Well, I always thought that archaeologists were always funny looking men going around looking for their mommies.

Happy St. Patrick's Day, Internets. Is the Internets Irish? Probably. Everyone is Irish today. LIARS. I mean, whatever, say what you want to say, that's fine. What do I care? Despite my pale skin and dark hair and light eyes and freckles GALORE, as far as I know I have no Irish blood whatsoever. Unless someone's not telling me something. Mom? Dad?

Anyway. This weekend I may or may not have watched all three Indiana Jones movies. But, see, I had to. Because I watched Once and it ripped my heart out. And then set it on fire. And then hit it with a sledgehammer until the ashes were all smashed into the ground. It did not feel good. After that happened, I clearly needed to watch something that would not make me want to jump out the window. Which is why I watched Indiana Jones, because that doesn't make me want to jump out the window. Unless, of course, I'm imitating his high-flying antics. See how that works?

Here is my problem with Indiana Jones: oh, right, I don't have one. I do, however, have a problem with some of the women in the films. OK, really, just the one woman. How annoying is Kate Capshaw in Temple of Doom? I mean, that's obviously the worst of the Indiana Jones movies, and most of it is her fault. WOW. It's always pissed me off that she poured perfume on her elephant. Lady. It's an elephant. They don't smell like roses. Also, elephants are awesome. If you don't like elephants, there's something seriously wrong with you. I think you might be a serial killer. Sorry to be the one to break it to you, but maybe you should just turn yourself in now. Just go to the police station and say, "I hate elephants." They'll know what to do. ANYWAY, she sort of vindicates herself at the end by punching some people in the face, but she's still annoying. And I know Indiana Jones is a bit of a man whore, but seriously? I worry about his judgement that he hooks up with the chick who almost gets him (and Data) killed because she was afraid of some bugs. Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know they were big SCAAAARY bugs, but suck it up! When people are about to get squished, you fondle all the bugs you have to in order to save them. It's common courtesy.

Cause the ice melts, and then it's like . . . second drink!

We had a guest this weekend. His name is Bo and he poos in a box and licks his butt. He's a cat. In case you didn't follow. I wasn't sure. He and Phoebe didn't get along. They hissed at each other and he made a really weird growling noise and I didn't even know cats growled. So I learned something new this weekend, which hardly ever happens. There was one minor setback, however, in that Phoebe puked on my bed. In my sheets. Like IN the sheets. I'm not sure how she did it because I had to pull back the comforter before I even saw it. And so, that is why I was doing laundry at 1:30 in the morning after Heidi and I polished off a bottle of wine while making jello shots (CLASSY!) and why I slept in my bed like this all weekend:


Sure, I could have made my bed but what if she threw up in it again? I'd just have to unmake it and remake it and last night let's just say I would have slept anywhere. When I woke up this morning the clean sheets were balled up next to my head, my pillows were unused except for the body pillow which I was half curled up with and half using as a blanket. Again I say CLASSY. I'd say Nancy's St. Patrick's Day party was a success. We were home by 12:30. I think. I sent many a text message and called the majority of my phone book (including our apartment phone), proving once again that I should hide my cell phone from myself if I'm planning on drinking.

Today, as I was driving Steve, Nick, and Heidi to get their cars, Nick produced the most ungodly smell in the history of farts. It was the worst thing I have ever smelled and once in college our apartment basement flooded with sewage. SEWAGE. And this smell was worse. We were at a stoplight and we immediately rolled all the windows down and stuck our heads out into the fresh, cold air. The lady in the car next to us rolled her window down and asked if we were OK and I would have said to her, "No, ma'am, my car has been filled with poisonous gas," only I was laughing too hard to breathe, let alone talk.

Happy St. Patrick's Day!

Don't do anything I wouldn't do. That doesn't leave much, so, you know . . . have fun.