Screw the Sex and Videotapes, ALL WE HAVE ARE THE LIES.
I'm not even going to apologize for not writing. Because it's finals. And, due to an extraordinarily ill timed and evil e-mail this afternoon, I am a bloody wreck.
Things That Are Just True:
1. You know how on the show House, his theme is that everybody lies? All the patients? Could be cured in like 10 minutes but they all lie? Well.
Law school professors lie.
They
ALL LIE.
And they don't lie about irrelevant things, like whether or not they agree with Scalia. They don't even lie about relevant but not panic-attack inducing things, like length of reading assignments or classes that will run late. Oh no.
THEY LIE ABOUT THE FUCKING FORMAT OF THE FINAL EXAM UNTIL IT IS ACTUALLY FINALS PERIOD.
Then they sneakily lie about what a certain class will cover, and just happen to mention that, Oh, everything I said about the exam? That has dictated the way you read and took notes and prepared all semester? HAHAHA. Just kidding. Y'all? I am
so fucked.
2. The amount you have to do at work is directly proportional to the amount of studying you have to do for exams, and is statistically related to the extent that Professors LIE about said exams, causing panic.
3. The day you miss class, because it was SUPPOSED to be a movie which you rented and watched on your own time, will be the day the Professor's GIANT LIES are revealed, and you will only find out about them at work the next day by e-mail, sparking a full blown panic attack and a complete inability to focus on the budget spreadsheets.
4. Shrieking, then walking into your bosses office and announcing, "I will be back. I need to be smoking right now" will
freak your boss right the hell out.
5. Someone needs to inform the Bush administration that the Doctrine of Constitutional Avoidance does not mean, "Whenever possible, avoid the Constitution."
Gah.
The American Life, The American Life, The American Life...
Fuck it.
(This title only makes sense if you are familiar with Dean Gray and his cut of
Boulevard of Broken Songs, which I get to at the end of the post.)
Oh, y’all. The birthdays, they were fun. They were LOTs of fun, actually. Saturday night we had a party, and it was awesome, and completely and totally taken over by the Game That Has No Actual Name But I Swear I Didn’t Just Make It Up Right Now. See, we were all out on the balcony (in our house, the party doesn’t gather in the kitchen, it gathers on the balcony, where 15 people sit actually on top of each other) and one of our friends brought up playing this movie game, wherein someone named an actor, and then someone else had to name a movie they were in, and then someone else had to name another actor from that movie, etc. etc. One would not think that this would be overly taxing.
Y’all? It was overly taxing. It taxed us right to death. I think we actually broke new ground in the concept of sucking. We… we not only didn’t get all the way around the circle, we never got
past one person. We do not so much know movies. Or actors. At all.
So I remembered a game I had once played, that was surprisingly entertaining. This is where you name a movie star, say, “Harrison Ford”, and then the next person has to name one whose first name starts with the first letter of the last name, so, “Frank Sinatra” would work. And it goes around, unless someone pulls a double, say, “Farrah Fawcett”, which flips it back the other way.
The game got off to a rough start, but we changed a few rules, namely:
“Ok, forget movie stars. Any famous person.”
“Ok, famous people includes politicians.”
“Ok, “famous people” includes made up famous people. Bring on Mickey Mouse.”
“Ok, you know what? ANY NAME. ANY NAME AT ALL that SOMEONE else recognizes will count.” (Because we still really,
really don’t know movie stars.)
So we started, and the game is honestly more fun than it sounds like it would be, as evidenced by the fact that… it never ended. All night, from like 8-1, we played this game. People arrived, people left, we ate food, went out and bought more wine… the game just kept on going. It was fantastic. People were getting into spirited debates about whether “Puff Daddy”, “P Diddy”, and “Diddy”, were different names. (E’s theory: anything with the P is the same name. The removal of the P however, fundamentally changed it all. E had been drinking.) And seriously, when you’ve been drinking wine for 5 hours, that kind of debate is awesome and completely appropriate.
