Happy Birthday . . . world

Since I will be celebrating the new year in another time zone, I may not have access to The Internets, so let me take this moment to say . . . Happy New Year!

That's all I got. What do you want, it's 7 AM.

William Randolph Shakespeare once wrote in one of his plays, and I'm paraphrasing, "love doth be poison."

I bought a new mattress earlier this week and I took today off of work so I could be home for the delivery. What, it's not like they can leave it on the front porch and I can drag it up the stairs myself! I'm short and not very strong and mattresses are strange, unwieldy creatures. Luckily, when the guys came to deliver it they took my old mattress and box spring but, as my mom instructed me, I did not tell them that Phoebe had previously used the mattress for a toilet. They can figure that out on their own, you know, if they smell one side of it. It's gross, is what I'm saying, but no longer my problem. Oh. SNAP.

I was just reading the Do's and Dont's on the back of my warranty brochure. I mean, most of it is common sense, like don't light a fire near your bed and don't let dirty, little children pee on it. I don't have children, dirty or otherwise, and I hardly ever light fires in the house anymore, so I think I'm safe. My favorite, though? "Don't let anyone stand or jump on your mattress. It was not built for that kind of weight concentration or abuse." Probably I should have read that part sooner.

Since I had the rest of the day off, I've been pretty bored. I did a load of laundry, went to the ATM OK FINE and also to New York & Co, watched two episodes of House, drank half a pot of coffee, and now I'm in the middle of packing for Chicago. It's a long process. Anyway, here is what my bed looks like now:

It looked a lot better before I threw all that shit all over it. Oh well. It was nice while it lasted.

PS: You may ask yourself just how many pairs of black shoes one person needs to take on a two day trip to Chicago. The answer is: at least four, maybe more. It's easy to remember because it rhymes. FYI.

Why I will never be President (aside from all the incriminating pictures)

Coworker: When are you leaving for Chicago?
Me: On Saturday.
Coworker: So what are you doing for New Years Eve?
Me: . . . I'm going to Chicago.
Coworker: I mean, where are you going?
Me: Chicago.
Coworker: SLOW PERSON, WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO IN CHICAGO?
Me: Oh. I don't know yet.

Heidi: Help me find a candle.
Me: Don't get this one, it smells like dead babies.

Conversations With My Roommate: The One Where Heidi Calls Herself a Fat Whore

At Target:

Heidi: Ooh, clearance!
Me: Score!
Heidi: Geez.
Me: Yeah, why are the only sizes left extra small or 17?
Heidi: I don't know. I feel like I could wear a size 17 right now.
Me: Um, ok.
Heidi: It's true. I'm a fat whore today.
Me: Nice! You have such high self esteem.
Heidi: I know.

In the pajama section:

Me: Oh, what do you think of this?
Heidi: It's pretty slutty.
Me: I know, but it's only 5 dollars.
Heidi: Now would be a good time to start dressing like a slut.
Me: I could wear it when I entertain my gentleman callers.
Heidi: Oh really?
Me: Yeah, I don't know if you'd noticed the line of guys outside my room.
Heidi: I thought I heard talking.
Me: Oh, we weren't talking.
Heidi: God, you're a slut.
Me: No, I'm a lady of the evening*. Only a lady of the evening has gentleman callers.

In the shoe section:

Heidi: Are these the hooker heels you wear to whore it up?
Me: Yes, I have them in red.

In the car:

Me: Hey, turn right here.
Heidi: OK.
Me: Drive where I tell you, Fat Whore!
Heidi: Haha.
Me: Can I call you that from now on?
Heidi: Sure.
Me: I can't wait til your mom comes over and I'm all "Hey, Fat Whore, are the dishes in the dishwasher clean?"
Heidi: She'll love that. And of course they're not clean.
Me: I wish I had a derogatory nickname.
Heidi: I'll try to think of one for you.
Me: How about Stupid Slutty Slutface?
Heidi: No.
Me: Pimply McGee?
Heidi: No.
Me: OK.
Heidi: I'm trying to think of something with the word "cheap" in it.
Me: Wow, thanks.
Heidi: No problem.

