten away with it though, because who ever even looks at those? You should though; they're totally funny.

Noble v. Bradford Marine, Inc.
789 F.Supp. 395, 397 (S.D.Fla.,1992)

"As a result, Prime Time's removal, almost ten months after Muir commenced suit, is untimely and is a defect deemed “way” improvident. For similar reasons, the court finds that removal of the Noble case, which had been remanded, was also untimely. In short, Prime Time's most bogus attempt at removal is “not worthy” and the Defendants must “party on” in state court."

How many of you kids even get this reference? Here's a most excellent hint:

ho hum

2009-03-05T17:57:00.004-05:00

Not much going on around here lately, so I'll leave you with this little gem...

U. S. ex rel. MAYO v. SATAN AND HIS STAFF
54 F.R.D. 282, (W.D. Pa., 1971)

MEMORANDUM ORDER
WEBER, District Judge.

Plaintiff, alleging jurisdiction under 18 U.S.C. § 241, 28 U.S.C. § 1343, and 42 U.S.C. § 1983 prays for leave to file a complaint for violation of his civil rights in forma pauperis. He alleges that Satan has on numerous occasions caused plaintiff misery and unwarranted threats, against the will of plaintiff, that Satan has placed deliberate obstacles in his path and has caused plaintiff's downfall.

Plaintiff alleges that by reason of these acts Satan has deprived him of his constitutional rights.

We feel that the application to file and proceed in forma pauperis must be denied. Even if plaintiff's complaint reveals a prima facie recital of the infringement of the civil rights of a citizen of the United States, the Court has serious doubts that the complaint reveals a cause of action upon which relief can be granted by the court. We question whether plaintiff may obtain personal jurisdiction over the defendant in this judicial district. The complaint contains no allegation of residence in this district. While the official reports disclose no case where this defendant has appeared as defendant there is an unofficial account of a trial in New Hampshire where this defendant filed an action of mortgage foreclosure as plaintiff. The defendant in that action was represented by the preeminent advocate of that day, and raised the defense that the plaintiff was a foreign prince with no standing to sue in an American Court. This defense was overcome by overwhelming evidence to the contrary. Whether or not this would raise an estoppel in the present case we are unable to determine at this time.

If such action were to be allowed we would also face the question of whether it may be maintained as a class action. It appears to meet the requirements of Fed.R. of Civ.P. 23 that the class is so numerous that joinder of all members is impracticable, there are questions of law and fact common to the class, and the claims of the representative party is typical of the claims of the class. We cannot now determine if the representative party will fairly protect the interests of the class.

We note that the plaintiff has failed to include with his complaint the required form of instructions for the United States Marshal for directions as to service of process.
For the foregoing reasons we must exercise our discretion to refuse the prayer of plaintiff to proceed in forma pauperis.

It is ordered that the complaint be given a miscellaneous docket number and leave to proceed in forma pauperis be denied.

more snow!!!! yayyyy!!!!!

2009-03-01T23:23:00.009-05:00

And laaaaateerrrrrr, there was even MORE SNOW!!! Apollo was staring out the window and whining and moaning and begging to go out, like so:

Our mini-snowman got a leetle bit buried

so we decided to make a full-sized snowwoman!

Here she is chillin' (HA HA!) with the penguin and me:

Of course, I had to make a snowcupcake:

We frolicked some more, too!

And here is a video of earlier frolicking that you missed because blogger and photobucket do not understand each other, so I'm forever switching to youtube:

Apollo got to come outside to make some yellow snow:

And he made a new friend! They frolicked their little doggie asses off!

Walking to the gas station for emergency Coke Zero:

People tryna drive on 441 - FAIL!

Our neighborhood, looking uncharacteristically picturesque and fancy:

Yippee skippy hooray!!!

BEST DAY OF MY LIFE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

2009-03-01T14:24:00.012-05:00

SNOWWWWWW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! IT'S SNOWING!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! WHEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I was so grumpy because it was raaaiiiining and raaaaiiiiining and gross and sloshy and cold, and I was pouting, and I said, "It NEVER SNOWS in our dumb tropical neighborhood and I hate my life and I'm going to BED!!!" And Ryan said, "I'll make it snow!!" And I said, "BLAHFHSOIHFODHG I AM GOING TO BED!" And then like ten minutes later, Ryan came in the bedroom and said, "I TOLD you I'd make it snow for you!!!" and he opened the blinds, and it was SNOOOWWWWIIINNNGGGG!!! He is MAGICAL!!!!!

And then I was so happy, and I cuddled with all my fluffy pals!! (except Pickles because that is not how she rolls)

And then we went to play in the SNOWWWW!!! WHEEEE!!! HOORAY!!!!!!!

Apollo LOVES THE SNOW!!!

Bitty Kitty does not love the snow, but Apollo loves it enough for both of them!

Pickles also did not enjoy the snow, but Apollo loves it enough for her too:

Cute puppy tracks:

The view from our backyard:

Mini-Frosty the Snowman, with a corncob nothing and a baby carrot nose, and two eyes made out of wasabi peeaaasss!

Ryan made an awesome spoiler for my car:

And then he frolicked:

Anna's penguin finally feels at home in Georgia:

my top 5

2009-02-27T13:10:00.007-05:00

AUGH I accidentally deleted this post, and I am PISSED.

Anyway, this post is a contest entry to win a Target gift card from Barking Mad's blog. Don't judge me, etc, etc. All I have to do is post link to my five favorite blog entries and put a link to her contest in my sidebar. You'd do it too, so there, etc etc.

Here they are:

four inappropriate stories
Chateau Elan - The most overrated place ever (an illustrated guide)
that's why they don't call it "Plan A"
fashion victim
the wedding chronicles, part III

shameless begging

2009-02-26T22:14:00.002-05:00

WELL, for some reason, my blog gets like anywhere from 20-50 hits after I post something new, which just tickles me pink and all, BUT.......well.......I am ashamed to say that it makes my little heart feel sad when you lurk and don't comment.

I know, I know, that's ridiculous, nerdy, etc, but it is what it is.

Please leave me your love notes. Or your hate notes. No, don't leave hate notes. That'll hurt my feelings, so just leave love notes, even if you don't mean them.

Also, I take requests. I'm here every night.

FOOOOOOD

2009-02-24T19:04:00.006-05:00

I really can't say enough good about the non-meaty food I've been eating lately. Who needs meat when there's so much healthy deliciousness? Anyhoo, here's what I made for dinner tonight, for anyone who is interested, which is probably nobody.

What you need:
1 15 oz. block of extra firm tofu
oil
soy sauce
asian chili sauce
orange marmalade OR apricot preserves
ground ginger

Drain the tofu and chop it into leetle pieces. In a non-stick pan (or a pot, which I use to minimize splatters), put a little oil in the bottom and put the pan over high heat, but do NOT LET THE OIL HEAT UP before you put the tofu in, and here's why - there is a LOT of water in tofu, and if the oil is hot when you put the tofu in, a massive column of flames will shoot into the air.

Ask me some time how I know.

So, cookity cook cook cook the tofu cubes, like 5-10 minutes, something like that, until they are getting a bit golden. Then dump the tofu on a plate of paper towels and drain, and wipe out the pan/pot completely. Put a little MORE oil in the pan and put the tofu back in over high heat. Add soy sauce (and nutritional yeast if you're into that, which I am, and it's delicious) and cook the living heck out of it til it's all tough and leathery because nothing is grosser than mushy tofu, and nothing is fried chickenier than supercooked tofu, except, of course, for actual fried chicken.

Once it's all good and fried chickeny (prob takes like 10 minutes) throw in a blob of orange marmalade (maybe like a tablespoon or two) and some chili sauce/paste to taste. Sprinkle with ground ginger to taste and cook til the sauce kind of thickens and becomes a glaze.

And voila. Delicious, meat-free, Chinese-food-tasting goodness. Eat with rice, salad, noodles, or nothing. Also causes much less farting than the veggie burger recipe.

Yayyyy!

EDIT:
Oh, also, green onions or leeks would be delicious as well.

EDIT to EDIT:
Regarding the farting - I was wrong. Beware of too much chili sauce.

oh no

2009-02-24T10:08:00.028-05:00

I have been invited to a Fancy Thing.

Because I Christmas-treed (no joke) the LSAT surprisingly well, I got a modest scholarship from the fine people at Synovus. WELL. As you probably know, I have not Christmas-treed actual law school terribly well, but whatever. I send them a thank-you note once a year, and bladdey blah, and I really do appreciate it. Anyhoo, this morning I got an invitation to some reception thingy with Fancy Old UGA Grad #1, Senior Executive Vice President, General Counsel and Secretary of TSYS (formerly in the same position at Synovus, but what the fuck is TSYS? Anyone?), and Fancy Old UGA Grad #2, retired Chairman and CEO of Synovus. Apparently they would be just "delighted" if I could attend and meet them.

I do not think they would be delighted. I think they will be like, "This kid? Really? We gave this weird kid our money? Can we get out of that? Can somebody work on getting us out of that?"

And to make matters worse.......U-ROD will be there, looking at me all shiftily and giving me her evil C-is-for-Corporations stank eye and just generally gnoming around and making me uncomfortable.

I really cannot imagine anything worse than this reception.

"So, Jeannie, how did you spend last summer?"

"Ahh, well, I didn't actually get a job."

"Oh, well, that's fine, that's fine, many people don't find work their 1L summer."

"Yeah, I pretty much just laid at the pool and worked on my tan. I probably drank more than I should, too."

"So what are your plans for this summer?"

"Well, as you can see, I've gotten pretty pasty. I did at one point have a tanning bed membership, and I still do actually, but they let you suspend it, isn't that nice? But anyway, I quit going because I was basically getting in there half-dressed anyhow because no matter how often I went my butt always got the fuck burned out of it, so I had to keep my bottoms on, and THEN I got worried, if I get skin cancer on my boobs or nipples, could that turn into, like, breast cancer? So THEN I was wearing my bikini TOP as well, and it just didn't really make sense to use the tanning bed anymore, so I quit going. So I am really looking forward to using my time this summer to build my tan back up because I hate being pale. It makes the cottage cheese so much more visible, you know?"

What I imagine happening next looks something like the Hindenburg disaster:

And then Jolee will courageously intervene and say,

"Well, it was lovely meeting you, Fancy UGA Grads. Time to take Jeannie home for her meds!"

And you might ask yourself, "Self, why is Jolee there?" Well, she will be there because I have A Plan, and a mighty good one at that. See, I am allowed to bring a guest with me to this Fancy Thing, and I figure a) Ryan will have to work and b) he would probably hate it almost as much as I will, and so I will bring her as my guest and then they will all a) think I am a gay (of which I am 1/3 guilty anyway) and b) ignore me accordingly, and then I can indulge in free food & drink (your Spring Semester Special Fee at work!) and skulk away unnoticed.

Perfect.

what a nice kid

2009-02-24T08:29:00.003-05:00

This kid makes me think that one day if I have children, I actually might not kill them and eat them.

Best line at 2:04.

Quote of the Yesterday

2009-02-24T07:37:00.002-05:00

"You know, when I lived in England, seventy somethin' years ago, I was the only left-handed person in the country. It's true! There wasn't any left-handed people in the whole country, none! And, there wasn't any blacks, either. There wasn't!"
--a lonely and extremely elderly man who shall remain relatively anonymous

note

2009-02-24T07:35:00.002-05:00

Although I have been writing much, much less, please be assured that my life is definitely no less full of crazy. To keep my poor blog from getting musty and moldy and arthritic from disuse, I will now endeavor to post, if not daily then at least a few times a week, something ridiculous that was said to me or that I heard or read.

That's all!

Quote of the Day Before Yesterday

2009-02-22T17:42:00.002-05:00

"I mean, well, yeah, Chernobyl, yeah, they messed that one up."
--overheard on the steps of GSU's law school

Quote of the Day

2009-02-22T17:40:00.001-05:00

"Please maintain a Noble Silence in the Studio."
--sign on the door at a fancy Atlanta yoga studio

cutest thing eva

2009-02-08T23:06:00.003-05:00

I was trolling the internets for ice cream tattoos because I want (another) one to go with my cupcake, and I found THIS (on this website) which is SO CUTE AND WONDERFUL AND HAPPY AND EXCELLENT!!

The owner of this adorable excellence goes by Twinkie Chan, and you can find her site here.

how NOT to act

2009-02-07T23:48:00.008-05:00

Here is what NOT to do in life:

Do NOT call your friend (oh, say, ME, for example) up and say, "Hey!!!! Jeannie-poo!!!!! I am moving to a foreign country in 3 months and will probably never see you again, but would you ever guess that I will be in ATHENS on FRIDAY, so I would LOVE TO SEE YOU!!! It might be the last time I can see you before I move, and I'm never coming back!"

The reason you should not do this is that your friend, if she were me, will surely reply, "Ohmigaw!! Well, I can't wait to hear all about this overseas moving away forever excitingness!" and then she will say, sure, you and your friend can totally crash here Friday night after your comedy show, and she will rearrange her schedule and her plans with her mom so she can be around to hang out with you because she considers you a dear friend and wants to see you and hear all about and pretend to be interested in your life plans.

And then after she does all that, you should not let her sit around downtown waiting for two hours for your show to let out because she will have whined to her husband who just spent ten hours at work that he better come out and meet you guys for drinks because you'll be out of that show any minute now like you said, and you're MOVING TO AN EXOTIC FOREIGN COUNTRY, for god's sake, and he really should appreciate that it's an extraordinary circumstance and forego sleep to visit with you because it's very important to his wife.

And then after they decide that two hours is long enough to wait on you and head home and leave you a key and clean sheets and an air mattress for your buddy and towels in the bathroom, and all manner of polite and hospitable things, et cetera, et cetera, and wait up for your for a while, finally retiring to bed at TWO A.M. when you STILL have not shown up, you should definitely not get up the next morning, chat with your friend for one hour and then leave, announcing, "Welp, we're going to that place you really like, 5 Star Day, for brunch," and then not even invite me your friend. And when your friend, if she were me, says, "Oooh, yeah, I love that place. It's probably my favorite place in Athens!" you should really really not say something to the effect of, "Yeah, it's really good there! Whelp, Jeannie-poo, this is probably the last time we'll see each other! Take care! Thanks for letting us crash!"

Because then I, I mean your friend, will probably realize you are a total user who just wanted a place to stay, and that in spite of your plans to move out of the country forever, and in spite of your having been my her friend for several years, you do not give half a shit about spending any time with me her. I She would be unable to believe that you did not even invite me her to brunch.

And then I she would try and shrug it off and be like, "Oh, well, he's gone forever anyhow, so there's no point in even worrying about it," but then I she would look into the guest room and see that you left it looking like THIS:

(Dramatization. I She would have already stripped off the linens and washed them by now because you always smell like dirty hair.)

And I she would be like "Oh, HELLLLL NAAAHHHHH," and DONE, yes, DONE, and think to herself, "Bon voyage, good riddance, and best of luck tending your delusions of grandeur."

And that is my her advice to all of you on how NOT to behave in life.

you're my cuppycake

2009-02-05T22:34:00.006-05:00

So most of you know that this lawyer thing does not seem to be my cup of tea. I am trying a lot harder this semester and everything, but that doesn't really mean I like it. I've been told about a gajillion times over the past year and a half at school that I missed my calling and should have been a baker.

Well, I agree. My tentative and completely unformulated plan is to mayyyyybe do lawyer stuff for a few years, and then burn out and open a bakery. And there will be yummy thiiiiiiings like cupcakes, coooookiiiiiiiies, big cakes, muffiny goodnesses, and all manner of baked-up delectabilities. Because I just love, love, love baking, I decided to combine that with my love of tattoos. Eventually I would like to have a whole smorgasbord (I spelled that right on the first try!) of yummy items inked on me. See how cute this looks?

Only I do not intend to ever get tattooed on the abdomen because I am sure that one day I will catch the unplanned pregnancy, and I will NOT have it destroying my breasts, vagina, sex life, and my artwork.

So instead I am going to get probably a half sleeve and maybe some shoulder of baked goods. Yesterday, I got the ball rolling with a FABBALOUS cupcake! I took this sketch that I found on the internets just kind of for a starting point:

And he drew it all up and came up with this!

(arteest: Chris Huff @ Ink Wizards in Conyers)

Which is the bestest most wonderfullest thing I ever saw, and I love it SOOO MUCH!
YAYYYYY!!!!!!! :) :) :)

HOORAY!!!!!!!!

Also, I was surprised afterwards at how my arm looked much more bulbous and jiggly than I ever noticed before, but then I realized that's because it is verra, verra swollen.

Anyhooz, I am really really happy with it. Yayyyy!

That's all!

i guess you had to be there

2009-01-25T00:06:00.009-05:00

This post is really only going to be of interest to me and my family.

Probably just me, actually.

So feel free to skip it, but I do recommend giving the photos a quick peek, unless you are totally lame and not interested in seeing us in imminent danger of being killed by hordes of bloodthirsty alligators.

New Year's Eve

My New Year's resolution ("No Food '09") got off to a bad start with a stop at Steak 'n Shake:

Where I decided that I must be adopted because my uncle can eat and drink whatever he wants and not get fat.

No Food '09 frowns upon the drinking of milkshakes. Hmph.

Once we got to our hotel in Orlando, we went to play mini-golf at the Pirate's Cove across the street and it was so so so fun!!! It was super awesome and the funnest course ever and we had such a great time, and wasn't it a shame that Annette wasn't there for it???

Look, just LOOK at all the awesomeness!!

There were some ducks:

And a buccaneer in a tree!

And a pirate ship manned entirely by Christmas packages!

Look how much fun we were having!

And I am convinced it was an enchanted mini-golf course because we all played well, even MEEEEE! Ryan always plays well, though, because he takes his mini-golfing very seriously.

I, on the other hand, take smiling radiantly for photos very seriously.

I have my priorities in order.

I also think it was enchanted because Chris was approached by a panhandling leprechaun:

who said in his wee little voice, "Wanna buy some candy to support the Bulldogs? It's five dollars." He told us he wasn't allowed to sell the individual packages (it does say so on the label), so we could only buy the whole thing. How purchasing the candy went to support the Bulldogs remains unclear.

Because my uncle is ~~really very nice~~ a sucker, he forked over the money. Apparently leprechauns dislike being photographed because when I snapped that shot, he glared at me and said, "Why did you just take a picture of me?!" and it almost got ugly, but I saved the day and cleverly distracted him by pointing out that the hole where the transaction took place looked quite a lot like a butt, so it was fair to call it a butthole.