The other best part of my birthday is the fact that S managed to make Dean Gray’s
American Edit album appear on my iPod. (There are a lot of semi-working computers in my life, but somehow S made this work). This album has thrown me into a downward spiral of complete and utter obsession. Y’all? I love this album. LOVE. Love to the extent that it affects my health. Sunday night? I did not sleep. I mean, my insomnia generally kicks up on Sundays, but I mean, I Did. Not. Sleep. I stayed up,
all night, and listened to this album, dancing like a complete idiot throughout my apartment. Then I went to work. (as the strands of American Idiot ring in my head…)
Also? Last night, I took it to work out with. Now, I have been working with my trainer, but I am bad at cardio.
Bad, bad. I look at the clock and count down the minutes I have to keep doing this and invent insane medical problems to justify not doing it and develop philosophical theories about the universe hating me and actually slowing down time when I am on the elliptical. So… not good. Last night? I ran for 15 minutes after what I normally do and didn’t really want to stop.
This album is magical. It is a magical, wonderful album, and I am bat shit crazy obsessed with it. To the point of titling posts with non-sensical lyrics from it. To the point where, since my office is currently empty, I am going to listen to it Right Now.
Peanut and Citycat Apparently Have A Lot To Write About
Ok, so I have to write this entry now, and it will be long and nonsensical because, well, hi!, have you
read this blog? But also because I have tons of stuff to post about and have been a Lazy Poster (and also, busy) all week, and I have to post them all NOW because this weekend is my birthday and Kate’s birthday and you do the math- it should be an interesting weekend.
Not that last weekend wasn’t an interesting weekend. Because it… was. So let’s just begin, shall we?
Peanut and Citycat: A Nordstom’s Make-up Adventure
Peanut called me one day last week and asked if I wanted to accompany her to a make up show at Nordstrom’s Saturday morning. You paid $15, they closed the store, and you drank mimosas and watched a “fashion” show where they showed off “new make-up looks”, and then got a free make-over at a make up counter. Which, of course I wanted to do that, because it is
insane, and I like doing insane things.
So, at roughly 9 am on Saturday morning Peanut and I are drunk on mimosas. This may have aided in the fact that after being made over by Stila, I proceeded to spend approximately seven thousand dollars on make-up. Well, ok, maybe not seven thousand, but… hundreds. Hundreds of dollars. On make up. Which… I don’t wear. And even
after spending all that money, I was STILL talked into buying over priced eye cream, because the man selling it was so
entirely awesome that after 20 seconds of talking to him all I wanted was to have him come to my house to sit on the couch and watch bad TV and braid my hair and talk about boys on a Saturday afternoon and really, the least I could do was buy the eye cream.
Peanut and Citycat: A Soundtrack
So, maybe it is because Peanut and I are in the car a lot lately, but we have been ipod-ing (I verbed “ipod”! And… “verb”) it up like crazy. And I guess music was always pretty big for us when we lived together, and for more than just challenging our dorm neighbor who once woke us up by playing the trumpet. (Peanut: (incensed) “Ok, that’s IT. I handled the stereo. I handled the violin.
I handled the bongo drums. But I DRAW THE LINE at the trumpet!”). Anyway, a lot of time has been spent lately listening to everything from the Killers (“this song makes everything ok in my life”) to a folder called “College” and having conversations like this:
Me: “Blue! I LOVE that song!”
Peanut: “I am so glad you mentioned that song, because I don’t know anyone else who would admit to actually liking it.”
Me: “But… I really love it.”
Peanut: “But you’re kind of embarrassed about that, right?”
Me: “Sure, this from the girl who just played the Venga Boys. Twice.”
But seriously, there is some crazy bad music out there, and it is wonderful. Go download Tupthumping by Chumbawumba, and you will see what I mean.
Peanut and Citycat: The Issue With The Horoscopes:
Peanut has somehow found a horoscope writer who is actually on crack, and thus has been amusing us for a week. It began when she called me at work on Monday to read me her horoscope. (This is not a usual occurrence, I swear). But… her horoscope had to do with maybe her having some great idea, which she… held and incubated in her chest (?) like a little chick (??) and today was the day it would poke it’s little beak out of it’s little shell and… show its wings (???). Which, A. Is a metaphor that has been taken far too far, and B. Is actually a pretty terrible metaphor. At least, if it is trying to say what I think it is trying to say, which is: you have a good idea, you have been waiting for the right time for this idea, and the time is here, so the idea should spring forth and take flight and soar to new heights, bringing you and your reputation with it. Which, all metaphors for success, right? Except…
Chickens?
