Wednesday, December 30, 2009

Twas the week before christmas...

... when all through the district
Many a creature was stirring, quite many a mouse.
The mittens were hung in the new apt with care,
In hopes that Snopacalypse soon would be there.

The cohabitators were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of SnOMG danced in their heads.
And Sasquatch in his ‘kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled our brains for a long winter’s nap.

When out on the hall there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the door I flew like a flash,
To peep through the peephole and kick some ass.
...
When, what to our wondering ears should a-hear,
But a gaggle of drunks playing Rock Band.

No seriously, I have to break away from Moore's classic poem to emphasize the nature of our disturbance and its resolution. My new apartment lacks soundproofing from the hallway, and so any noise coming from another apartment, while not making its way through a wall, floor or ceiling, easily comes through the gaps around the door jamb and at the bottom. On this particular night, we were trying to fall asleep despite a party occurring down the hall, which we didn't notice until the Rock Band started, when we were jolted awake by these charming lyrics,

"I WANNA TAKE YOU TO A GAY BAR GAY BAR, GAY. BAR. GAY. BAR. GAY BAR. GAAAAAAAAAYYYYYYYY BARRRRRRRR."

**hope-filled, breathless pause in which we thought it'd be over**

"AT THE GAY BAR GAY BAR GAY BAR WAAAAOHHHHHH!"
...

"What the hell?"
"I don't know"
"Is that even a song??"
"Apparentl--"


"I'VE GOT SOMETHING TO PUT IN YOU, SOMETHING TO PUT IN YOU AT THE GAY BAR GAY BAR, GAY. BAR. GAAAAAAAAAYYYYYYYY BARRRRRRRR. WOOOOOOOOOOOOOO"

At this point we couldn't help but laugh at the absurdity of a) the song, and b) the clear, emphatic, enthusiastic enunciation of the singer.

"I think this is what hell's like."

"I WANNA TAKE YOU TO A GAY BAR GAY BAR, GAY. BAR. GAY. BAR. GAY BAR. GAAAAAAAAAYYYYYYYY BARRRRRRRR."

I need to emphasize here that it sounded as though this person was standing at the foot of the bed saying these things to us--that's how clear we could hear it. And we really couldn't hear the accompanying guitars or drums, just the rhythmic proclamations that someone, somewhere down the hall really, really wanted to take us to a gay bar.

Eventually Sasquatch had had enough, and he went to pound on their door. Upon seeing a 6 and a half foot sleep-deprived man with crazy hair and scowl, the guy apologized and said they'd keep it down. Sasquatch didn't even have a chance to say, "Look, I know you want to take the entire hall to the gay bar, but we just want to get some sleep."

Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!

Friday, December 25, 2009

A Charming Mistake in Word Choice, Brought to you by BobCurry

Ryan, looking at a Christmas card my parents received: "Who are these people?"

Dad, looking at card himself, which has pictures of a family wake boarding and water-skiing all over it: "I don't know, but they sure do a lot of waterboarding."

I'm not sure that's what he meant, but what a delightful Christmas sentiment! The family that waterboards together, stays together!

Merry Christmas!

Thursday, August 20, 2009

My first pie

So I had a bunch of cherries sitting around, and was sick of eating them plain, so to get rid of them, I decided to make a cherry pie! Instead of going to yoga as I would any other typical Wednesday, today baking was my stress relief/meditation time. First I had to eat dinner...



Ok that's not all I ate for dinner, don't worry. After that I breaded and fried some chicken and had steamed green beans and rice (such a well rounded meal! I know, you're impressed). But I had to get good and liquored up first with all this baking in my near future.

Ok on to the baking..

oh wait! No, no no, first I have to do dishes.


ok, NOW on to the baking. I decided to invest in a cherry pitter for this little project. Coolest. Gadget. EVER. It shoots out the pit like a nail gun and has a little protective shield so you don't get cherry juice everywhere (though I still managed to get it all over my white shirt somehow).


That's it on the lower right. After that was done, I added a shit ton of sugar:



"Shit ton" is actually the measurement that my baker brother suggested. That's what you get for taking baking advice from a poop doctor. But I digress...

I added lemon juice because I was using sweet cherries instead of sour (I think...with no comparison who the hell knows?)

Then I stirred that bad boy up (after adding tapioca)


Poured it into store-bought crust (I have neither time nor the counter space for dough-rolling) and jury-rigged some lattice work:


Baked, and voila!


A little spillover, but that's ok...right? Hopefully it takes ok and the whole foods crust isn't narsty : / I want to eat it now! With vanilla ice cream! But I think it has to "set." Will update with how it tastes...

Sunday, February 8, 2009

Things said outloud while browsing match.com

I didn't realize you could browse match.com for free, so I put in my zipcode and had at it. And I have come to the conclusion that I am far too much of a misanthrope for online dating. Upon realizing this, I decided to keep a running list of things that went through my head while browsing:

"What is wrong with his HEAD?!"
"You're only interested in women up to 5'7?? But you're 6'1! And so cute!"
"You're GAY."
*deep sigh*
"Oh GOD."
"Barf."
"Hey, here's an idea. If you want a girl to go out with you based on a picture and a profile, it's probably not the best idea to post a pic of you surrounded by a bunch of slutty girls in a bar."
"You're Goal-oriented? WTF"
"Really? Your job is to sell medical 'divices' and you can't even spell the word device?"
"You're wearing a pink polo with the collar popped. That's a joke, right?"
"If you have a great sense of humor then why isn't your profile funny?"
"Manners are important to me. 'Manors' are not."
"Ew! ew, ew, ew, ew, ew."

Ugh...I'm BORED.

Wednesday, February 4, 2009

to be depressed...

...and have only two books in the queue, one a memoir detailing the year following the death of a famous author's husband, and the other a series of essays on loneliness and recipes for one, is not recommended.