It's a good thing I knew that leprechauns enjoy toilet humor.

And so, No Food '09 failed again as I ate three packs of overpriced enchanted M&M's.

Poor Ryan and Chris both lost their balls to this water hazard.

HA HA, get it??

But Ryan still won, and we know this because he is Very Serious and competitory and winningfied, so he had to keep score and tally it all up.

Lame. But guess what?????? For the first time ever, I DIDN'T LOSE!!! Chris did!

And it was the funnest awesomest time EVER, and you don't see Annette in any photos because she wasn't there, poor thing, and will just have to be happy with Mountasia and never know the excellence that is Pirate's Cove. When we picked her up from the airport after we finished our awesomest funnest most bestest mini-golf game ever, she was pretty disappointed that she missed out.

But then she was happy!

We went to dinner at Cafe Tu Tu Tango which was right across from our hotel, and next door to the awesomest, funnest mini-golf course ever that Annette totally wasn't there to enjoy.

At Cafe Tu Tu Tango, there was an "artist":

And there was a balloon knotter:

And there was "dancing":

And there was a Chris:

And there was an Annette:

And there was my Ryan!!!!! On a holiday!!! Thanks, Best Buy!

And I was so happy he was there that I didn't even get mad when he treated me like the paparazzi.

And again, since he's my favorite:

And there was food:

And it was actually delicious, too, and No Food '09 was all disapproving of all the consumption, but I told that bitch to shut up and sit down.

And there was drinking:

I always crave face when I drink:

AND, this is the best part, there were free party hats and noisemakers!

Chris liked the noisemakers. A lot.

Then we left the restaurant, and Chris played a kazoo he found on the ground. Since he'd also stolen my noisemaker, I whipped out the festive orange rape whistle I got for Christmas and went to town.

That sumbitch is loud. You'd better think before you fuck with me. I'll deafen you.

Then we got back to the hotel and "HAPPY NEW YEAR"ed and I smooched my honey and was so happy he was there and not working (ew), but I did not finish even a single glass of champagne (compared to last year's three bottles - stop making that face; I split 'em with Mary!) because Whole Foods does not sell Andre, and their suggested replacement of Cristalino was grossy gross.

The next ~~morning~~ afternoon we got out of bed feeling a leetle hung over and headed to the Capital One Bowl. First we met up with Lee & William, but I forgot to take pictures with them.

Sorry!

When we got to the stadium some hippie Jesus people sold Annette a cool rose made out of palm fronds or something, and they were pretty nice hippie Jesus people because they didn't seem offended at all when she asked if they could custom make "something pornographic" for her.

They couldn't.

I have videos of the "refs" booty dancing with the ~~strippers~~ cheerleaders at halftime, but I decided not to post it because I don't really find booty dancing males to be so hilarious except for the ones in my Zumba class.

Some gratuitous photos of us you don't care about:

I still have forehead pimples from that hat.

This actually happened:

But I'm prissy too, so I don't judge.

The game was lots of fun, actually, except the part where I peed all down my left leg when in my zeal not to touch anything in the bathroom stall, I panicked and lost my balance when I nearly bumped into the toilet.

Ugh. I may have smelt of nursing home for the rest of the day, but at least it was my pee and not some creepy Floridian ass filth. Totally worth it.

I am becoming a much better football fan because a couple of times I knew when to stand up and cheer (and did) instead of just going through the motions and then asking Ryan afterwards what we were happy about.

And we won the game! Woot woot!

Then we went to the outlet mall, but you don't care about that. All I bought were really REALLY tall socks from American Apparel and some static balls for the dryer from the As Seen on TV store.

Tolja you didn't care about that.

By the way, did you know that Hell itself is located on International Drive in Orlando?

Me neither, which is why I'm warning you about it now. I could smell the gardenias and brimstone from the car. Terrifying.

The next day we went to.......

GATORLAND!!!!!!

Gatorland is like the awesomest place ever, the only place even awesomer than the super awesome Pirate's Cove mini-golf course that my unfortunate aunt did not get to experience because she wasn't there that time we went to the Pirate's Cove and had the most fun EVER.

At Gatorland there is lots of extreme wildlife, for example, this pair of ferocious turtles:

And this alligator, poised to attack an unsuspecting bird:

The bird was paralyzed with fear:

A gator stack:

Contrary to popular opinion about elves and reindeer and the baby Jesus and whatnot, Christmas is actually guarded by a battalion of adolescent gators:

But the War on Christmas prevailed, and echoes of "happy holidays" and "season's greetings" rang throughout the (gator)land!

The answer to the age old question, "Do gators get fat?" You betcha!

I was so heartbroken when we discovered that, as it has been for the past ten years, the Mold-a-Rama was broken!

Because I really need my own little $2 wax gator statue!!!!!

But then we found another Mold-a-Rama, which was not the traditional lone gator, but it sort of has a bestiality kind of theme to it, so I was satisfied.

I was also pleased to see that this was not the only sexy item available for purchase at Gatorland. Observe:

Compare:

Although I think a gator-shaped personal massager would have been more (in?)appropriate. But I digress.

We encountered more extremeness when we happened upon a bird courting death:

This extreme gator floated terrifyingly toward us:

I'm going to give this guy the benefit of the doubt and assume that he lost his foot doing something really extreme and not from the diabeetus he probably got from ten years of lying around gorging on hot dogs and intoxicated tourists (they sell beer there - can we say wrongful death?):

Speaking of gators eating tourist, best sign ever:

Gatorland is also home to a couple of maneating parrots:

Who are so extreme that they get their very own threatening signage:

Although the "dadgum" makes them seem a trifle less fearsome.

In addition to extreme wildlife, Gatorland is also home to all sorts of interesting signage, including more good dirty stuff:

What is even more interesting is how the visitors choose to apply their new knowledge:

Maybe the guy in the bestiality Mold-a-Rama is actually Chris.

That wasn't the only sign about sex noises, either:

Adjacent to the deer sex noise sign was the Gatorland Glory Hole:

The snake exhibits had all kinds of exciting and sinister backdrops, suggesting the awesome havoc these snakes would wreak on careless unsupervised toddlers, were they not encased in one-square-foot plexiglass boxes:

We also got to have an extreme up-close feeding frenzy encounter with some hunger-crazed, bloodthirsty alligators, that were not so bloodthirsty or hunger-crazed anymore by the time it was our turn to toss fetid hunks of steak at their heads.

"Aim for the side of the head, and make a big splash!" the tour guide recommended.

Or, if you're Chris, aim for the side of the head, make a big splash, and somehow manage to make the steak skip right over the alligator's head causing a gatorfight!

Or, if you're Ryan, land the hunk of steak in the center of the gator's back and ruin its life.

The up-close extreme fetid-steak-throwing alligator encounter was not the only new thing since I last visited Gatorland. They also have some fancy shit now, like this lookout tower:

which provided a nice view of the park

and helpfully suggested other exotic Florida cities we might like to visit, such as

and

There was also an extremely wonderful petting zoo with creepy looking de-horned goats!

I am going to tell you a leetle secret. I am sometimes afraid of furry critters, even if they are cute and loveful and good.

Especially when they and their sinister cloven hooves are climbing over the fence to get to me and my cake cone full of goat nibblets.

This goat and Ryan were friends because their sweaters kind of matched.

The goatses just lurrrrved A-net:

Because this sign at the petting zoo exit was not anywhere else in the salmonella-infested park, I can only assume that goats are especially unsanitary:

Before we left, we got to see the Gator Wrestlin Show:

Further proof that people in Florida are dumb because as everyone who's anyone knows, it's spelled wrasslin'. DUH.

My camera battery died, so I don't really have any photos, but here's a quick synopsis: a crazy man tried to feed a four-year-old boy named Gavin to a horde of bloodthirsty alligators. The crazy man spared Gavin, and then sat on an alligator for a while, telling us the history of gator wrasslin'. Then he put the gator's mouth in his mouth, which was disgusting and I think begging for salmonella.

We left Gatorland and went to a delicious restaurant called Seasons 52 where everything on the menu is both delicious and under 450 calories, which means you can eat like forty items, which we all definitely did. Also, my family and the waiter allege that when I ordered the chipotle prawns, I actually said "I'll have the chic-fil-a prawns" but I don't believe that crap for a second. They are all old as hell and hard of hearing and mean evil liars.

Anyhooters (a word I stole from Crissy), it was lots and lots of super fun and Chris and A-net are the bestest for taking us on a super fun trip, and especially the part where we went to the Pirate's Cove for putt-putt, but A-net wasn't there, and it was such a shame because it was really oh-so-fun and awesome and excellence and enchantment and M&Ms.

Hooray!

gross! (if you are easily offended or grossed out or are my grandma who is both of those things, I highly recommend you read no further)

2009-01-23T18:10:00.017-05:00

There is some narsty shit in this post, including pictures, so even if you are not easily offended or grossed out or my grandma, you should probably not view it in a public place such as school, work, or church.

Actually, church would be pretty funny. Do that, please, and then tell me alllllllll about it.
______________________________

Bleh, I was just checking out adam & eve's New Year's sales on "personal massagers" and the like when I decided to look at the "novelty items" for men.

Because I mean, really, once you've seen one (or twenty) vibrators, you've pretty much seen them all. Snore.

So for a little variety, I clicked over to the men's department, and can I just say, you guys are fucking gross?????

You guys are fucking gross!

I am not sure why I ~~think~~ am absolutely certain that latex vaginas and assholes are grosser than latex peens, but GOD, they are. (Btw, spell check says "vaginas" should be "vaginae." What the fuck?)

I mean, there are some kind of gross looking dildos out there, for sure. They're all veiny and realistic, and what's even the point of that? Grossy, veiny, hairy peens are available for free at pretty much any local bar. Pink sparkly ones with cute woodland-creature-inspired attachments are harder to come by (heh, heh), so it makes sense to buy them.

But even then, that's not really it. It isn't anatomical correctness that even makes the fake poonanies and assholes gross (spell check is untroubled by "poonanies" - I surely must have added it at some point, right??) because pretty much without exception, they are fairly unrealistic looking. It's something about their simple existence that sets my intestines to twisting.

Observe:

I mean this definitely has some anatomically disturbing features such as the withered legs and the teeny baby feet, and oh yeah, the HUGE SWOLLEN ROAST BEEF SANDWICH, too, but that's not it. What makes me barf is the idea of some furry sweating comic book store guy humping this poor thing and slapping its ass. I mean, what the fuck? Wouldn't doing that make you feel like such a weirdo?

Because it should, boys, it really should.

But what's even worse is the idea of a nice, normal guy pounding and grinding on it, and I bet that happens! I bet there are some perfectly Nice Boys who have creepy disemtorsoed, teeny-footed, roast beefy bubble butts stashed in their closets.

Also, I have to say that the Arby's Original pussy looks like a damn baby is about to pop out of it. Horsey sauce, anyone? OM NOM NOM.

This thing is pretty fucking gross too:

(French-manicured hand sold separately.)

It looks like a bloated anemone. If I had a dick (that was attached to me), I am pretty sure I would not want to stick it in there.

This next one I have included because I think it's just a stupid waste of money:

And I also included it because I wanted to say that I really really really wish they had called it The Butterfinger. But(t) really, why would you pay for this? Assuming you have fingers, it's a waste of money, and assuming you do not have fingers, what are you going to attach it to to use it? Either way, you need fingers, and the fingers themselves kind of moot the entire thing, dontcha think?

The "waterproof prostate massager" just sounds too medical to me.

It also make me think vaguely of colonoscopy. I don't know about you, but I am not interested in a sex toy that seems like it might charge me a copay and then send me a bill for some unexpected fees that my insurance company refused.

The Crystal Virgin with a built-in hymen makes me want to just murder you all on principle:

You creepy sacks of shit.

I do love the product reviews though:

"the hymen is nice but is only good the first time."

Alas, isn't that always the case? What a shame. Even modern manufacturing can't quite remedy Nature's little joke, can it?

And apparently Crystal is really only good for a fling, not the kind of girl you'd want to take home to Mom

"Its Good for about two or so m onths if you masterbate daily, just use lube and try not to be rough with it like i was, Its piocket sized you can stash it away easily but the material feels good but not very durable."

Ohhohohhoh, menfolks. Truly, I can't decide whether to sit back and laugh at you or set you all on fire.

Maybe I should just do both. Yeah. Both sounds good.

404(b)? Looks more like a 44DD to me...

2009-01-22T22:55:00.011-05:00

Now I am of course a bit hesitant, or even afraid, to blog about certain professors, BUT how could I ignore this? To avoid the possible repercussions of blogging about certain professors, I have taken narrative precautions to keep the identity of certain professors confidential.

So, if you were in a particular Evidence class today that was not taught by a professor named Hashimoto, you saw a professor who is not named Hashimoto draw a high-velocity, low-caliber "bullet" on the white board.

If you were not in a particular Evidence class today that was not taught by a professor named Hashimoto and thus did not see a professor who is not Hashimoto draw a high-velocity, low-caliber "bullet" on the white board, the view this morning from a seat in the classroom in which an Evidence class is not taught by a professor named Hashimoto looked quite a bit like THIS:

But I was nice and censored the bullet's low-caliber-ness because I would just HATE to offend anyone.

Filthy, disgusting perverts, scroll down to see the bullet's goods. (NSFW)

The bullet, uncensored:

See? It's so damn cold in the law school, even the high-velocity, low-caliber bullet's nipples are hard.

who loves me????????

2009-01-19T21:12:00.000-05:00

Will someone please, please, PLEASE buy these for me?

They are so unbearably pink and sparkly and wonderful. And they are my SIZE!! We were meant to be together.

Remember when I said I had the heart and soul of an exotic dancer? Well, I have reconsidered. I am now confident that I actually have the heart and soul of a drag queen.

And maybe the everything else of a drag queen too:

Except for the peen, of course.

Come to think of it, I actually do have one (or two) of those, and I don't think it makes me any less of a queen that it (they) happens not to be attached. It's even pink (and purple), too!

It's official. On your knees, betches. Your queen has arrived!

"And the honeycomb will taste sweeter coming from my hand..."

2009-01-17T20:53:00.004-05:00

Okay, I am going to go ahead and post this, sans good photos. I have emailed the Maid of Honor no less than three hundred times requesting her pictures, but I don't think I'm gonna get them because she has not responded at all. This may or may not be because I may or may not have accidentally sent her a photo of a huge pile of shit, but it's irrelevant whether I did or didn't because I'm not going to tell you anything else about it.

That said, without the photos, this post is not what I had intended it to be, so I apologize if it's not quite up to snuff. I think though, that even without illustrations, the story is outrageous enough to stand for itself.

Without further ado, here you have it.

The Tale of the Tackiest Wedding EVA

So you heard all about how I hated the spa, got shuffled from one hot place to another, got locked out, and spent $25 on a mediocre lunch with naked strangers. I know this because I am sure you read the last two posts instead of just skipping straight ahead to the goods, right? Right?

(Right, because I posted the others a month ago.)

After leaving the spa, we headed back to the inn.

I suppose I need to provide a little geography - Chateau Elan is eeeee-normous. Originally it was just the winery. The inn was later built adjacent to the winery, so you can easily walk between them. There's also a little sports bar called Paddy's between the inn and the winery. The spa is somewhere you have to drive to, but we took a shuttle so I forget where. Wayyyy on down the state highway from the inn and winery is the entrance to the golf club. The golf club has its own restaurant and then on the golf course there are a bunch of villas where guests can stay. 'Zilla, MOH, and I stayed in a suite at the hotel. Everyone else stayed at the golf villas (ergo, it was way more fun there). Unfortunately since you had to drive between the villas and the inn, I did not have the option of hanging out there to party with the cool kids.

But I digress.

Okay, so we went back to the inn from the spa and had about seven seconds to get ready for the rehearsal dinner because we had to go actually rehearse beforehand, and Groom was BLOWING UP 'Zilla's phone all, "HURRY HURRY HURRY AHH!!!"

And I was like, "Chillthefuckout. Everything wedding-related runs late. We got this." Which made me feel cool because

Except that I love the gays like the gays should be loved, you knumsayin, Obama?!?! Plus, I was staying in the presidential suite and all.

But they neither listened to me nor chilledthefuckout.

MOH and I finally arrived a bit late for the rehearsal because it was impossible to find. Lemme tell you where the ceremony was. The Cask Room. It doesn't get capital letters because it's fancy and exciting and A Place You'd Have a Wedding. It's only got capital letters because it's on the winery tour.

Oh, and by the way - it was COLD in there. Which I guess was kind of the point. It's underground, pretty dark, and it is COLD, I assume to keep the wine at a certain temperature. I also assume climate control is not a priority since it is not meant for PEOPLE to have a WEDDING in. It's also dusty and has tape all over the floor and crappy exposed fluorescent light fixtures. I suspect that this ceremony was puuuuuure profit for Chateau Elan. They were probably like, "Someone wants to pay us thousands of dollars to have a wedding in our crappy old dirty wine cellar? SWEET!"

So we went on with the rehearsal and got everything more or less planned out. However, we were instructed to WALK SLOWLY down the aisle. That's pretty standard, so no big deal, right?

But why did we have to WALK SLOWLY in big capital letters?

Because the song we appetizer brides (I can't for the life of me remember where I heard that term for bridesmaids, but isn't it great?) and our escorts were walking to was FOUR MINUTES AND THIRTY-TWO SECONDS long. We had to walk about 50 feet. No fucking joke. And there were only two pairs of us.

So naturally we're like, "What on earth is the song?"

And 'Zilla replied, smug as always, "It's a super-secret surprise."

I'd like to share a little personality trait of hers with you right now. I am sure you will be utterly shocked to learn that she is extremely smug about everything she does. She convinces herself that things she is doing are very original and creative and thus merit a smug tone of voice, raised eyebrows, and a skyward-pointing nose. This of course was no exception.

I was dismayed. One of the many things that delight her about herself is that she just loves Marilyn Manson. I immediately suspected that we would be marching down the aisle to The Beautiful People. I demanded to know if this were the case and announced that they'd damn well better tell me now because if I was surprised by blaring Marilyn Manson at 8:30 in the morning, I could not be expected to walk down the aisle with the customary perma-smile plastered to my face.

(At this point, I figured I was entitled to being a little Matron-zilla.)

Oh, and speaking of smiling - you'd think the bride-to-be would be all smiles, but no. MOH and I tried in vain to take lots of photos so she could make a scrapbook and have happy memories, but I swear to you she actually said "I'm NOT SMILING. I don't WANT to SMILE." And I told her, "You'll be sorry. Mad pictures are not pretty pictures." She was not persuaded. (And I was right; the pissy-face pictures are not pretty at all.)