*I am not a lady of the evening

OCD + ADD = . . . I don't know, something bad

Most of the time, our apartment is cozily cluttered with magazines, mail, throw pillows, a random assortment of blankets, and lately, piles of Christmas cookies in cute little bags and tins. I do, however, sometimes experience a slight case of OCD and feel the need to clean. This does not happen often, but when it does, I find it hard to concentrate on anything important (like TiVo) if, I don't know, there's a random pair of shoes (usually mine) lying all haphazardly at the foot of the stairs. However, this OCD coupled with my everyday (undiagnosed) ADD cause me to clean in the most roundabout fashion imaginable.

FOR INSTANCE, I begin the cleaning process by starting a load of laundry. While in the laundry room, I find the Febreze, which makes me want to spray it on every surface until the apartment smells like a sweet, heavenly garden. Before I can spray Febreze, though, I realize I need to vacuum, but before I vacuum I have to dust. While looking for the dusting cloths, I find toilet cleaner and remember that it's been [insert embarrassing amount of time here] since I've cleaned my bathroom. I put toilet bowl cleaner in the toilet and scrub the sink and shower. I will now forget I have put toilet bowl cleaner in the toilet bowl until the next time I have to pee, open the lid, and wonder why the toilet water is bright blue. Around this time, I realize I need to clean the litter box, which means I have to take a trip to the dumpster, which means I will try to gather up every piece of garbage in our apartment because I try to make trips to the dumpster as infrequent as possible. After the dumpster, I wash my hands in the kitchen and realize the dishwasher needs unloaded. Undoubtedly, the dishwasher has failed to actually CLEAN the dishes, but instead of washing them by hand I run them through another cycle. By now, I remember that I need to set up coffee and make my lunch for the next day. While putting things back in the refrigerator, I notice the Brita pitcher needs refilled so I stick that in the sink, run some water in it, and walk away. Now, I can dust and vacuum but when I reach my room I notice that, well, it's a fucking mess so I stack all the messy piles of paper and mail into neater piles of paper and mail, put the clean laundry away that has been sitting folded and pretty in the laundry basket for a week, and make my bed. Then I think "wow, I haven't posted anything in my blog for a while," sit down, and lose an hour to the Internets*. Now I have to pee but when I get to the bathroom I find the toilet still full of toilet bowl cleaner so I have to clean it. I then finish vacuuming and spray the shit out of our apartment with Febreze. When I go to put the Febreze back in the laundry room, I realize the laundry I put in the washer has been done for an hour and a half and is now ready to be put in the dryer. When I open the dryer, I find a load of laundry I'd put in and forgotten about two days before, fold it, and put it in the laundry basket on my bedroom floor that will be horribly neglected until my next bout of OCD. The End. It's kind of like If You Give a Mouse a Cookie, but really more like If You Wave Something Shiny at Jennie**.

Oh, and I'll also forget about the Brita pitcher in the sink for at least an hour.

*by the way, this is the stage I am at now
**as far as I know, this title is unpublished

But you ain't got no legs, Lieutenant Dan.

I would like to introduce you, Internets, to the Greatest Christmas Present In All The Land:

Yes, it is a mini-ping-pong table. Yes, it is MY mini-ping-pong table. Actually, it's technically called Keg Pong (yes, my parents bought me a drinking game for Christmas) but on the box it says "You can also play Ping-Pong!" which my dad and I did, until breakfast was ready because cinnamon rolls beat ping-pong HANDS DOWN KICKS ITS ASS. Ahem.

ALSO, I got this:


to replace THIS:

so I no longer have to do THIS:

I feel kind of bad for replacing the MacGyver Coffeemaker for a younger, newer, sleeker model, but . . . OK, no I don't. This means I don't have to run out to the kitchen in a towel, still dripping wet from my shower, in order to strategically place a tiny piece of tape over the on/off switch so it is held in the exact right position. Pain in the ass. Anyway. I hope everyone had a very merry Christmas and Santa was good to you. Also, I hope you managed to catch at least 14 hours of A Christmas Story because nothing says Christmas more than a Red Ryder BB Gun. Except maybe this:


Yep. Nothing says "Merry Christmas" like Red Sangria. From a box.

Only I didn't say Fudge. I said THE word, the big one, the queen-mother of dirty words, the F-dash-dash-dash word!

In case I forget tomorrow, Merry Christmas, Internets! I hope Santa brings you everything you asked for and then some. And remember, don't stick your tongue to an icy pole even if you're triple dog dared to. TRUST ME.