Anyway, Groom informed me that while Marilyn Manson was an excellent guess, they had sadly been unable to find a "clean" version of "The Beautiful People," so I had nothing to worry about. Still ignorant of the "super-secret special surprise music," I did not feel relieved because 'Zilla's degree of smugness indicated that it could only be something truly awful.

We practiced walking down the "aisle" rrrrreeeeeaaaaaaaallllllllyyyyyy ssssssllllllloooooooowwwwwwlllyyyyyy and were finally excused by the coordinator to leave for the rehearsal dinner.

The rehearsal dinner was, as you know, at the Clubhouse Grille at the golf course. We arrived, we mingled, I feigned excitement and joy for the upcoming celebration of lurve. Feeling profoundly uncomfortable, it was with great relief that I spotted that bastion of welcoming familiarity, The Bar. I made a beeline for The Bar and inquired,

"What beers do you guys have?"

The bartender was a woman who in about 2 years could be accurately described as elderly. I also had her pegged for an alkey in about five seconds. Now, I'm not trying to be mean, I'm just saying. I've served enough espressos to the post-AA-meeting crowd for long enough to know 'em when I see 'em, and let me just say, can somebody please send that broad a meeting schedule?

She fidgeted and shuffled for a moment and replied,

"Uhhh, uhhh......" and then she opened the cooler door and barked, "Bud Lite, Miller Lite, Michelob Lite, Coors Lite, and Blue Moon!"

Marveling that a fancy-pants place like this would have such a diverse selection, I ordered the only one that didn't come in a can - a Blue Moon.

About five minutes later an open bottle appeared on the counter in front of me. I waited while the bartender shuffled papers and punched buttons on her register screen. I waited some more. Finally, she seemed satisfied and said, "That's six twenty-five!"

What!!! I thought she must have accidentally rung up two beers, but I felt sorry for her and her trembly hands and advanced, so I just paid her and took my beer to the table where I savored it veeeeeery veeeeeery sloooooowly. Oh, and by the way, it turned out to be a Killian's. I'm not sure how she managed to read all the bottles in the cooler aloud to me and then hand me one that was not only not what I'd ordered, but also wasn't even there, but whatevs. I like Killian's okay.

As we sat down to eat, Hairdresser finally arrived. I immediately dubbed him "Hairdresser Smurf," so I hope you are paying attention right now because otherwise you might become confused. "Hairdresser" is now "Hairdresser Smurf," got it? Good.

I suppose since I wanted single guys to hang with, Hairdresser Smurf was seated beside me. That was fine because he's chatty and I'm chatty, so we had a nice conversation. I have to tell you though, this guy was a fucking cartoon. He's 45, but he has the haircut of a 15 year old emo kid, except blond and highlighted. He's also in a band. He alleges that he is straight, and I figure, sure, why not? After all, he's been a hairdresser for 20 years, so why wouldn't he just come on out if he's gay? The thing is, the guy is like really protective of his straightness. He wants everybody to know that he is STRAIGHT STRAIGHT STRAIGHT.

Shortly after his arrival, 'Zilla asked Hairdresser Smurf if he felt like he was capable of being up and ready to work by 6:45 the next morning. Hairdresser Smurf replied, "Hey, there are three things I can always wake up for." I cringed. "Work, a party, and BEAUTIFUL WOMEN HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!"

I should point out that everything he said was punctuated with a "HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!" What also became apparent to me was that this guy was constantly in character. He was literally like a cartoon; everything he said and did was similar to everything else he said and did, and there were never any surprises. He was ridiculous from start to finish.

I like ridiculous. It's a heck of a lot better than smug and stuffy and demanding and "I don't WANT to SMILE" and downright fucking insane.

I also had to give him credit for enjoying himself in spite of being deposited in the golf villas to live for two days with a bunch of guys he'd never met, including Upstairs Neighbor, whom by now you are fully aware I find repugnant.

Later on, the Mother of the Groom got up to make a little toast. I have to tell you, Groom's family is just lovely. I thought they were the sweetest people, and his dad was too precious for words. So MOG gets up to make a toast, and it's sweet, and she's all teary, and I'm feeling like a cynical asshole for being so cranky and fake about the whole ordeal, when the photographer, who was also like a cartoon said to me, "Who do people tell you you look like?!?!"

Photographer is one of those prissy men who talks like a southern belle, but you can't tell if he's a flaming gay or if he's a mama's boy southern straight man or what. I wasn't sure at this point what would be ruder - do I talk while MOG is giving her emotional speech, or do I ignore someone who's staring at me and waiting for an answer? No idea. So I decided to whisper the quickest answer I could and replied, "Uhh, my mom."

"No, silly!" he gushed. " You look JUST LIKE Anne Hathaway!!!"

"Oh. Okay." I replied.

Later on, he brought it up again. "You even have Anne Hathaway's mannerisms! Why, it is just uncanny!" he said.

"Oh, um. Okay." I said again.

He asked me a few questions, and at one point he goes, "You know, that is even something Anne would say!!! You two are SO ALIKE!!!!!"

At that, I finally had to ask, "So, are you like friends with her or something? It seems like you know her personally."

"Oh, no, I've just followed her work, you know," he replied.

"What's she in? I don't know who she is," said MOH.

"Oh, The Princess Diaries!" he answered. "And then after that, The Princess Diaries 2!"

Now, there are few a things about this. First, I think it's hard to say one really follows Anne Hathaway's work. I mean, I think she's a good actress, but she's relatively new, so it's rather odd to say he follows her. Also, The Princess Diaries is the first thing that comes to his mind? Really? Ooo-kay!

I suppose I shouldn't complain, though. There are certainly worse comparisons, such as when a Starbucks customer once told me I looked like Cynthia Nixon:

You best believe his ass got decaf that day.

Oh, by the way - the quote of the evening award goes to Photog's assistant (whose entire right breast was dangling out of her dress, which seemed like it had to be wrong, but upon furtive inspection I couldn't see where there was a popped seam or a missing button, so I assumed it was supposed to be that way and didn't say anything) who said, "The best was that weddin' with all them blacks. They was all black people, and they was just a'sashayin' down the aisle, and it was so funny!"

Special

Oh, also, Photog was telling 'Zilla that at 8:30 a.m. this was not, in fact, the earliest wedding ceremony he'd shot. He said he'd actually done a sunrise wedding that was outdoors. I actually thought that sounded kind of nice, and at least made more sense than one at 8:30 a.m. in a freezing-ass cellar.

"Well," 'Zilla replied, looking smugly pleased to share the very original idea she'd had but been unable to follow through with, "We'd originally planned on getting married at 5:45 a.m. for Winter Solstice, but we decided against it because there was no way we could have the grandparents up and ready."

I got the fuck out of that conversation before I punched her in the face.

Anyway, during the actual dinner, 'Zilla and Groom presented their attendants with gifts, which was nice and all, except...

MOH and I both received assortments of stinky fragrance stuff from Lady Primrose. Now, I had never heard of this brand before, but if you're thinking based on the name that it's rather old ladyish, you're thinking accurately.

Also, anyone who has known me for seven seconds or more knows that I DO NOT WANT PERFUME or fragrances of any type. I hate hate hate strong smelly stuff and am actually violently allergic to a lot of perfumes. Of particular interest is that 'Zilla knows this, having rather severe allergies herself, so we've discussed it many times over the seven YEARS we have known one another. She told me about 2 months ago that I'd be getting a Lady Primrose set for my attendant gift. I was surprised and tried to politely decline, citing my monster allergies, but she dismissed my concerns and said, "Oh, I know, but I can wear Lady Primrose, and if I can wear it, you can definitely wear it."

You see, if there are any allergies to be had in the world, hers are without question going to be the worst, so obviously I can tolerate Lady Primrose fragrances. Never mind the fact that after 25 fragrance-free years of life, I don't actually want to smell like baby powder or funeral flowers, even if I could do so without going into anaphylactic shock.

Whatever. I thanked her and commented that the fancy ruffly soap dish filled with stinky seashell soaps was "fucking fancy" and that I feared my houseguests might begin to suspect that I am an adult with some measure of class if I have such an item sitting on my bathroom sink.

Finally, finally, finally, we left the dinner. 'Zilla, MOH, and I had to stop by the golf course villas to get some of her bags from the room she'd stayed in the night before with Groom. When we got there, the guests were just starting up a particularly wonderful drinking game called Wally.

Wally is the alligator pictured above. To play, you simply open his mouth and take turns pressing down his teeth one by one til he snaps down. If he snaps down on your finger, you have to drink.

This is my kind of drinking game. I can't deal with crap like "Buzz" where you have to do math, or Beer Pong where you need to be able to aim (which I can't even do sober), and all those other games that have 47 rules. All I wanted out of life was to stay there and push Wally's teeth with all the happy fun people from Wisconsin, but alas, I had to go back to the "bridal suite" for a sleepover. I bid Wally farewell and headed for the door when 'Zilla, who had actually been relatively pleasant, reared her head.

'Zilla had kindly provided a bunch of snacks and goodies in a giant basket for all the guests in the golf villas to share. It wasn't labelled or anything, and it was just randomly filled with junk food that had no particular intended eater, so MOH snagged a bag of M&M's on our way out. She also grabbed a cookie that I had made and brought and insisted she have. 'Zilla stopped her in her tracks and said, "NO. PUT THE COOKIE AND THE M&M'S BACK NOW."

MOH protested feebly, "But, these are Jeannie's cookies, and I'm not going to eat any of it til after the wedding, I promise!" MOH was desperate to fit into the too-small dress 'Zilla was forcing her to wear, and thus the poor woman did not eat a bite of food all weekend until after the ceremony.

"I don't CARE. Fine, you can have the cookie, but you don't need the M&M's! Put them BACK," she snapped. Unable to pretend this was fine, I stood there with my mouth hanging open and my eyes wide as the room fell silent and MOH obediently put the M&M's back in the basket, head hanging in shame.

Back at the suite, I immediately volunteered to sleep on the couch, so ~~I wouldn't be tempted to smother 'Zilla in her sleep~~ MOH could share the bed with 'Zilla.

When we got to the hotel, 'Zilla presented us with more gifts - goodie bags of our own, which, 'Zilla explained was her reason for not letting MOH take M&M's from the villa, but I don't buy that shit. That basket was overflowing with junk food, so it's not like someone else would have gone without, and most of all, you don't fucking treat your best friend like she's at fat camp and you're her evil dietitian in front of a bunch of people, especially strangers.

She also gave us each a bottle of wine, which many of you wouldn't know, but my long-time friends know, I do not drink. Ever. I'll drink sangria, but that's a recent development, and 'Zilla knows this for certain. She loves wine and drinks it all the time, and she freaking knows for a fact that I don't drink it. In a moment alone, I commented to MOH that I felt sort of bad that I would not use any of the stinky stuff as I am allergic and that I also would not be drinking any of the wine because I don't like it.

"ME NEITHER!" she exclaimed.

"What!" I said. "And she knows this?!"

"Yes!" MOH replied. "I told her early on that she didn't need to give me a gift because I couldn't use that fragrance stuff, which she knew anyway! And she knows I don't drink wine!"

BTW, they have been friends for like 20 years. She and I have been "friends" for 7 years. She fucking knows that BOTH of us are allergic to stinky stuff and that NEITHER of us will drink a drop of wine! What the hell! Why is she wasting her money to basically pooh-pooh us and say, "I don't actually give two shits what you like or don't like"?

Fucking special.

But at least I had me a bag o' chocolate, which I destroyed that very night.

A bit later, I was marvelling at how well my shoes matched my bridesmaid dress. I was delighted because they were the shoes I got married in, and I never thought I'd have an opportunity to wear them again, but it happened that they were the perfect shade. I pointed this out to 'Zilla, and glancing at the shoes, she asked me, "Oh, were those a yard sale find?"

No, they were nottafucking yard sale find. They were my wedding shoes, and I had told her ass that ten times, but why would she pay attention? It didn't have anything to do with her, so there was no reason for her to.

A yard sale find.

Finally it was time for bed. Now, I have known (for 7 years) that 'Zilla sleeps with the TV on. And not just on, I mean ON-on, like full volume. This has not really been a problem in the past because the TV at her place is pretty small, and if I was spending the night there, I was usually drunk. The TV here, however, was (as pictured in the previous post) a 50-something inch flat screen. It basically lit up the room like it was 2 in the afternoon.

I laid on the couch and listened to The Wizard of Oz blare from the TV. Then I listened to Matilda blare from the TV. There was another movie on after that, but I forget what it was because I was lost in thoughts of suicide. Seriously, no joke, I wanted to die because I knew I would never ever go to sleep. At one point I got up and felt all over the TV for volume controls, but stupid fancy-ass new TVs don't HAVE that (Ryan now tells me they do, just on the side), and I wasn't going to pry the remote from 'Zilla's sleeping hands. Defeated and weary, I returned to the couch, built a pillow fort over my head, and got about an hour of sleep before the clock went off at 5:30.

I showered, shaved, and cut the fuck out of my legs several times. At 6:45, the irrepressible Hairdresser Smurf arrived. Photographer was close behind him to take "getting ready" photos.

Getting ready photos are decidedly NOT cute at 7 in the effing morning. Ugh. 'Zilla gleefully announced that these photos were our "punishment" for making her smile the night before.

Hairdresser Smurf was all suited up for the wedding, but he announced that he doesn't like to do hair in his nice clothes, so ever the partyboy, took off his coat and dress shirt and pranced about topless for a few minutes saying, "YOUR STRIPPER IS FINALLY HERE! SORRY I'M LATE, LADIES! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!"

This was funny, but let me tell you, he is not getting a job at Swingin' Richard's any time soon. This boy could get money to keep his shirt ON, knumsayin?

Fortunately, the show was over soon, and he donned a t-shirt (it said "JESUS PATROL") and got to work. The night before, 'Zilla, MOH, and I had had a long conversation about how our hair would look. 'Zilla said she just wanted him to blow-dry all of our hair and just make it smooth and fluffy, no styles necessary. This was fiiiiiine by me and sounded great. No muss, no fuss, and I can snooze while he dries my hair. Sweet. MOH also said she was happy about that because her hair is baby-fine and refuses to hold any sort of curl or style, and looks best flat-ironed. 'Zilla agreed that MOH's hair doesn't hold a curl, and haha, wouldn't it look awful after 10 minutes in the humidity and drizzle if she curled it, haha.

So MOH's hair was up first, and guessthefuckwhat. You will never guess. 'Zilla asked him to CURL IT and leave it DOWN!!!!!!

So he spent like an HOUR curling and curling and curling, and I don't know why the Smurf didn't just SAY that it wasn't going to work with her hair type, but he just kept on curlin' his Smurfy little heart out.

When she was finally "finished," it was my turn. Photographer commented, "Oh, this is gonna be fun, because she has such an... expressive face."

What this means is that I am like a fucking clown. I am aware of this, and you all tease me for the way I cheese at cameras, but seriously, candid shots of me are not pretty. Somehow my lower lip will be flipped up over my left ear, my nose will be inside out, or I'll have two eyes closed and one eye open.

Yeah, that's right.

I look fucking weird in candid photos, which I suppose means I look fucking weird in real life. For example:

Right. Expressive.

Hairdresser Smurf went to town, round-brushing, blowdrying, and ripping my hair out of my head. I swear he had to have been stoned because how could he not feel the same knot of hair getting snagged ten times in a row? I wanted to punch the giddy little "JESUS PATROL" fake-vintage shirted motherfucker in his middle-aged gut.

Oh, and guess what else. He delightedly told us that the previous night at the golf villa, one of the Milwaukee guests asked him, "Where's your wife?" He told the guest he wasn't married, and after a bit of confusion, Hairdresser Smurf determined that the Milwaukee guests who hadn't met me yet thought I was the Smurf's wife. Thus, every time he approached me since, he said, "There's my wife, HAHAHAHAHA, just kiddin', I know you're married, but HAHAHAHAHA I guess I'm your husband for the weekend, HAHAHAHAHAAHHA!!"

It got a little old after a while.

While under the hairdryer, I couldn't hear much, but I did hear the following snippets of conversation...

Photog: "How......become friends?"

'Zilla: "Wah wah wah blah blah blah........my cat adopted her."

Here's what actually happened - back in The Day, we both worked in the same mall, but at different kiosks. We knew each other on a first-name basis only and occasionally shared snarks about how much we hated the mall. One day she came up to me and said, "I need you to watch my cat and stay in the condo this weekend. You can come by any time in the next two days after 5 p.m. to get a key and I'll show you where the food is."

We've been "friends" ever since.

And yes, I realize I should have known.

Oh. I also heard this:

Photog's Assistant (who was rocking some epic camel toe in her menswear-"inspired" suit and bow tie ensemble): "'Zilla, have you ever been a bridesmaid before?"

'Zilla: "No."

. . .

Just sayin'.

So Hairdresser Smurf finished with my hair, and I tell you what. It was all smooth and fluffy and loverly and BOY-OH-BOY was I rocking some Kelly Kapowski bangs.

"Whaddya think, man, beautiful!" the Smurf bubbled.

"Um, I'm not feeling the Saved by the Bell bangs," I replied.

"Ohh, noooo mannnn, they're gonna like fall and look great by the time of the ceremony," he assured me.

Hello. Curls fall. Teasing falls. Bangs are supposed to sit on your forehead. They do not get volume. They are not meant to fall because they should never have risen in the first place. It's okay, though, I fixed it.

(Note my tongue that is ever so slightly poking out between my teeth. There are several photos of me like this, and my best guess is that I had actually begun to literally bite my tongue to keep my thoughts to myself all weekend.)

I was happy with my hair, and I was even happier that I would not have to pay for my hair. (Groom's fam. offered to foot Hairdresser Smurf's bill.)

But here's the deal - Hairdresser Smurf's ass was lucky because I brought my whole fucking bathroom with me in a laundry basket, and he used ALL of it. He even tried to thieve my Bumble & Bumble smoothing creme, but that shit is expensive and I would cut a bitch over it, so I was not having that and demanded it when it did not reappear with the rest of my belongings. So there.

But really, he was getting paid, right? And he didn't even bring his own products or hair dryer? Sketchy.

I hadn't seen MOH in like half an hour, so I went to check on her. Her curls had all fallen out, and she looked rather like she'd gone to sleep with wet hair. She was flipping the fuck out about it and attacking her hair with a curling iron. By "attacking" I mean she was wadding her fucking hair up and stuffing it into the iron and then getting pissed that it wasn't curling.

I mean, seriously? She'd told me she was beauty-product impaired, which is fine, but really? She's forty-one years old, and she can't just like LOOK at a curling iron and kinda figure out that you don't just cram your hair inside it?

I demanded the iron and did a few curls for her. They looked okay, but not great, and also loosened immediately. I told her I'd be happy to put her hair in hot rollers and we could just take them out right before the ceremony, so her hair would at least be curly then, which seemed to be her immediate objective. She said okay, but still wouldn't relinquish the goddamn iron and kept curling the SAME STRAND over and over and over! Her hair felt so fucking hot and it was starting make crunching noises.

I put a few rollers in her hair and twisted her hair into really tight curls. When I took the rollers out, she had really tight spiral curls, but I knew they'd relax in a matter of minutes (this is how I do my own hair, which also doesn't like to stay curled, and it works!) She took one look and said "WHAT is THAT" and ripped her fingers through her hair, shredding the curls I'd carefully coaxed into existence, and making her hair look all the more like a bedraggled mop.

I didn't quite understand why she cared so much. I thought my hair looked kind of crummy in both the weddings I've been in, but I was kinda whatever about it because nobody is looking at me anyway. As long as it isn't outright stupid looking, who cares?

I also felt like I was drowning in a whirlpool of crazy. Plus, I began to wonder if everyone around me was crazy, all the other friends and invitees were crazy, was I crazy too? Mustn't I be? I've been invited and thus am part of all this crazy. What if I am fucking bonkers too?

God.

I decided to let MOH deep-fry her hair alone and went back to the main room. 'Zilla, now under the dryer, called to me, "TAKE THE CURLING IRON AWAY FROM HER!"

"I can't!" I said as quietly as possible. "She won't stop."

"TAKE IT AWAY FROM HER!" she insisted.

I went back to the dressing area, and MOH immediately took a defensive posture, almost a crouch, and glared at me. "Don't you try to take this from me!" she said. "I WON'T let you take it!!!" She had obviously heard 'Zilla's command from the other room.

"But....." I began.

"NO. I will NOT let you take it from me. My hair looks like SHIT."

It really didn't, honestly. It didn't look "done," so to speak, but it definitely didn't look like shit, either.

"No, it doesn't," I said reasonably. "It really does NOT look like shit. I could flat iron it for you real quick if you want, otherwise I think you should just leave it alone."

"IT. LOOKS. LIKE. SHIT."

"Ok, well, want me to help you straighten it?" I offered.

"NO."

"Okay, um, bye," and I flopped on the couch and spoke to no one until......

The Florist arrived.

Our bouquets were actually pretty nice. They were a mixture of white and black (which are actually a very dark red) Calla lilies.

Not bad!

Then I saw......It.

It was a.....get ready. Are you sitting down? Are you sitting fucking down?????

A wreath of mistletoe. For her head.

Yes, Jen-nay! She wore a fucking beautiful wreath on her head, Jen-nay, just like in Forrest Gump!

"What is that," I demanded.

"It's my veil," came her smug and aren't-I-original reply.

"Oh," I said. I noticed it was glistening and wet, so I thought it was still wet from the florist's or something. "Want me to dry it off with my hair dryer or something? It looks all wet."

"That's oil," she replied testily.

"Oh, okay. But do you want it on your head?" I asked.

I took her silence and glare as a "no," but I wondered, why the oil? Is it to make the leaves shiny? And does that matter enough to have it get all in her hair?

Or perhaps in further honor of her newfound weird-ass Solstice and mistletoe spirituality, it was anointed with fucking frankincense and myrrh. Who the fuck knows.

Andthenandthenandthen, Hairdresser Smurf attached It to her head. But first he pulled the front part of her hair back and secured it with.....

A BUTTERFLY CLIP.

I died.

I fucking died.

It was a tiny baby butterfly clip, but a butterfly clip nonetheless. I didn't get a shot of it IN her hair, but here ya go -

She got married with a butterfly clip in her hair. Wearing a wreath of mistletoe.

Horrors never cease.

Can you believe we're not even to the wedding yet? Whew. I'm getting tired.

Okay, so finally we head to the winery where we were to make our entrance by coming down some stairs, a colossally poor idea, IMHO. I waited apprehensively, fearing that I would hate the super-secret surprise music so badly that I'd be wincing all the way down the aisle.

I made it down the stairs without injury or calamity, and guess what the song was?

It was Somewhere Over the Rainbow!

Why was this such a big damn deal, worthy of such super-secrecy and smuggery?

I'm not about to provide a witty answer to that. I was hoping you could tell me because I still have no idea.

Also, these people are all tech nerds. Why no one edited the song, I'll never know, because even walking as slowly as we could, we still stood there looking like jackasses waiting for the full 4:32 song to finish.

At long last, the song ended, and 'Zilla and the Groom's song began. At first I began to giggle, certain that it was "Come Sail Away," but about a minute in I realized it was an instrumental version of "100 Years" by Five For Fighting, or as 'Zilla calls it "that Grey's Anatomy song."

Whatever.

So 'Zilla had told me that they had written their own vows and what their officiant would say at the ceremony.

By the way, she kept calling the officiant a "Justice of the Peace," but she was actually ordained through one of those like "Happy Holding Hands Good Friends and Recycle Stuff" churches on the internetz. Now, I'm all for that, boys and girls, but this sort of thing a Justice of the Peace does not make.

A JP is a freaking JUDGE, hello!

Okay, so the vows were kind of taking a while, and I was beginning to drowse, and my frozen grin began to tremble, but THEN.......

"Groom, please repeat the following vows after me," the officiant said.

"You cannot posses me," he began, "for I belong to myself."

I perked up immediately. I knew this was about to get good. He continued.

"But while we both wish it, I give you that which is mine to give.
You cannot command me for I am a free person.
But I shall serve you in those ways you require...

And the honeycomb will taste sweeter coming from my hand."

Oh. My. God. Oh. Em. Gee. Dude.

I mean, what?

What?

Solstice, mistletoe, and honeycombs?

Look. I am not a religious lady. I went to church when I was wee, and I celebrate Christmas in the commercial, American way, but I would never call myself a Christian. 'Zilla is the same, only her parents are older, so they probably actually still go to church, and she'd probably say that she is a Christian if you asked her. Then she'd probably blink and say, "with some Wiccan Buddhist spiritualism." Because she is original and unique like that, and don't you forfuckingget it.

WELL. From this point on, I had ZERO difficultly keeping a smile plastered on my face, I-tell-you-what.

'Zilla repeated these ridonkulous vows, and my radiant smile grew broader still.

The officiant concluded the ceremony in part with the following, which was nice:

"Love is anterior to life, posterior to death, the initial creation and the exponent of the earth."

Only she didn't say "exponent." She said, "ex...pnt" sandwiched between two awkward pauses. (Also it is worth mentioning that I don't actually understand the phrase "exponent of earth." Like, Earth cubed equals 'Zilla and Groom's love or something? Someone enlighten me.)

I guess that's what happens when you don't let your officiant look at your supersecret plans in advance.

After the hilarity was over, 'Zilla adopted her usual eyebrows-raised smug "look how original and unique and creative I am" face and asked Photographer, "How many different religions didja count in the ceremony?"

"Oh, well, at least five, now, let's see, Christianity, Judaism" (pronounced Judah-izm) "ahhh, let's see Buddhism, Shintoism, Hinduism...." he replied.

And he really seemed like he meant it.

'Zilla eyebrows disappeared into her hairline as she said, "There were at least fifteen. Well, you see, my uncle is Jewish."

"Oh, I see," Photographer said with interest. "And is he here?"

"No, he isn't here, but I wanted to have a multicultural ceremony to represent my multicultural family. We're going to drop some champagne glasses on the floor upstairs and pretend we stepped on them for the pictures, too," 'Zilla said.

I had to interject here before she went smashing up the resort's crystal and cutting up people's feet. "'Zilla, I think you usually use like a little glass wrapped in cloth or a lightbulb or something delicate nowadays instead of the crystal champagne glasses because people's feet get cut up and stuff," I said.

"That's why I said we'll be "dropping them accidentally" and then pretending," she replied.

"Oh. Um. Okay," I said for the forty millionth time since she announced her engagement. Sure, smash glass on the floor so that your Jewish uncle will be convinced that you're Jewish too. Makes perfect sense.

And ugh, did the photos ever take forfucking ever, but I guess that's to be expected. What I do not like are the wretched heterosexualized photos the wedding party has to take. You know, where the bridesmaids have to hike a knee up on the groom or all the groomsmen kiss the bride. That crap's lame, and it doesn't even make any sense.

Photographer put Groom in a big armchair in front of a Christmas tree, and somebody joked that we should take a Santa picture with him.

"I am not sitting on anyone's lap, sorry," I replied.

So then of course I just had to because won't it be such a cute photo.

MOH and I were instructed to each sit on one knee. Can I just say that I hate this bullshit? I like him and all, but I've only met him once. I don't know the guy, I happen to be married, and oh, PS, he just married my friend. On what planet is it appropriate for me to sit in his lap for a photo?

Gross.

Fortunately, MOH insisted that she was way too big to sit on his knee, so we perched precariously on the chair beside him.

More photos, more photos, more photos, and then FINALLY at long last I headed to the reception where I ate, drank, and even felt a little bit merry. Hairdresser Smurf greeted me with a big hug and a "THERE'S MY WIFE LOOKING BEAUTIFUL!!!! HAHAHAHAHAHAH!!!!"

The food was great. It was brunch type stuff, which I love. I had a hundred mini ham & cheese biscuits, lots of fruit, latkes with apple and mango chutney (now I was glad for the faux Jewishness; I effing LOVE latkes), and about a thousand pieces of brie.

Mmmmm, delicious. Oh, and check the cupcakes - fabulous!

The reception took place in the winery, in a room called the "art" gallery. Here's a brief virtual tour.

First, the wall o' Thomas Kincaid inspired paint-by-numbers:

Second, a colorful cock. Impressionist? Maybe. Art? Absatively.

And finally, the wall o' household pets.

It sort of made me feel at home! I especially liked the kitties.

I noted that had he been able to go at the last minute, there actually was no seat for my husband. My real husband, not Hairdresser Smurf. At least he wasn't seated beside me, thank gawd, but just nearby enough that I could hear his "HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA" every so often.

I was really pretty happy. 'Zilla had been overall pretty pleasant (to me, at least), and the reception was nice. Groom's family and friends were all soooo nice and friendly, too, so overall, it was a pretty nice time. Oh, and look at our cute toes!

That's me on the right with the huge fucking flippers. The blue pedicure was compulsory, but I was okay with that because I like goofy nail polish.

And yes, that's 'Zilla in the middle. And yes, that's an......anklet. Pardon my French.

MOH even gave a lovely toast, which was an enormous relief because it made me feel like I was off the hook. I really tried to come up with something, but it just wouldn't happen. Perhaps I could have said something like, "My feelings on this occasion are too extensive to share with you right now, because I'm sure these two wanna get back to their room some time before next week. *pause for laughter* But if you'd like to see my thoughts on the beautiful union we saw this morning, please visit jeannie hyphen baby dot blog spot dot com. Cheers."

No, it's probably good I didn't say anything.

So we ate and drank and mingled. Here's the part where my desire to strangle 'Zilla was renewed with a vengeance. However, it requires more background.

'Zilla has, as you know, been friends with MOH for many years. She has also been close friends and fuckbuddies with both of MOH's brothers (ew). Consequently, she is close with the entire family and calls MOH's parents "Mom" and "Dad." Oddly, "Mom" and "Dad" weren't invited to the wedding. They were, however, invited to the after-party at Paddy's bar (recall, it's attached to the winery, by the inn) along with all the other people who were not important enough to get invited to the wedding but were still expected to send gifts.

(By the way, did I tell you 'Zilla registered at NINE different places? NINE? For a 25 guest wedding? And that she registered for three $150 wine chillers and three $80 immersion blenders? I thought this had to be a mistake until I began to obsessively watch Bridezillas on WE and read wedding horror stories, and I discovered that many brides register for high-dollar items multiple times hoping to get one to keep and one to return for cash or store credit. I'm not saying necessarily that's what happened here, but...would you put it past her?)

(Also, I think I forgot to tell you that she registered for Guitar Hero World Tour. Who registers for a $200 video game????? Whatever. Maybe I just don't get it. Whatever.)

Okay, so MOH's mom got an invite to the "you're not invited" party, not the wedding. So 'Zilla's telling some Milwaukee guest about how close she is with MOH's fam, and MOH and I are standing right there, and 'Zilla's raised her eyebrows, pointed her nose in the air and said,

"It's a shame MOH's mom couldn't be here for her favorite daughter's wedding!"

What a dick thing to say. Good fucking god.

I made the most horrible hateful gargoyle face I could muster and just stared at her. I wanted to kick her and push her down and pee on her and tell everyone that the short guy at that table over there who introduced 'Zilla to Groom two years ago was actually her fuckbuddy at the time, and even though she isn't really very good friends with him (more like just co-workers) she saw fit to invite him to their wedding and never tell Groom the truth about their "relationship."

As people began to depart, MOH and I cleared up the tables and packed up the cake plates. We got our stuff from the suite and tidied it up for the newlyweds. Then we headed back to the golf villas to nap until the "you weren't invited" party at Paddy's.

Oh, here's another reason Chateau Elan is so overrated. We had a nice villa to nap in because Groom's brother's fam's was paid for through Monday even though they were leaving Sunday afternoon. Why, you ask? Well, I'll tell you. Chateau Elan has a three-night minimum at the golf villas!

What?!?!?!

Whatever. Of course they do. Of course they do.

So they were heading out, and gave us their keys so we could nap and hang out til the "you weren't invited" party, which I think only one person who wasn't already there for the wedding actually came to.

I suppose I should tell you about this "you're not invited" party. Know how when people have like a destination wedding, or they elope, they sometimes throw a big party for all their friends and family afterwards? This is sort of like that, only the "destination" was 45 minutes from Atlanta and the party was 7 hours after the ceremony.

Interestingly, the invitation to the "you're not invited" party came from 'Zilla's cat. The cat discussed how even he wasn't invited to the wedding, and he wasn't offended, so you shouldn't be either. The cat also said,

"As I am a cat and don't have any pockets, I cannot carry a wallet. Do I need to spell that out any more???"

MOH's poor dear mother, who does not drink alcohol or go to bars (facts known to 'Zilla, but apparently not to her cat), was invited to the "you're not invited" party. Upon receipt of the invitation, MOH's mother called MOH and asked her, "Did I just get an invitation to a bar? And am I correct that the invitation came from a cat? And....did the cat tell me to bring my wallet?"

That would be yes, yes, and.....yes.

So anyway, the "you're not invited" party was held at Paddy's sports bar at the resort.

At Paddy's, I had two hot chocolates with peppermint Schnapps at $7.75 each and longed for Athens.

Because I am not such a bitch, I am not going to post any photos of 'Zilla in her party dress, but I will give you a good idea. It reminded me of Uhura's dress

But make it sleeveless, low-cut, shiny, and paired with knee-high hooker boots.

And, um, like, not as flattering.

The Paddy's staff was very nice, and gave 'Zilla and Groom this lovely cake

They even drizzled the plate with festively diseased sperm.

Like the rest of the resort, Paddy's was very affordable.

Five dollars for a Corona?????

I would not pay five dollars for a Corona if it were the last beer on earth.

Similarly, I would not "hang out" with Upstairs Neighbor if he were the last single guy on earth. I am going to break my rule on posting pictures of people I'm making fun of because Upstairs Neighbor is just SUCH a butthole. Here is a photo of him with Hairdresser Smurf, whose face I have obscured because he really was very nice.

[Oh, I deleted it. I felt bad, and I feared getting sued somehow. But suffice it to say, he's not exactly a catch.]

See?

Oh! I almost forgot to tell you about College Roommate. 'Zilla's College Roommate was telling MOH some story or other that I wasn't paying attention to when I distinctly hear her say, "I mean, it was a total n***er party!"

Thinking this was not the appropriate occasion for a confrontation (this is how white people like to rationalize their cowardly behavior), I excused myself for another trip to the bar.

I did think, though, that I should introduce her to Upstairs Neighbor. I think they'd get along quite well, and astonishingly, they're both single! Whaddya know.

I decided to visit with 'Zilla for a little bit, and I asked if Photographer would be joining us for the "you're not invited party." She said no, he wouldn't be. Then she explained to me that she chose him over my wedding photographer because he did a much better job touching up her friend's wedding photos than my photographer had done touching up mine.

I was not previously aware that my wedding photos needed touching up. As far as I can tell, I wore garments that fit me properly, and I SMILED all the time because I was HAPPY unlike this fucking sourpuss.

Later on, MOH and I were chatting with Groom's sweetie pie mother, when Hairdresser Smurf approached me looking uncharacteristically serious.

"I've just been over there watching you, standing there looking like a model. You're just so beautiful. It's really a shame your husband isn't here to see you right now. He's missing out by not being here to see you looking so sexy and beautiful. I'm not hitting on you though," he assured me.

"Oh, um, okay," I said for the zillionth time.

"You're married," he reminded me.

"Um, yep," I replied.

"So, I'm just saying, I mean, I'm just telling you you look beautiful. That's all."

"Oh, um, okay," for the zillion and oneth time.

I decided it was time to make my escape.

I made the rounds and said my thank-yous and great-t0-meetchas. I patted Hairdresser Smurf on the shoulder and said it had been so nice to meet him, and thanks so much for all your help making my hair look good this morning.

"Awww, c'MONNNN!" he gushed, jumping to his feet for a big hug and a "HAHAHAHAHAHAHA GOTTA GIVE MY WIFE A HUG HAHAHAHA JUST KIDDIN' SHE'S MARRIED HAHAHAHAHAHA!"

"Hey no, seriously, stop by my salon, and I'll give you a complimentary cut. No joke, seriously. Just make an appointment, and when you get there, I'll comp you, for real, on me, serious. Just stop by, and no charge, because I think you're a nice person, and I like your hair. For real, promise, here's my card, no charge, okay, you know, you're in school, and I'm for real, I think you're a nice person, so seriously, complimentary, just any time, make an appointment, okay?" he said.

"Okay, you betcha!" I said. He didn't need to remind me again. I'll take a free $70 haircut any time from any Smurf, thankyouverymuch.

MOH walked with me as I booked it to the car. We hugged and thanked one another for helping preserve our small shreds of sanity and rejoiced that it was finally all over. I drove home, went to bed, and slept for 13 hours.

I had anticipated breaking off my relationship with 'Zilla when this was over with, but now I'm not so sure.

And quit making that face at me.

I will, however, definitely be taking a break and distancing myself from her quite a bit.

I think I have to keep knowing her. I cannot WAIT to see the wretched hellspawn they produce.

What a blog that'll be!

_________________________________________

UPDATE: A little research on the vows.

I decided there was just no freaking way that they actually "wrote" those vows and that ceremony speech, so I did a little googling. Apparently by "wrote," 'Zilla meant "cobbled together traditional ceremonies from various cultures."

And that's fine, but just say so, jeez.

First, the honeycomb. I read that it's from Brehonic wedding vows (I no haz idea what "Brehonic" is) on this website.

This is the vow in its entirety -

"You cannot posses me for I belong to myself
But while we both wish it, I give you that which is mine to give
You cannot command me for I am a free person
But I shall serve you in those ways you require
And the honeycomb will taste sweeter coming from my hand
I pledge to you that yours will be the name I cry aloud in the night
And the eyes into which I smile in the morning
I pledge to you the first bite from my meat
And the first drink from my cup
I pledge to you my living and my dying, equally in your care
And tell no strangers our grievances
This is my wedding vow to you
This is a marriage of equals."

After the fact, I was greatly disappointed that they didn't use the whole thing. After all, what could be better than "I pledge to you that yours will be the name I cry aloud in the night"? Not a damn thing, that's what.

I found this part in a Celtic Handfasting Ceremony here -

"The law of life is: Love unto all beings. Without love, life is nothing, without love, death has no redemption. Love is anterior to life, posterior to death, the initial creation and the exponent of the earth. If we learn no more in life, let it be this."

But you remember that in our ceremony, "exponent" didn't make the cut.

And this part in another Handfasting Ceremony here -

"Above you the stars, below you the stones. As time passes, remember this: Like a stone your love should be firm; be close, yet not so close that you restrict one another. Have patience with each other for storms may come, but they will quickly go."

Now these are all nice and fancy and happy and good (except the honeycomb part. I feel cheated that they didn't say the what's-my-naaaaame-bitch line!), but they most certainly did not "write" their own vows.

Just sayin'.

C is for Corporations

2009-01-09T12:10:00.008-05:00

Dear Readers,

Well, the time has come. I now have a crapola grade and have thus decided I must grow the fuck up and starting studying. What this is means is way less blogs.

Booooo!

You're sad. I know. So am I.

So for today, I will be brief.

This morning I drowned my scholastic sorrows in shopping. I finally, finally found some slouchy comfy flat boots, and I got a cute black dress that has some SERIOUS wardrobe malfunction potential, and a BUNCHA stuff from the $5 rack at Cillies (where I always forget to bring the damn e-mail coupons), but the real star of today's show are these sandals, also from Cillies, that I scored for a paltry $7.50 -

I don't normally cotton to used footwear, but these were just so so SO gay that I had to buy them. Perfect for this year's Pride parade (which the AK's better attend, birthday or not!), I am willing to bet these babies are a relic of some queen's Detour* wardrobe because they fit like they were made for me, and I haz the man feets.

And no worries, I have written both the wedding blog and most of the Gatorlands blog, so they'll be up soonishly, but after the weekend, as my Note (aka the roll of toilet paper I'm "writing") is due Monday.

Fear not. You have not read the last of me.

Wistfully,

Your Jeannie

________________________

*For the non-Athenians, Detour was Athens's gay bar of yore.

for Mary

2009-01-07T18:42:00.003-05:00

who is this kind of Republican:

a note on Republicans

2009-01-05T01:33:00.004-05:00

Weeeeeell, maybe it was a leetle unfair to portray all Republicans like this:

Because there is also this kind of Republican:

There are nice Republicans, like Mary (who I think is actually not one but can't help herself) and Bethany and maybe a pre-Palin John McCain and also Steven, who is always so non-partisanly nice to me and whose blog I'm gonna plug (the new republicans dot net) but probably won't link to o-fficially because, well, my blog is not the kind of blog that nice conservative blogs ordinarily consort with. It has its reputation to consider, and that doesn't hurt my or my blog's feelings because we understand.

four inappropriate stories

2009-01-04T20:05:00.016-05:00

Soooooooo, at the end of the wedding weekend Hairdresser Smurf promised me a free haircut. Yesterday I took him up on it, although I was concerned he might not remember (or might pretend to not remember) because he was pretty damn drunk and his cuts are 60 bucks.

I arrived at the salon and settled into the chair for my cut. We talked a little about the wedding, and to my delight he was ready and willing to discuss how weird it was.

We chatted about this and that, and he told me that he's also a "freelance" musician (i.e., not in a band right now), but he's got a lot of things going on that should take off any time! He also expects to get signed soon.

He also told me several stories about his life. See, here's the thing - I like gross stories just fine, but (from personal experience) I am pretty confident that most people don't, so I was rather surprised when he shared the following anecdotes:

One

On his 18th birthday he was drunk and arrested for smoking a joint. He was already handcuffed and in the back seat of the police car when he told the officer he really needed to pee. The officer said he'd have to wait until they got to the jail. Hairdresser told the officer that he was drunk and he really needed to pee and couldn't wait. The officer again told him he'd have to hold it. Hairdresser explained, "I was wearing shorts, and I was able to kind of twist them back and forth til the zipper came down. Once the fly was open, I was able to you know, kind of

flip it out

so I could pee. I peed all over the car, and some of it even shot up through the cage and hit the officer in the head!"

Two

A girlfriend once took Hairdresser home to meet her parents. They were staying at her parents' house in her bedroom. She and Hairdresser both got very drunk, so he decided to go to bed, but his girlfriend wanted to stay up. He drunkenly made his way alone though the dark in the unfamiliar house in search of a bathroom for a pre-bedtime pee. I'll let him tell you the rest.

"So, like, I found a door, and I thought that's where the bathroom was earlier, so I went in I like, lifted up this lid, so like, I thought it was the toilet, right? 'Cause there was a lid, right? So, like, I'm starting to pee, and like, I'm so drunk, and it's like kinda going behind the lid, and then I realized I'm pissing on her frickin' parents' feet, man!! It was like some kind of hamper at the foot of their bed, and I lifted up the lid and started pissing, and when I missed, I peed all over their feet! And they woke up and were like, 'What!!!" and I was drunk so I couldn't stop peeing and I was laughing and making the pee spray everywhere and like on them and her dad was like 'You could at least stop!' and I was like 'I can't! HAHAHAH' and it was like so funny 'cause I peed all over them!"

Three

Hairdresser once had a roommate who brought home a greasy Jersey guy. The next morning she told Hairdresser not to eat the banana on the counter because she had gotten the greasy Jersey guy really drunk and shoved the banana up his ass and then put it back.

"But why?" I asked.

"To be funny!" Hairdresser replied.

See, they had a third roommate.

"So like, a little while later, our other roommate came in, munching on the banana, and the greasy Jersey guy was like, 'Man, that fuckin' banana was up my ass last night!' and it was like, so fricking funny, and you know, like, it's not that gross, 'cause bananas have skin."

Four - and you know I've saved the best for last

When he was nineteen, he had a credit card that he didn't pay, and the debt was sent to collections. Enraged as only a teenage male can be at the repeated notices, he wrote "CONSIDER THIS PAID IN FULL" on the bill, literally wiped his ass with it, and mailed it back.

"And it was like, visibly soiled," he added.

***

I eyed his hairbrushes and styling tools with trepidation, but my haircut turned out great (the bangs are back!), and he remembered he'd promised me a freebie. He escorted me to the door and gave me not one but two extremely awkward kisses on the jaw.

What - that's as high as the little guy can reach.

meet the pets

2008-12-31T10:35:00.001-05:00

Because the pets are such an important part of my life, I thought they deserved their own post.

Meet Steve:

I adopted Steve in 2003 from the Atlanta Humane Society. He enjoys sleeping, eating, and meowing at the door, regardless of whether he is in or out.

This is Charlie-Pickles Sanchez:

Charlie-Pickles Sanchez wandered into my mom's house one day about two years ago and stayed. Stayed, that is, until my mom called me and said she'd gotten the stray her shots and spayed, and when can I come pick it up? She enjoys stealing your food and digging holes outside.

This is Apollo:

Ryan adopted Apollo as a puppy from Pet Land about 8 years ago. In an unattended moment in the Pet Land shopping basket, Baby Apollo leapt from the cart and landed on his head, and he's been a very special boy ever since. Apollo enjoys staring, wagging, and wrestling with Bitty Kitty.

This is Bitty Kitty:

Oops, that's not right. That's just a picture of Bitty Kitty's soul. This is what Bitty Kitty looks like to the naked eye:

Bitty Kitty refused to wear the Obama/Biden sticker. That coupled with the snapshot of her soul make me suspect that she is a . . . Republican.

This is what Bitty Kitty did to the blinds:

Bitty Kitty enjoys biting you, hating you, and destruction of property.

She also enjoys wrestling with Apollo:

(video inadvertently narrated by Carson Kressley)

at the deep fryer

2008-12-30T11:26:00.005-05:00

Last night I got to see my beloved JPo who had I had been missing for so many days! Our reunion was wonderful and all hugs and smiles and LOVEFUL, and she even hugged me while sober and didn't seem to hate it too much. We'll be mailing out save-the-dates any day now.

Then we went to Trappeze and ran into Dan! Hi, Dan!

Then we went to The Grill, which was really not on my no-food-for-2009 plan, but after 3 vodka 'n orange juices it seemed like a good idea. As I ordered, I wondered why they call it The Grill when everything there has clearly been The Deep Fried, so I decided to change its name accordingly.

Then I made my awesome duck face which everyone is always very jealous of:

(That's my nose ring glinting in the flash, not an unlaunched snot rocket.)

And nobody can do the duck face even almost as awesomely as me, but I still love to encourage everyone to try because the results are always excellent:

And even though I always say I hate my new camera because it takes shitty pictures, I actually love it because it's easy to surreptitiously take videos like this:

(JPo: "What's wrong with it?" me: "Nothing, I'm just taking a video!" JPo: "NOOO!!!!")

veggie burger recipe: an update/warning

2008-12-29T18:09:00.001-05:00

Farts. Lots of them. And loud.

That is all.

deeeelicious recipes

2008-12-28T20:12:00.006-05:00

As I'm not sure how I'd go about making cookies and veggie burgers funny, I'll just provide you with the following recipes I've discovered recently. They are so magically delicious that I felt the need to share.

First, the cookies I distributed for Christmas -

Chocolate Peppermint Cookies
(I think these are actually the tastiest cookies I've ever had.)

2 cups all-purpose flour
3/4 cups unsweetened cocoa powder
1 teaspoon baking soda
1/4 teaspoon salt
1 cup (2 sticks) unsalted butter, room temperature
1 cup packed light brown sugar
3/4 cup sugar
2 eggs
2 teaspoons vanilla extract
2 cups chocolate chips

Directions:

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F.

In a medium bowl sift together flour, cocoa powder, baking soda and salt. Set aside. In a mixer beat together the butter with the sugars until fluffy, about 2 minutes. Add eggs 1 at a time, beating until smooth after each addition and scraping the sides of the bowl as necessary. Add in the vanilla. On a low speed beat in the flour mixture a little at a time. Gently mix in chocolate chips.

On an ungreased cookie sheet, drop teaspoons of the batter about 2 inches apart. Bake until just cracked on top, about 8 to10 minutes, rotating the pan halfway through the cooking time. Cool completely.

The recipe calls for topping the cookies with a peppermint glaze, but I omitted it for two reasons: 1) I think icing on a cookie is a bit much, and 2) they'd get all stuck together and not be as easily packagable for gift givery. Instead, I added about a teaspoon of peppermint extract to the batter and called it a day. (In another batch, I used 1 c. chocolate chips, and 1 c. chopped Andes mints, but I think it's cheaper, easier, and every bit as tasty to just use the extract.)

I baked them for 7 minutes which made them verra, verra soft and fabulous, because who wants a crunchy cookie? Gross. Just make sure to let them cool almost completely if you soft-bake them because they will completely disintegrate if you pick them up too early.

I also gave peanut butter fudge, and I am hesitant to share the recipe with you because I prefer everyone thinks of me as slaving over the stove with a candy thermometer and praying for just the right humidity. Actually, I just nuke it and stir it up.

Peanut Butter Fudge, courtesy of Alton Brown

Microwave 1lb (2 sticks) of butter with 1 cup of peanut butter for 2 minutes in a BIG plastic mixing bowl. After 2 minutes, take it out and give it a stir. Nuke it for 2 more minutes, then remove it and immediately stir in 1lb of powdered sugar and 1 tsp. vanilla extract. Spread it in a pan lined with wax paper and chill.

I like to cut it with a pizza cutter before it's completely chilled so I can get a nice clean line. I find that when I cut it after it's chilled, it kind of splinters and doesn't look as pretty.

Having eating entirely too many chocolate peppermint cookies and peanut butter fudge, I decided to give up food for 2009. I really only made it for a couple of hours, so I decided instead to start eating a buttload of fruits and vegetables and give up meat and dairy products almost entirely. I found the following recipe in a cookbook called 1000 Vegetarian Recipes from Around the World, which contains mostly just recipes instructing you on how to cook the hell out of once-nutritious vegetables and smother them in cheese.

This one for veggie burgers, however, it not half bad, especially after I made it better.

Black Bean/Soy/Veggie Burgers

Ingredients:

1 tbsp. sunflower oil (Who the heck has that? I used canola.)
1 onion, finely chopped
1 garlic clove, finely chopped (I used a whole head of roasted garlic instead)
1 tsp ground cumin
1 tsp ground coriander
5 oz white mushrooms, finely chopped (Because I think mushrooms smell and taste like ball sweat, I substituted the recommended 4 oz. of finely chopped carrots and zucchini)
1 1/2 canned red pinto or red kidney beans, drained and rinsed (I used black beans instead.)
2 tbsp chopped fresh flat leaf parsley (I didn't have any.)
a handful or so of all purpose flour
salt & pepper

I also added a couple tablespoons of wing sauce and two pounds of ground soy, a delish and convincing substitute for ground beef. I also used white pepper instead of black. I added one beaten egg to the whole mix at the end to bind it.

Preheat the broiler.

Mash the beans together with the meatless ground (or just the beans alone if you're not using it) with a fork or a potato masher in a big bowl.

Saute the onions for about 5 minutes. Throw in the spices, and then the carrots and zucchini (or mushrooms, barf) for another 5 minutes. Add the veggies to the mix. Season with salt & pepper. Add the beaten egg, and stir it all together. Add a little bit of flour here and there til it seems dry enough to hold together. Form it into patties and put them on a cookie sheet lined with foil.

This next part works better if you have two identical cookie sheets.

Cook them on the middle rack under the preheated broiler for 7 minutes. If they seem too gooey to pick up and flip (which they probably will), put the other cookie sheet on top (also lined with foil) and flip it over QUICKLY. Remove the cookie sheet that is now on top and gently peel back the top layer of foil to avoid tearing the patties. Broil for another 5 minutes, or until it looks dry on the outside. Let them cool a bit before you handle them.

I ate mine topped with sliced avocado, and it was deeeelicious.

Here's hoping the moon/cheese wheel/piggy teakettle face is on its way out.

a medical emergency and a post-Christmas retail safari

2008-12-27T18:44:00.019-05:00

Some of you know that my poor sweet hubby suffers from sciatica. He's been a LOT better for the past year or so, but this morning it flared up and he was in terrible pain. It being a Saturday and all, I had to take him to the urgent care clinic, Athens Regional First Care. Let me say, we've been there a couple times before (for his back and the time Bitty Kitty bit me and almost gave me the hydrophoby) and they are always super nice and able to get us in and out pretty quickly.

But today, the Saturday after Christmas, we did not get in and out so quickly. In fact, we were there for over two hours. For the first hour or so until they called him back, we sat in the main waiting room which was cram packed with sick people. I fucking hate doctor's office waiting rooms. The air thrums with germs and filth and disease, and it makes my skin tingle. But this place was extra-special-toxic. Looking around, I was certain that we were going to catch something awful like the flu or the cancer or the teenage pregnancy or the inbreeding.

Anne assured me that we were not at risk for catching the teenage pregnancy because once you turn twenty, you're immune. Good thing because, as she pointed out, that shit lasts like 18 years. Disgusting.

I tried to read my new David Sedaris book, When you are Engulfed in Flames, but I had to stop because it was making me laugh too hard to survive on the tiny, shallow breaths I was convinced would prevent me from inhaling lethal doses of the inbreeding or the gonorrhea.

Even worse than all the pathogens in the air was this petri dish whose mother was letting her sit on the fucking floor and steep in disease and filth. I longed for the peppermint-flavored (scented?) bottle of hand sanitizer I'd received from the elder Quesos for Christmas so I could pluck the girl gingerly off the floor and douse her in it, saving her life and the lives of all who might come into contact with her before her impending demise. But then she did the unthinkable and sealed her fate - she wriggled across the carpet on her belly toward the bathroom, stretched across the threshold, and rubbed her chubby little hands all over the bathroom floor.

Dead kid walking, I thought and wished I could possibly cover my face with my scarf without alerting everyone to the fact that I am a colossal asshole.

Over an hour after we'd arrived, they called Ryan's name, and he hobbled to the exam room. Gasping for air, I bolted outside to spend the remainder of the wait in the car.

Another hour later, my honey emerged from the clinic, shot full of cortisone and armed with prescriptions for ~~sundry medicinal delights~~ medically necessary pain relievers to be used only as directed, without exception.

I took him home and headed out to fill his prescriptions and run some errands, including picking up a book he really wanted.

I dropped the prescriptions off at Walgreen's and stopped by the Jittery Joe's at Alps before going to Kroger. Can I just say that I love that Jittery Joe's? I like Jittery Joe's in general, but sometimes at the one at Five Points I don't feel cool enough. The staff at the Alps Jittery Joe's however, are always sooooooooo friggin' nice.

(PLEASE HIRE ME, JITTERY JOE'S AT ALPS! I NEED A JOB SO DAMN BAD, AND I AM SUCH A GOOD COFFEE LADY!)

Plus, they have the bestest ever mochas and hot chocolates. They put all other chocolatey beverages to shame. Mmm.

So I went to Kroger, and whenever I have to grocery shop by myself it is such a fucking project. This is because I no longer know how to grocery shop. Here's what grocery shopping means for me now - Ryan makes a shopping list, we go to Kroger together, he does all the shopping and cart-pushing, and I walk beside him and talk.

Sometimes, actually, he steps away from the cart, and I start pushing it by accident. This usually lasts only a few seconds though, just until I realize what's happening and say, "Ugh, why am I doing this?" And then he takes over, and all is right once more.

What all this means is that I have no flippin' clue where anything in the grocery store is located, and I've even forgotten the standard grocery-aisle groupings. Would the peanut butter be with the jelly? Or the bread? Or the nuts? I really have no idea.

One hour and forty million circuits around the grocery store later, I finally left with a small basket of vegetables, nothing more. If Ryan doesn't get back on his feet soon, we may starve (which is fine for my part, because I've given up food for New Year's anyway; c.f. full moon/cheese wheel/piggy teakettle face).

Next, I went to Borders in search of a Batman graphic novel for Ryan, The Killing Joke.

I located the graphic novel section easily, but then I was stumped. There were rows and rows of books labeled "Manga," and the manga section seemed to have eaten the graphic novel section entirely, as all the shelves under the "Graphic Novels" sign contained brightly colored paperbacks with what looked like cartoon toddler porn stars on the covers. That, based on my inspection of the books actually shelved under the "Manga" sign, was manga.

Gross.

Upon inquiry to one of Borders' finest, I was informed that they "have that book somewhere, but nobody could find a copy last time a customer asked." As I walked back to my car, I caught sight of my reflection in the storefront glass and thought, "Why, I haven't gotten fat at all. My ass looks like J. Lo's! I'm not fat; I'm shapely." I was pleased.

I decided I would not return home to my poor sweetie empty-handed, so I set out for Barnes and Noble, just a short trip up Atlanta Highway.

See?

Note that Google offers walking directions. It is Not Far.

First, I popped across the street to Walgreen's and picked up Ryan's ~~goodies~~ medicine, and then headed toward Barnes & Noble. En route, I decided to stop at Target. I had a gift card, and I really needed some new shoes because last week my cat barfed INSIDE the flats I wear every day. I've been freezing my arse off (my toes, actually) in flip flops ever since. As I headed to the shoe department, I tried to remain oblivious to all the cute goodies demanding that I purchase them.

And would you believe, no you won't, and I was SO MAD that I didn't have my camera in my purse when I saw this shit because these photos from Target's website do not do this footwear travesty justice:

AGH!! This. Shoe. Is. VELOUR. And. BEDAZZLED. AND, I'm not sure exactly why this makes me throw up, but the freaking peep-toe-hole is triangular, and can I just say itisfuckingawful?!

Now imagine several rows of those purple bedazzled nightmares mixed in with numerous pairs of these monsters:

I was totally like

Ugh. Shudder. Cringe. I know you want me to stop so badly, that you're in pain, that you're just dying from all the ugly, but there's more, and. You. Need. To. Know.

You might think this isn't so bad. If you are, you're thinking wrong. The "jewels" on the toe are fucking HUUUUUUUUGE, and.......

It comes in colors. I'm sorry to do this to you, I really am, but it's for your own good, like in V for Vendetta when V shaved Natalie Portman's hair and tortured her and then she learned to be free and was grateful all that crap. I am setting you free.

Brace yourself.

IIIIEEEEE!!!!!!!!!

Okay, here's the last one, and I won't blame you if you squinch your eyes up a little bit to mitigate the impact.

Anyone fancy a trip to Neverland Ranch?

Now let us never speak of this again.

Because they were comfy and seemed versatile, I settled on these

which I had previously flirted with purchasing but didn't because I found them too pricey at $25. Today, however, with cold damp toes and a gift card in my wallet, $25 seemed just right. They are cuter in real life than they are in the photo, too. This is not their best side.

I purchased my new shoes, put them on immediately, and headed Barnes and Nobleward. Recall that from my original starting point of Borders, the total distance to Barnes and Noble was only 1.3 miles. Target is roughly halfway between the two stores, so I really had just over half a mile to drive til I arrived at B&N.

I arrived at my destination about forty minutes later. Love that post-holiday-sale traffic.

Oh. And as if those shoes weren't nauseating enough, while I was in the car I heard a commercial for Macy's after-holiday sales, advertising "...the hottest new trends blah blah blah blah blah ACID WASH JEANS blah blah blah blah blah..."

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

There simply are not words.

I entered Barnes and Noble and located the Graphic Novel section, which has as yet only been slightly overrun by manga. As I perused the titles, a teenage boy approached me and asked, "Ma'am,-do-you-know-who-you-look-like?"

I might have been clued in by his oddly stilted speech or the fact that he was holding a crumpled script, or I might instead have let my absurd vanity get carried away in inexplicable anticipation of hearing, "Anne Hathaway" or "Emmy Rossum" or some such other dazzling brunette. I was especially flattered that I was about to receive a stunning compliment while greasy-haired and sporting the rather unusual and only partially clean assortment of clothing I'd thrown on in my haste to get Ryan to the doctor this morning.

I smiled warmly and replied with what I believed was convincingly humble innocence, "No, who?"

"You-look-like-uhhhhh......." came his hesitant reply.

"Who?" I prompted.

"You-look-like-the-lady-who's-gonna-gimme-some-money-to-sponsor-my-trip-to-Disney-World!" he recited triumphantly.

I stood blinking for a moment and then returned to reality.

"Oh, right," I said as I recalled that I have gained a thousand pounds and now have a cheese-wheel face as well as a donkey butt. Never mind the fact that teenage boys do not walk up to poorly-dressed tired-looking married ladies and compare them to movie stars.

"Well," I lied, "I don't actually have any cash, but good luck." I only had a hundred dollar bill, and my Christmas spirit had reached it zenith and begun to wane days ago.

He pouted theatrically and asked if I was sure I didn't have any cash.

"Yes, I'm sure. But, seriously, that was a great line," I assured him. "It'll definitely work for you at some point."

He thanked me, smiled pleasantly, and left to seek out his next victim.

Happily, B&N had Ryan's book, which I purchased. As I exited the building, I again noticed my reflection in the windows, but apparently B&N has fat windows. What had been a fabulous, curvy J. Lo booty just an hour previous was now a fucking sofa. I did not look like J Lo, I looked like Rachael fucking Ray.

:(

(By the way, I tried to find a good photo of Rachael Ray's be-mom-jeaned booty, and all I could find were fake ones of her head pasted on pictures of chicks with gigantic asses. I ask you, what was the point of this? Didn't Nature photoshop her well enough already? I also found lots of pictures from her FHM photoshoot that were retouched to svelte hilarity.)

To punish myself further, I headed next door to Old Navy. Yesterday as Anne and I discussed the post-holiday shopping madness, she commented, "I don't get going shopping the day after Christmas. Like, didn't I get enough shit yesterday? Why do I need to go out and get more?"

Excellent, excellent question, Anne, and I pondered it myself as I succumbed to the siren's song of SIXTY PERCENT OFF STOREWIDE!!!!

At Old Navy, I was disgruntled to encounter a wall o' casual flats for $10 a pair. Looking down, I realized I was wearing bowling shoes. Twenty-five dollar, shiny, silver, now sweated in and unreturnable bowling shoes that can't even actually be worn bowling.

Well, shit.

As I browsed, I recalled why I never shop at Old Navy. All they have there are like sweats and pajamas. They used to have cute stuff, dresses, nice(ish) wool skirts, etc. Now they have hoodies. Even sweaters that look decent at first glance have a fucking hood. Why? Wouldn't it just be cheaper to leave the hood off and charge the same price? Or does everyone actually want all of their clothing to double as gymwear?

Whatever.

I got a sweater for Ryan, and a nice blouse (one of the two in the store without a hood) and a silver puffy coat for me.

On the drive home, I heard an ad for Q100's New Year's celebration. In collaboration with Jezebel magazine, they are throwing a party called.....

Jez-olution?????

Seriously?

Somebody better get fired over that. And then they better hire me because I can come up with way better body-fluid inspired puns than that crap.

When I got home, I looked over my purchases and discovered that I have been harboring a unconscious desire to be an astronaut:

Or a robot, or the Tin Man, or a garbage can.

Oh well. At least I've got a jump on a Halloween costume for next year.

______________________________

Since many of you are nice and wondering how Ryan is, he's doing okay. He's loaded up on ~~happy pills~~ pain relievers, and I just sent him to bed. His primary health problem right now, albeit unbeknownst to him, is that there is an excellent chance I may smother him tonight because he is snoring so loudly that I can hear him across the house. Seriously, I thought it was bass from a car stereo because it's rumbling the walls, but no - it's just my husband.

Ahh, marriage. The honeymoon never really ends, does it?

“We plunged into the cornucopia quivering with desire and the ecstasy of unbridled avarice.”*

2008-12-27T16:57:00.034-05:00

A Chrismakkah Story

Well, we had just a wonderful holiday, and I hope you did too. After Ryan got off work on Christmas Eve, we headed to his dad's house in Buford to have dinner and spend the night. They have an adorable new puppy dog named Rocko:

Rocko was feeling a little porn-ish, so I had to crop the photo for propriety's sake, but you get the idea. He is purse-sized, and I just LOVE him.

Ryan's dad and stepmom always give us nice goodie bags that are very thoughtful and personal. For example, I received chocolate-covered cherries (my faves), peppermint-flavored (scented?) hand sanitizer, and a rape whistle.

I always enjoy dinner there because we have real food instead of mashy holiday food. This year we had sandwiches and my father-in-law's fabulously delicious Cuban black beans. Sandwiches may not sound terribly exciting, but I more or less loathe traditional holiday foods. Please understand this is usually no fault of the cook's - I just dislike pureed vegetables and generally anything called "casserole." (I also do not understand how condensed soup can ever be considered an "ingredient" - ugh.) As a friend who celebrated Thanksgiving or Chrismakkah or something with my family one year succintly whispered, "There's nothing here you have to chew." So I am pleased as punch to have ham & cheese sandwiches and black beans for Christmas dinner.

Ryan's stepmother's parents were there, and they are just adorable. Her father (actually stepfather, but "my husband's stepmother's stepfather" is too complicated) suffers from some kind of dementia that seems like Alzheimer's but it's not as nasty. On Christmas Eve, he was downright loopy, and forgive me if it's insensitive, but he was hilarious. When Rocko the chihuahua pawed at his lap during dinner, he demanded to know (several times) "if that dog is a queer!"

Later on, when opening his gifts, he pulled a box from Chico's out of the gift bag, and without opening it announced, "Ohhh, Chico's, I know what theeese aaaaaarrre!!" Gesturing slyly at his 70-year-old wife, he grinned and said, "These are so you don't get pregnant!"

I thought maybe I should ask him to pass those Chico's my way, since my husband and I clearly need all the help we can get.

Next we played Raving Rabbids, the video game that Ryan got for his 11-year-old brother:

I freaking loved this game. I am not by any stretch of the imagination a video game person, but this one managed to satisfy all of my stringent requirements: it contained lots of toilet humor and required little to no skill. I even won one of the games. Go me!

Next we went to my grandmother's house in Canton, where I got to hang out with (among others)

my mommy

my auntie & uncle (who both accidentally looked happy at the same time - yay!)

and my ickle brotherkins

who is ten feet tall and not so ickle anymore

and who does an uncanny impression of the creepy old man from Family Guy: (you'll be wanting to turn up your volume a bit)

I also discovered that I have gained fifty billion pounds and my face resembles the moon, or a large white cheese wheel with eyes and hair. Observe:

Now, I have to say, with a mixture of delight and guilt, I made out like a freaking bandit. Here are a few highlights from my gifts:

An adorable piggy teakettle, and yes, I know I am an old lady. Screw you.

EDIT: (AGH AGH AGH, forget the moon or a cheese wheel! I look like this effing tea kettle! OH MY GOD.)

A fluffy pink one-of-a-kind scarf handmade by my aunt Sandi, knitter extraordinaire. Apollo was kind enough to model it for you, as I am looking beyond wretched today.

Isn't it silly? I love it.

And this awesome goldfishy umbreller from my Go-ma.

From my mom I got When you are Engulfed in Flames by David Sedaris, which concerned me at first because I really haven't enjoyed anything he's written since Me Talk Pretty One Day, which is heeeeelarious. I know Naked and Barrel Fever were all popular and shit, but I just didn't get them. Much to my delight, however, this book is fucking funny, like Me Talk Pretty One Day funny, and I love-love-love it. I'm halfway through it already, and I'm only taking time out from reading it to kindly write this post for my adoring fans, so you'd better appreciate it. All three of you.

No need to thank me, though. Your heartfelt gratitude is presumed.

I also received a pink suede Kate Spade wallet that is sooooo cuters, a multitude of gift cardery, and a veritable treasure trove of UGA apparel.

Oh, and I almost forgot. I got this McDonald's Happy Meal My Little Pony from my dad:

As ev'rybodee knows, I luff teh poniez.

My 6-year-old cousin got this, um, snorkel:

and when we all couldn't stop laughing because of, you know, the sheer existence of this

and this

she got a little pissed.

And I may be a bit (or a lot) to blame owing to my uncontrollable laughter and my comment that I couldn't wait to laugh at it some more next summer when she actually uses it, but come on, is that photo not worth a little childhood torment? Think naked bathtime pictures are bad? Wait til I threaten to show this little jewel of blackmail to her dates some day.

Next we went to Ryan's mom's, which I guess is actually her fiance's, but she lives there now and they allegedly plan to get married one of these days, so I reckon it's hers now too.

We had a scrumptious dinner of more mashy food, followed by a store-bought pie.

"What kind of pie is that?" my MIL's ostensible future hubby inquired.

"Uhh," my MIL replied, glancing at the label, "Gourmet. It's a gourmet pie."

Sigh. The sad part is that I was utterly unsurprised by her reply. And in case you're wondering, it was apple. Gourmet apple.

After dinner we exchanged gifts, and finally Ryan and I headed home, bloated with food and the guilt-tinged satisfaction that only the abject materialistic gluttony of the holiday season can provide.

Oh, and it was nice to see our families too. :)
_________________________________________
* from that holiday staple and my all-time favorite movie, A Christmas Story

(Dear Go-ma,
I am sure it troubles you greatly that I split infinitives on here like it's my job, so I wanted to let you know that I am well aware it's a grammatical no-no. I happen to think it's a stupid and pretentious grammatical no-no, although, so I don't care. That is all.)

Chateau Elan - The Most Overrated Place Ever* (an illustrated guide)

2008-12-22T11:52:00.019-05:00

WELL........here it is. What you've all been waiting for.

Okay!!

So.

There's just so much.

First, I would like to provide an illustrated guide to why Chateau Elan is the most overrated place ever. We begin at The Spa.

Exhibit A - The Pool:

The Pool is approximately twenty feet long and is scented delicately of mildew. The doors you see lead to a lovely patio outside that overlooks a bunch of dead grass and a "fountain" that sprays a single jet of water into the air.

To maintain the utmost security for their patrons, the spa's patio doors are also locked from the inside. Although this may seem terribly inconvenient at first, while completely locked out of the building after unsuspectingly venturing outside, guests have ample opportunity to explore the grounds in the rain and cold as they search for a door, any door, or an unlocked window, or even a relatively spacious chimney to slide down before they freeze to death or are eaten by wild animals or are kidnapped and murdered by the many native tribes of white men in plaid pants who inhabit the adjacent golf courses.

Exhibit B: a placard on the wall at the whirlpool or jacuzzi or hot tub of whateverthefuck they're called now.

The hot tub boasts "Soft, Silky Smooth Water," brought to you by ChlorKing, and promises not to cause you any health problems. Um, cool.

At tea time, all those at the spa are free to help themselves to a delightful assortment of snacks.

Unfortunately, they came in only two flavors - Refrigerator and Freezer Burn.

I did learn something interesting at the spa. I learned that spending a day at a spa is basically going from one hot place to another all day. You can be in the dry sauna, the steam sauna, the whirlpool bathtub (which I thought was GROSS), or the hot tub. So basically you just sit in one place til you get too hot and then go to a different kind of hot place. It's also really fucking boring, and coming from someone like me who really loves to just sit and do nothing, that's saying something. At the end of the day I felt swollen up and bloated like a Vienna Sausage, and not at all relaxed. After I showered, I ran outside for some fresh air so I wouldn't have a fucking heart attack.

When I returned to the shower area, I discovered that the spa has thoughtfully provided hair dryers, etc, for the convenience of their patrons. For example, if you've forgotten your hairbrush or comb, you can help yourself to one of theirs:

Or not. (BTW, I realize that's probably some fungicide or something, but it's fucking GROSS, and I don't want it anywhere near my head. And does that ooze in the jar remind anyone else of the goo under New York in the Ghostbusters movie?)

Should you choose to have lunch at the spa, they have made it most convenient. Rather than having to clean up and get dressed, you may eat your lunch in your spa robe and slippers. At first this sounded like a great idea to me because although I tend to overdress and get fancy, I actually prefer to go most places and do most things wearing flip-flops and stretchy pants if I can get away with it. I envisioned a cozy room with couches and a coffee table laden with plates of snacky foods where you could lounge and munch at your leisure. Instead, you eat here:

That's right. You sit at a fancy-ass table in a fancy-ass dining room and are served by a guy in a suit while you wear a fucking bathrobe. I have never been so uncomfortable in my life. Never mind the fact that I am sort of prissy and would never go anywhere nice without my hair and makeup did. Oh, and I'd ordinarily wear panties to a restaurant as well (unless it's our anniversary or Ryan's birthday or something). Plus, the spa robs are like a one-size-fits-all deal, so my robe could have easily accommodated four or five of me. What this meant was that basically I had to constantly police my boobies because the stupid gigantic robe kept drooping open and providing everyone with a free but disappointing show.

Also, there was a dude eating with his legs spread!! (He was wearing booty shorts under his robe, but still.) And another dude had his robe open, showing his bare chest to the world.

Gag. Check, please!

Oh, and the cost of a eating a turkey sandwich and a cup of chili whilst guarding my breasts in the company of greasy naked strangers? A mere twenty-five dollars. Can't wait to do it again.

And finally, the anorexic Christmas tree:

'Nuff said.

As the wedding was to be held in the Cask Room, we headed there next for the rehearsal. It was kind of cool.

There were some barrels:

and some bottles:

and a knight:

and a door leading to something called the:

I really wanted to open it, but thus far I had managed to convince everyone I was an adult, so I refrained.

There were also some cool murals painted on the outside of the building, underneath a weird carport, where basically nobody would ever see them, except for me and MOH who were late for the rehearsal and got lead through some supersecret catacombs by a helpful (and rather tasty looking) bartender (sadly, not pictured).

Now we'll move to the Clubhouse Grille for the rehearsal dinner, located at the Chateau Elan Golf Villas, where somehow

one

plus one

equals $14.

If you live in ATL, you're probably surprised. If you live in ATH, you probably just fell out of your chair.

Suffice it to say, I did not get drunk that night, which basically made the whole affair a wash.

Now let's talk about the room.

'Zilla, MOH, and I stayed in the "Bridal Suite" the night before the wedding.

There is a huuuuuuuge bed for Sexy Time:

And a couch (in the corner of the photo) for 'Zilla Gets Pissed and Kicks Groom out of the Bed Time.

And a desk, for Boss & Secretary Roleplaying Sexy Time:

And a humungous TV for Porny Time?

Not pictured are the tiny sink and mirror that are useful for neither On the Counter Looking at Yourselves Sexy Time nor Three Girls Get Pretty for the Wedding and do Their Makeup & Hair Time.

When I commented to 'Zilla that the bathroom area wasn't terribly conducive to wedding preparation, she informed me that Chateau Elan doesn't actually have bridal suites. They have ten presidential suites, and normally couples use those. This one was a presidential suite, meaning only that it has a fucking ton of unused square footage.

I have to wonder why the hell a resort that hosts gazillions of weddings doesn't have bridal suites, or at least suites with a little more mirrors and counter space, but whatevs. We made do.

For $225 per night, we made do.

Okay, sooo.......I know I am being a little mean, and this is not actually what you've been waiting for, but I have to get the rest of the photos from MOH before I can do this fucking farce justice. Have patience. I expect to be finished by tomorrow night at the latest.

Stay tuned!

__________________________________

* Apologies to Daniela and my mom, who both love Chateau Elan. I just wasn't feeling it, but it may not have been the resort's fault ;)

Half wedding party stuck in Milwaukee, hairdresser slated to stand in for best man.

2008-12-20T00:29:00.010-05:00

A quick update.............

LAST week, 'Zilla threatened to boot her MOH out of the wedding over a dress snafu that was utterly beyond MOH's control. I was furious, mainly because I thought if anyone got kicked out, it should be ME. She ended up not kicking her out (poor MOH, sweet freedom was so close!) but instead ran out to Dillard's and purchased a $200 dress that's wayyyyy too small for MOH and told her she isn't allowed to return it or exchange it because 'Zilla just "can't deal with that right now." Whatthefuckever.

THEN she wigged out yesterday because, hey, here's a thought - it's fucking snowing in Milwaukee. See, Groom's whole fam lives there, and now it seems they are stuck there and unable to fly here because of the weather. Is anyone surprised that it snows in Milwaukee in December? Anyone? Anyone? 'Zilla? Yeah, I know you're surprised. That's because you're stupid. Here's another surprise for you - you're not actually the center of the universe.

So YESTERDAY she called MOH and said,

"I may need you to pick some people up from the airport and bring them to the resort. Maybe a couple of trips, actually. I'll call you tomorrow and let you know."

Uhhh..............Just so you know the precise degree of outrageousness here, let's consult google maps.

Fifty-five miles. Now recall that normal people have to work, and MOH happened to have to work til 6 today. So 'Zilla called her LAST NIGHT to say she MIGHT NEED her to make MULTIPLE TRIPS back and forth from Hartsfield to Chateau Elan. Never mind that she needed to WORK and PACK, and I don't know, find some time to take a fucking dump at some point.

I think I'm starting to get bitter about this wedding.

So MOH happened to inquire, "Oh, are these the people who have been snowed in and then were able to fly in today?"

"No," 'Zilla replied. "These are regular flights."

So these were not even like last-minute, OMG, cancelled our rental car because we thought we wouldn't be able to make it and suddenly the airport opened back up, and jeez, how are we gonna get there kind of guests. These are people who have had flights booked for months, and 'Zilla just NOW thought to make some arrangements for their transportation.

And here's the deal! I've not got fuck to do right now most days, so I could totally have done it, if someone had asked me even a week ago. Even a couple of days ago. But to call MOH who has a JOB and say she "may need" her to make TWO trips back and forth, 110 miles round-trip each time, somehow after work, and then have time to pack and be able to make it BACK to the resort by 10 a.m. Saturday for the spa day (which is a whole 'nother bitchfest) - well that's just fucking outrageous, above and beyond the ordinary call of cuntfacery. 'Zilla deserves a medal for her extraordinary contributions to crazy.

ALSO, 'Zilla has now TWICE acted like I am not married. Get this shit.

So, I was talking to her the other day, and I asked her which groomsman would I be walking with. Groom's Brother, she said.

Being silly, I inquired, "Izzy hot? Heehee!"

"Uhh, well, he is married, Lori," came the nasal and condescending reply.

HELLO. Uhh, SO AM I, ASSHOLE. First of all, I was fucking being silly. Second, I don't give a shit if I'm married; I still don't want to have to walk down the aisle and be photographed on the arm of some greasy fucking uggo!

God.

Then on Friday, with two days left til the wedding, I began to desperately want a date to this wedding. (Ryan had to work, it being the holidays and all.) So then I had an idea for the perfect date:

Perfect, right??????? I can have a friend from the outside world, and there will also be someone there to bear witness to all this crazy because I am sure at some point you stopped believing a word of what I'm telling you.

Plus, I could avoid any impropriety by telling them he's a gay. Perfect!

So I have to provide a lil' background info here - when we first got the "wedding" invite back in I guess August, I told 'Zilla right off the bat that there was a 99% chance Ryan couldn't be off work, so I'd just be rsvping myself. I told her not to worry about it and just save the money (since in a 25-30 person wedding, 1 person makes a difference in cost). She said the wedding package was based on 30 guests, and that they wouldn't be sending out any more invites, so if Ryan could make it at the last minute, then great, there'd be a seat and food for him; if not, no hard feelings.

(Wow, like a nice, normal person. Too bad that didn't last long.)

SO. That conversation was the only reason I thought it might be okay to ask at the last minute if I could bring a back-up date. On Friday I called to check in on the crazy and see if that'd be okay. I also told her if it's not okay, I totally understand, I just thought I'd ask since there was supposed to be a spot open and all.

"Well, there'll be a chair for him, but there won't be any food, so do whatever you want."

I took that as a "no." Which was fine, whatevs, because she doesn't know him, it's the last minute, etc etc. But I did have to wonder, what if my husband had suddenly been able to make it? That would've sucked.

So then she says to me, and I shit you not, this is NOTAFUCKINGJOKE,

"But if you want single guys to hang out with, Upstairs Neighbor and Hairdresser will both be there."

If I want WHAT?!?!?!

"Uhh, no, I didn't want to hang out with any single guys, 'Zilla. No worries. It'll just be me."

Okay, there are like forty million things wrong with what she said, but let's focus on two -

1) I AM FUCKING MARRIED.

2) If I were single, I would not "hang out" with UPSTAIRS NEIGHBOR (see: wedding chronicles, part III, "you want to overturn democracy, don't you?") or Hairdresser. I have not yet met Hairdresser, but I know that he is single, forty-five years old, and in a band.

Gross. No, thanks.

Upstairs Neighbor, on the other hand, I know plenty well enough. I know he's about 50, a total alcoholic (complete with a lovely alcoholic's complexion), five feet tall, and a raging creepy conservative. And worst of all, he lives in 'Zilla's building. That itself is reason enough to stay away from him.

Oh, how I wish I could post pictures of everyone, but it just feels wrong. And oh, how I wish I could think of a snappy way to wrap this up, but right now all I can come up with is -

Fuck. This weekend is going to suck balls.

the resuts are in

2008-11-28T14:19:00.010-05:00

Whew! Bullet dodged. My New Year's resolution will be to actually get my ass to the doctor and get a frickin' IUD.

Now, time for a drink!

any reason to stop outlining...

2008-11-26T21:11:00.006-05:00

This will be my last post for a few days, I swear.
____________________________________

I know you don't care about my marital bliss, but here's an excerpt from a phone conversation with my husband, who, while working today at our local Best Buy, ogled both Knowshon Moreno and Scott Speedman (btw, I had to google Scott Speedman because I never watched that crap show Felicity, so don't get the wrong idea about me)...

rrrrrrring

him: Hello?

me: Is there an ice cream delivery man?

him: I don’t think so, sweetie.

me: BOOOOOOOO but I WANT SOME. Do you think I can go to the store in my lingerie and rain boots?

him: Well you, can, but you’ll probably get arrested.

me: But I WANT SOME, and I can't put clothes on because then I’ll have to take my rain boots off and my feets will get cold.

him: Knowshon Moreno came in the store today.

me: Oh, yeah? Why are all the fancy people coming in today? Did you talk to him?

him: No, but I stood next to him to compare my size.

me: You what?

him: Oh, you know, I just stood next to him while he was in the checkout line to see how big I am compared to an all-star runningback.

me: Oh. Well, that’s a totally normal thing to do.

him: He really wasn’t that much taller than me. Only a little bit. He was like about my dad’s height, I guess.

me: Okay.

him: Scott Speedman was taller though. He was like, almost six feet.

me: So there’s no ice cream delivery man?
___________________________________________

OK. STUDY TIME.

muggle quidditch

2008-11-26T20:45:00.004-05:00

Now you all know that I am decidedly Not Athletic, but I might, I just might be willing to try this...

that's why they don't call it 'Plan A'

2008-11-26T12:33:00.016-05:00

A couple of weeks ago, I went temporarily insane.

I forgot that I am not on birth control anymore. I say "anymore" like I stopped taking it a month ago or something, but I've actually been off it for THREE YEARS.

Stop making that face. Birth control makes me fat(ter) and crazy(ier).

So one fine Friday about two weeks ago, my dear husband and I had a ridiculous unprotected sexfest. Stop making that face also. I am a Respectable Married Lady which entitles me to speak freely about my church-and-state-approved sexy times. Heh, well, mostly church-and-state-approved, but sometimes I have a little too much to drink and.......

At the end of that fine Friday, I was puttering around my house and getting ready for a party when I stopped short and said, "WHAT THE FUCK?!?!"

Why the hell did we do that? And where the hell were Ryan's judgment and maturity that are always far superior to mine and insist on wrapping it up have probably prevented like three hundred pregnancies? EEEEEK!!!!!

I leapt into the nearest non-stinky clothes, and we headed for Walgreen's. I entered Walgreen's with trepidation - after all, the ATH populace consists of either ultraliberal hippies or creepy ultraconservatives. There isn't much in between, so I was rightfully afraid that the pharmacy counter might be staffed by

You get the idea. (And before any Catholics get pissed at me, you KNOW old Benedict there would NOT sell me plan B if I asked for it, so it's just true. He is probably nicer than Ann Coulter, though.)

Fortunately, the pharmacy tech looked more like this:

I breathed a sigh of relief and asked if they carried Plan B.

"Ohhhh yeahhhh surrreeee, like definitelyyyyyy, tooooootalllllyyyyyy," he replied, in a kind but obvious effort to make me feel not-judged. "I just hafta go get it, like ONE SECOND, okay, I'll be riiiiiiiiight back, noooo probleeeeem, yeeaaaaah!"

(Dear Walgreen's hippie, if you're out there, thanks for that! It was very nice of you, and it made me giggle.)

So I took the Plan B, and everything should be fine, right? WELL......a dear friend of mine had a similar Fine Friday once and took Plan B within a few hours of her adventures, too.

She's due in December.

I was telling my dear Lindsey, whose daddy is a doctor, about the shocking turn of events in my friend's life, and she sagely replied, "That's why it's called Plan B. If it worked every time, they'd call it Plan A.

In spite of this knowledge, I figured everything would be juuuust fine. Until I got nauseous. I have been nauseous for FIVE DAYS now, AND I am late. Eeeeeeek!!!

No, I haven't tested yet, and I know you're making that FACE at me again. I have not tested because I a) don't want to, b) want to wait a little longer because I would fucking murder someone if I got a false negative, and c) payday is not for a few more days and I insist on only using the $25 fancy digital tests that clearly say "PREGNANT" or "NOT PREGNANT." I can't deal with trying to decipher those fucking teeny little lines after the eternal 3 minute wait because you can ALWAYS see the stupid line whether it actually changes color or not.

Rather than focusing on reality, which is always such a drag, I've been trying to think of the good things that would come from being preggo. So far I have come up with three:

1) People have to be nice to me even if I act like a wretched bitch. Look out, Bridezilla. I'll be wanting a party.

2) I have a medically legitimate reason to need new clothes all the time. Plus, I am always wandering through Target and getting confused when I see a super cute dress but I can't find my size and even if I could I can't figure out what this big pouch on the front is for anway - oh. I'm in the Liz Lange maternity section again. I would be able to wear that cute stuff.

3) I will not have to clean the kitty litter box for like a year! Apparently if you touch cat poo while you're pregnant, you run a significant risk of birthing one of these:

and then you will have to get this guy

to exorcise the evil kitty litter demon from your home.

wedding chronicles, part IV and a half

2008-11-21T16:42:00.010-05:00

Okay, so she provided a totally normal response to the Hairdresser Situation. She said, "no worries" and she'll talk to The Groom about it, but she doesn't think it's something they can afford either.

Please note that within this statement lies the fact that she did indeed expect me to pay for both of their hairstyles, and also the acknowledgement that it is indeed NOT affordable.

But whatevs. I'm off the hook. However, then I received this: (clicky on the image to read it)

Oh, sure. When I said I couldn't afford a ridiculously expensive hairstylist, what I meant was, "I'd like to spend $100+ at a fricking SPA!!!!!"

RARRRRR!!!!!

wedding chronicles, part IV - No Means No

2008-11-21T16:16:00.006-05:00

I know, I know, email is cowardly, but this situation is terrifying. Click the image to see it in a readable size.

Of course, I will let you know as soon as she replies.......Keep your fingers crossed for sanity.

wedding chronicles, part III

2008-11-20T20:28:00.011-05:00

Fancy invitations that much to my surprise required rush shipping to receive them in less than 2 weeks - $62.58

Enough stamps to mail all that shit - $12.60

Wedding gift from registry that actually qualified for Free Super Saver Shipping - $34.00

Tank of gas to get to Atlanta now that prices are reasonable again - $20.00

Cost of food for ridiculous and inappropriate shower - $62.35

Cost of prizes for idiotic shower game at ridiculous and inappropriate shower - $35.00

Amount of money I have made this year - About $300

*****

Given my current financial predicament, I am pondering new avenues of income. Considering the overwhelmingly positive reaction to my Halloween costume, I am thinking about responding to this...http://www.craigslist.org/about/best/lax/836109998.html

It was really the "no anal required" that drew me in. After all, I am a woman of principle.

So you're all dying to know how the shower went down. At long last, here goes...

At the last minute, it came to my attention that The Bride wanted some freaking GAMES at her "shower" (which I decided was more appropriately titled "Engagement Party" because of the whole "you're not invited but come to my party anyway and by the way here's where I'm registered" thing). Here's the deal with games - they're usually stupid, and you have to provide prizes. At my wedding shower, the games were short and painless, and the gifts were overall goofy dollar store fare, which was delightful and fun - Lee press-on nails, an assortment of fiesta-related magnets, and some polyester hair extentions. Awesome! But this party is for adults - most of whom I have never met. Scratch that, all of whom. So what's a partygiver to do? Sigh. Get fancy shit I can't afford.

So I got all ready to head to the ATL for the party, and on the way I was horrified to recall that I hadn't planned any games and had no prizes. I stopped at that foul excuse for a shopping mall out here and darted into Victoria's Secret.

"Two ten-dollar gift cards, please!" I requested hurriedly. "Sure," the salesgirl replied. "But just so you know, if you buy $10 worth of merchandise, you get a gift card with a mystery amount on it, anywhere from $10-$500."

Sweeeeet!! I thought. A way to recoup a tinky tiny bit of my losses. "Okay!" I replied. I darted to the horribly stinky perfumey stuff section, grabbed a little trio of sample thingies, and ran back to the register. I paid for the stuff (see: Above) and dashed for the car, feeling a little brighter that I now had a little prezzie for myself. As I drove, I entertained fantasies of a $500 panty spree. I would spend it all on crotchless g-strings and thus reaffirm my non-matronliness.

I arrived at the Bride's house a teensie bit late because of my prize stop. I bustled in and offered her the gift from me (which I had forgotten to wrap, but I'm not Superwoman, okay? don't judge.) She crinkled her face and said, "Okay, thanks, but I think we should take that to the restaurant for me to open." Her mom was at her place too, but she wasn't going to come to the party because of a migraine or something - probably she had overdosed on her daughter's relentless insanity and was desperate for any means of escape. I envied her migraine and tried to will myself into tuberculosis or dysentery.

Anyway, her mom had also brought a gift for her. Now if it were me, I'm just sayin', I would have opened a gift from my mom with my mom, so she could see my delight and I could thank her. If it were me. Just sayin'. But it wasn't me, so we took the gift with us for her to open at the restaurant. Why a grown woman wants to open as many gifts as possible in public, I'll never understand, but whatevs. It seemed relatively minor brattery at the time.
We arrived at the restaurant fashionably late (only like 5 minutes) with a leetle bit of complaint from her, but nothing too bad. Nobody was there yet anyway (heh! my credit cards smiled with glee inside my wallet at this). I struggled to get all my crap out of the car as the valet stood boredly waiting for my keys. I gathered up my coat, my scarf, my purse, my camera, my gift for her, and the card The Groom's mom had sent to me to give to her. She grabbed the gift from her mom, and we headed into the restaurant. As we neared the entrance, she turned to me and said,

"I really shouldn't be carrying my own wedding gift, should I?"

and she handed it to me!!!!!! I struggled to remain upright.

"Oh, heh, right, I suppose not......" I mumbled from beneath a mountain of packages and winter garments that I hadn't even been able to put on, owing to my present status as wedding-gift-laden pack mule.

In we went. I unloaded. The Maid of Honor was there, and one other guest had arrived. I felt a bit of premature glee at the low attendance, and my credit cards exhaled in relief.

People trickled in over the next 30 minutes or so, and we wound up with about 7 guests, not counting me, The Maid, and The Bride. We kept a steady flow of food, and really not too many drinks because people didn't seem interested in the cans of PBR we'd provided.

Yep, that's right - PBR. Now, make no mistake, I like PBR. Most of my friends like PBR. But here's the deal - I had printed on the invitations that "hors d'ourves" (or however the hell you spell it) would be served, so that it was abundantly clear any alcohol was to be purchased by the guests themselves. Yes, I am well aware this is a shitty way to throw a party, but it was all the Maid and I could afford, being forced into having a restaurant party. By the way, I'd like to mention that I was mortified to throw this kind of obviously cheap-ass party - I can throw a fucking killer party at home, where I can cook and buy the alcohol myself. But I was not willing to effing beggar myself to satisfy the unreasonable demands of my increasingly cunty "friend."

So my policy, clear as could be, was NO ALCOHOL. Then we find out, The Bride demands we serve PBR and maybe another beer like Sweetwater. Sweetwater? Fuck that. It's $4 a bottle! And I already said I wasn't paying for any alcohol! RARRRRR!!!

So this, dear readers, is why we served PBR to nice professional middle-aged ladies at this ridiculous travesty of a "party."

The party progressed more or less pleasantly. We played the stupid "Who knows the Bride best?" game. I know it's not uncommon for people who win prizes to give their prizes to the bride, but it's certainly not a rule or standard as far as I know. Well. As I've already mentioned, I got one of those little sampler packs of Victoria's Secret lotion, stinky body spray, and shower gel for a prize. The nice lady who won it was Bride's Ex-Boss. Ex-Boss popped open a bottle and gave it a sniff, and then passed it around the table for every to have a smell. When it was the Bride's turn to take a whiff, what did she do?

She dropped it into her bag of gifts without batting an eye or saying a word!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Ex-Boss graciously ignored this. I am fairly certain I managed to pick my jaw up off the floor before anyone noticed - not that it would have mattered if anyone besides The Bride noticed, and she certainly wouldn't have since she has lately been stricken oblivious to anything but herself.

Party continues, slightly boring, slightly awkward, and then people started to disperse. I heard one of the guests who had ordered a few glasses of wine pull the waitress aside and say she'd like to pay for her wine separately. My credit cards and I were delighted to see that people had gotten the hint about alcohol and were kindly covering their drinks.

Before the waitress could take the guest's card, however, The Bride intervened. "No, no, no, Guest!" she said.

"Ohh, no, I expected to pay for my wine, I want to," the wonderful, respectful guest replied. "Really!"

"NO, Guest," The Bride insisted, "Absolutely not. It's covered."

"Oh, um, well, okay," said Guest, clearly uncomfortable because HER MAMA TAUGHT HER BETTER THAN THAT.

Again, I collected my teeth from the floor and sat frozen in disbelief.

This would be a good place to note that the alleged credit card The Bride's mom had given her to help cover party expenses never materialized.

A little while later, I heard The Bride discussing with the remaining guests that her hairdresser would also be doing The Groom's hair. What? Why? He has long hair, but good lord! All he has to do is comb it or pull it back or something. Well, whatever, not my wedding. What do I care?

Oh, I soon found out why I care.

The Bride turned to and said, "Oh, and I have Hairdresser's card for you, so you can call him and set everything up."

What?!?!?! I had imagined after telling her I couldn't afford this outrageous party and still being forced into it, and also not having heard a peep about this hair business since originally discussing it, that I was off the hook! And now Hairdresser is doing The Groom's hair also?! Am I on the hook for that too?!

"Oh......er......okay," I replied.

The Maid and I went to settle up the total. The server told us that Ex-Boss had stealthily snuck and paid 1/3 of the total bill for us! What a dear! She was just about to walk out, so I trotted after her and quietly thanked her. She was so gracious about it, and I just thought she was so generous and nice. Good people. Her mama raised her up right, too.

I didn't tell The Bride that Ex-Boss had chipped in, but I just casually commented that I thought she was lovely and nice. "Yeah," The Bride replied. "When she's not being a huge bitch. I can't even believe she actually came. I guess someone made her."

Gahhhh!!!! Of all the ungrateful Bridezillary! I resisted the urge to slap the shit out of her.

After the party dispersed, The Maid and I suffered through a few drinks at the bar with The Bride, and The Bride's Neighbor. Neighbor has been her neighbor for like 10 years or something. He's total fucking drunkard, and apparently an impressively ill-informed asshole.

As The Bride and I shuffled through the photos of the party on my camera, she saw the photos from the Prop 8 protest the day before. We briefly discussed, and went along our beery way. Enter Neighbor and his intoxicated opinion.

"So you're against democracy, aren't you?" he slurred.

"Why, no, as a matter of fact, I'm not," I replied.

"Well, that law in California was passed by the voters! That's democracy! If you protest that, you protest democracy! You're trying to overturn democracy!"

"Perhaps you could think of it as part of the democratic process. Perhaps when there's another vote in the future, the protests against previous votes will have an influence the next time around," I explained reasonably.

"You want to overturn democracy!" he insisted.

"Okay," I said patiently. "You know, the majority once favored slavery and segregation. Do you think if we voted to resegregate, that'd be okay?"

"Well, no, of course not." He shrugged. "But that's democracy. You're the one in law school, aren't you?" For a moment he looked concerned that he might lose this battle of wits.

I sighed. "Yes, I am the one in law school, and okay, Neighbor." He continued talking to himself for a few minutes, and I ignored him as only a woman in a bar knows how.

A little while later, he tried again. "I bet you think Roe versus Wade is good law, dontcha?"

"I think it's currently the law, if that's what you mean by 'good' law," I answered.

"Well, I think it's bad law. I think the states should be able to decide! Don't you think states should decide?" he demanded.

"I wouldn't really consider myself a federalist, no," I said. He crinkled up his face, deep in beery thought.

"Well, I am! I am......that.....that you said," he blubbered.

"A federalist?" I asked.

"Yeah! A federalist!" he said, clearly pleased with himself and his expanded vocabulary.

"Okay," I said and reentered my mental Woman In A Hostile Bar cocoon.

Look what a nice lady I am. I taught an asshole a new vocabulary word, and I didn't even tell him to go fuck himself for trying to provoke me. I also didn't take out all my pent-up MATRON of honor frustration on him by stabbing him in the eyeball with one of my high heels. I am the picture of magnanimity and restraint. Miss Manners and Emily Post would be pleased with me, indeed.

At this point I finally excused myself, citing homework and studying, etc., and got the fuck out of there before my head exploded.
_______________________________________________

Oooooh, I forgot to tell you, I got my stupid MATRON dress. It has a bow on the back that must be amputated immediately. It is also about fifty sizes too big for me (how did this happen when they took my measurements?????), so it will require extensive (read: expensive) alterations.

Stay tuned. The wedding takes place December 21. I am sure there will be more to report.

MINOR UPDATE: Oh. I also forgot to tell you - that "free" Victoria's Secret giftcard I got - I left it in the bag at the restaurant. :( I hope the nice waitress found it and kept it.

wedding chronicles, part II - The Other Shower

2008-11-20T18:03:00.005-05:00

OMG, guys!! I almost forgot to include this.........
________________________________________________

So I sent an invitation to The Groom's mother, even though she lives out of state because that is just One Of Those Things You Do To Be Polite. It makes people feel included. It is also a sort of Miss Manners CYA thing. Obviously she wouldn't be coming, but she still called to RSVP (as polite people tend to do).

Mom-in-law was just so pleasant and sweet. We chatted for 10 minutes or so, about this and that. She said, "Oh, I just think this is so sweeeeeet. I mean, I never thought Groom would get married, and I'm sure you never thought Briiiiiiiide would get married, ha-ha!"

Teehehehehehehehe, I adore this lady already. I chuckled in lieu of a "no comment" and mentally looked forward to the days when I am older and can get away with saying whatever the hell I want.

So she asked if she could send a gift for The Bride to my house, and if I'd deliver it to the party. I said sure.

"Well, I'm just gonna have to think of something a little creative for them," she said. "I sure won't be getting them any towels, ha-ha!"

"Hah...hah...?" I said.

"Well, they have enough of those, you know!" she said.

"Oh," I said, confused. "I didn't know."

"Oh, they got all those towels! Someone gave them a ton of towels. Were you not at The Other Shower?" she asked.

WHAT THE FUCK? I quickly shuffled through my mind for any vague memory of another shower, or any reason there could have been another shower I didn't know about. Could it have been in Mom-in-law's state? Nah, then she'd know I wasn't there and wouldn't be asking.

"Oh, haha," I replied. "No, I couldn't make it unfortunately." I didn't want this nice lady to know she'd just let a gigantic, screeching, pissed-off cat out of a bag. In hindsight, I wonder if she clued me in on purpose, so I'd know just what kind of Bridezillary I was up against.

We wrapped up the conversation with pleasantries, and really I am looking forward to meet her. Aside from the fact that it'll be at this appalling wedding, of course.

Here are the things I want to know:

1) Whether this was an out of state shower, a family-only shower, or a surprise shower, why the fuck was I not informed? I have never heard of the MATRON of Honor not being invited to a shower, even if it's out of state and I couldn't go (see Miss Manners CYA, above).

2) Who the fuck that has a wedding with only about 30 total guests needs TWO SHOWERS?

3) Why the hell am I going to all this trouble and expense to throw her ass a shower when somebody already did?!?!?!?!?!

RARRRRRR!!!!!!!!!

enough scary shit.

2008-11-20T15:32:00.007-05:00

Terrifying nightmare post - redacted. Didn't want too many people to know just how mentally ill I am.

The salt worked. Either that, or the fact that Ryan let me sleep with the lights on and be a little spoon all night long. Menfolk, take note - that is how you treat your sweetie.

On to more important things........I WANT THESE.

I obviously have the heart and soul of an exotic dancer. Note to self: drop out of school , purchase several pink feather boas, and renew tanning bed membership immediately.

wedding chronicles, part I

2008-11-17T18:33:00.010-05:00

I have been bestowed with the grand honor of being my friend's "MATRON OF HONOR."

Not that I need to dissect the atrocities of this particular appellation, but I think I will anyway because it's my blog, and I said so. A "matron" is not a fucking fancy 25 year old woman with a tattooed ass and colorful sexual history. A "matron" is the dumpy old battle axe who runs the nurses' ward at an army hospital, okay? She's overstarched, undersexed, and never plucks the weird fuzzy hairs from her chin. She's NOT ME.

Okay, so now that's out of the way, I suppose must protect the identities of the parties involved (even the guilty ones), so let's called the bride.......Errrrr......Ummmm.......The Bride, I guess. That'll work.

So The Bride has been seeing this nice nice man. We'll call him The Groom. The Groom, from what I can tell, is a prince. The first time I met him, he bought me an enormous dinner, and then he ordered every dessert on the menu for me, The Bride, and The Bride's respectfully titled MAID of honor, errr, The Maid, to share. He then chivalrously excused himself for a smoke (okay, ew) while we three little piggies gorged ourselves on sundry calorie-laden delights.

So I like The Groom. The Groom can stay. He even likes her fucking cat! This cat is a piss monster who pisses in her BED, shits right beSIDE the litter box, and takes every opportunity to snag your favorite new sweater with his wretched little claws. And hey, if you're reading this, you probably know - I am a cat lady. If I don't like a cat, that cat is guaranteed to be a first-class asshole. I attribute his ability to like the cat to an already threadbare wardrobe and what must be the most underdeveloped sense of smell ever.

Okay, so they got engaged. Cool. Nobody saw that coming, but great. I had often worried for The Bride because she sometimes seemed rather unhappy and lonely. This is not to say, mind you, that the lack of a man makes one unhappy and lonely, but when one wants a man but remains monogamously entangled with an incontinent cat, well.........unhappy and lonely, yeah.

So she tells me they have to get married sort of quickly, for some rather sad family reasons that I won't include. "How quickly," I asked. "Well," she replied, one fine September day, "in December, before Christmas."

So, she tells me, she's already booked the venue - it's at a local fancy-pants place. At - get ready for it - At. Eight. Thirty. Eh. Em.

What the fuck?

"Well," she continued, oblivious to the fact that that is fucking WEIRD, "it was either 8:30 a.m. or 8 o'clock at night, and I was not gonna do that."

"Uh huh," I nodded, as I thought she had finally gone totally fucking crackers. Of course she wouldn't want to have it that late, and save money, because nobody wants dinner or anything that late - serve your wedding cake, some coffee, and everybody goes to bed. Prohibitively uncomplicated and affordable, I totally agree.

I politely steered the conversation to the details of planning - a justice of the peace, or a minister? Justice of the peace. How many guests? Maybe 30ish. What about your hair? "Oh, I'll do it."

"What?!" I shrieked, unable to mask my fright.

"Well, I figured I can do it, but anyway Mom'll be there, and you'll be there, and my cousin who used to do hair....." As she prattled on about this family-reunion homemade hair nightmare in the making, I imagined myself at eight-forty eh em in the bathroom of the aforementioned fancy-pants resort, with a tearful bride-to-be with something like the illegitimate two-headed child of a pineapple and a french twist spackled to her head with dollar-store hairspray. This, I told myself, THIS, is Just Too Damn Much. I was NOT gonna deal with that clusterfuck when, not IF, WHEN it happened. Because it would.

So in an outburst purely driven by instincts of self-preservation, I offered, "How about if my wedding present to you is that I pay to get your hair done?"

"Oh! Well! We can see about that."

We discussed a few details, who does her hair, how to get in touch with him, and how likely is it that we can get this guy anydamnwhere by 7 am to do her hair. I suggested a coke binge the night before, so he'd actually still be awake and have no idea how early he was up and working.

We pretty much left it at that. Next order of business: an ickle celebration of sorts? Sure, she's having a family-only wedding pretty much, but she deserves to have a little girls' night out with her work buddies, some informal cocktails at the local bar or something. So I suggested as much - would she like to ask around the office and pick a Friday they could all go out for drinks? I'd be happy to send out some emails and organize. What followed can only be characterized as a bridezilla moment -

"Actually, yeah, you can throw me a shower. And we can have it here*; they have a new party room you can rent."

What? Who can rent? I looked wildly around, confident that some Rich Best Friend had walked up and joined the conversation, unbeknownst to me. Nobody to the left. Nobody to the right. Behind? Nope. Fuck!

Wretchedly, I mumbled, "Uhhhh....heh-heh....yeah. We'll see......"

Some of you may not know - a formal fancy shower is NOT something you invite people to if they aren't invited to the wedding. Showers suggest gifts, and you should NEVER mix uninvited guests with compulsory gift-giving. So basically what she was asking me to do was the worst breach of etiquette known to matrimony.

A week or so later, The Bride and I traveled to a dress shop to pick out a shiny, ill-fitting, matronly monstrosity to wear to in her wedding. The dress we settled on was actually not unutterably foul, so I thought perhaps she had regained a measure of her sanity since we last talked wedding. I gathered all my courage and began, "So about the shower thing.......Look, Bride, there's just no way I can afford to have it at a restaurant. I'd be more than happy to have it at your place and cook, or someone else's if that's too much for you to worry about, but I really just can't do it at a restaurant." I waited for her to graciously say, "Oh, of course! I totally understand, no worries."

I'm still waiting.

What she actually said was, "Oh, hon, don't worry about it. People will chip in, and Mom gave me a credit card to help cover expenses." Knowing all was now officially lost, I drooped in defeat, and my credit cards trembled with fear. Stay tuned.

__________________________________________________________

* "here" refers to the somewhat pricey seafood restaurant where this all went down.

fashion victim

2008-10-09T10:06:00.003-04:00

So one fine day precisely seven business days ago, I was perusing dresses on ebay, having recently developed an obsession with all things strapless. I happened upon a lovely evening gown, reasaonbly priced, and I thought perfect, if a bit premature, for the law prom.

What the heck, I thought, and I whipped out my trusty MasterCard, as my unsuspecting husband snored peacefully in financial ignorance on the couch beside me.

Fast forward to today. I picked up my parcel from the Post Office and hurried home, expecting to look like Angelina Jolie, only without thirty-seven formerly underprivileged children mucking up the view of my fabulous shoes.

I unwrapped the dress and beheld its loveliness. It really is nice, especially to come from a weird ebay seller whose tagline is "WE MAKE DREASS YOU PRETTEY FOR U!!!!!!" I immediately put it on and zipped it up. Or halfway up, actually. See, it features a masterfully well-concealed zipper, but at the waistband, where the fabric is thicker, the zipper seemed a little misshapen and thus wouldn't budge.

Hm. I took the dress off and gave the zipper a few tugs, up and down. I had to give it a pretty hearty yank, but it went. I figured if I did this a few times, it'd start working smoothly. After a few yanks, I put the dress on again. Still no luck - even with my freakishly flexible arms, I couldn't get a good enough grip to haul it up past that wonky spot.

Really Bad Idea Time. I imagined that I could probably just zip it up while it was off, and then slip it over my shoulders, courtesy of my freakishly flexible upper body. I got the dress over my shoulders without too much trouble, but then I ran into trouble. This thing was STUCK just under my armpits. It refused to budge, up or down. Flat out refused.

I wriggled, I writhed, I begged, and I pleaded. I briefly wondered if Ryan would come home from work to help me, but he was as yet unaware of my financial infidelity, so that didn't seem like that best option. I also wondered if J-Po would come save me, but my house is such a mess I figured if she saw it, she might not be my friend anymore.

About then was when I started to panic. I wondered if a purple chiffon dress were like a python, if every time I exhaled the dress would squeeze my ribcage tighter. It certainly felt that way. I imagined the headline - "Grown woman crushed to death by prom dress." Even in my oxygen-deprived fantasy, I couldn't picture a less dignified way to go.

Finally, finally, FINALLY, I drew what I believed to be my final breath, hulked up, and ripped that fucking zipper right open. That's right! I mauled a beautiful piece of clothing, but at least I am alive to tell about it.

this also happened

2008-09-09T23:19:00.013-04:00

I did not pass the MPRE. I missed the GA benchmark to TWO FUCKING POINTS, which equals ONE QUESTION.

Here's the deal - if I'm going to fail, I want to really FAIL. I want to EPIC FAIL.
I don't want to fail by TWO EFFING POINTS. If I have to re-take that crap, it should be because it kicked the shit out of me, tore me up, I didn't know an effing thing. Instead, I was ONE QUESTION SHORT of being able to practice in my home, the least ethical of states.

Oh, well. There has to be one ill-advised individual who fails every year. I had originally planned on keeping it a deep, dark secret, but after consultation with AK, (who, having been in the same spot a little over a year ago, said, "Man, you gotta OWN that shit") I have decided to go public. I figure maybe someone else might have failed, and maybe s/he will feel a little less bad knowing s/he is not alone.

Also, I know it will get out anyway, and I'd prefer people say, "Lori didn't pass the MPRE," rather than whisper, "OMG, Lori did not pass the MPRE!" So here you go. Lori did not pass the MPRE. Discuss.