Don’t fly.
So what this metaphor is actually saying, (if you are the kind of person who spends this much time analyzing crack head horoscopes, that is) is that you had one idea once, and you didn’t say anything, and it… became a chicken. And when you DO finally make it public, it will show that it has wings but they are useless, and it will just run around and squawk. And that? Is NOT a metaphor for success, so much.
Mine? Another overblown metaphor, this one involving, of all things, donuts, which I do not even like. It starts out basically throwing out there the fact that I am… inventing a donut. (Like, a new donut? Because donuts are already kind of invented…) But anyway, I am not supposed to invent a whole new donut anyway, because my “batter is fine” (…thanks?) and the baking is all ok (…good?) and in fact, I should be concentrating on “pink sprinkles and coconut shavings” (oh… really?). I mean, seriously people, I couldn’t even make this up.
In today’s horoscopes? I am going to meet the man of my dreams and be in a different emotional space than I am in now. Since currently my emotional space consists of fighting with a computer program that is not working, and my emotional space tonight involves champagne and the pretty, pretty Supernatural boys, I have to say it might be right.
Peanut?
Should go save woodland creatures. I swear to you. Here it is:
"Maybe you want to save the endangered oak trees in the neighborhood park. Maybe it's a certain kind of bird whose habitat is threatened that's gotten hold of your heart and your energies. Or it could be a species of wild mouse, or bunny rabbit, or frog. You're absolutely right: Something has to be done for these little creatures that can't speak up for themselves. Go to it!”
Hee, I think I like mine better.
When I write again, there will be a new number next to the “2” in my age.
Do NOT Anger Crazy Waitress
Ok, so maybe there was a reason that I don’t go out much anymore. And maybe that reason involves the fact that the Stupid and the Scary and the
Criminally Insane seem very, very drawn to me.
Saturday I was supposed to do work, and did… not. Peanut called and wanted to know if I wanted to go out, and my brain short circuited and I decided that yes, going out? Brilliant plan! Fuck International Law, anyway! But I didn’t want to go out as early as they were talking, (8), so I said I would meet them later, giving me ample hours to do work.
Roughly .003 nanoseconds later, I get an IM from SecretAgent. Now, SecretAgent is also in night school to get a graduate degree, and as such is one of the only people around who really, truly connects with what my life is like. Which unfortunately means we never see each other. But he was totally stir crazy, and a new movie was out, so I jumped on the chance to see him and we made plans to meet for dinner and a movie.
Fun Fact #1: Yes. I did arrange with Peanut to go out later, because 8:00 was “too early”, only to make new plans for 6:00 approximately 2 minutes later.
So SecretAgent and I went to a Mexican restaurant for dinner. We wanted to go to the bar and grill type place, but there was a 45 minute wait so we decided we’d be faster at the only 10 minute wait place across the street.
Note: we were wrong about that.
Fun Fact #2: Number of chicken quesadillas delivered to our table by deeply confused waitstaff? 2. Number of chicken quesadillas actually ordered by our table? 0.
So this is pretty much my experience with SecretAgent at the restaurant:
Kitchen Person: “You ordered a chicken quesadilla?”
SecretAgent and I: (Look at menus that are still in our hands. Note that we have not even yet spoken to a waitress, let alone ordered any food). “Um, no?”
(Kitchen person leaves, confused, SecretAgent and I are bemused.)
Waitress: (comes over, smiling… kind of a lot… talking… kind of a lot. But not just talking a lot, but talking in that slightly disassociative way? You know?)
SecretAgent: (minute waitress is out of earshot). “Um, is it just me, or is she a little….”
Me: “Insane?”
SecretAgent: “Thank god. I didn’t want to say it out loud. But yeah.”
Me: “And not a little. That is 100% Crazy right there.”
SecretAgent: “And… I think she’s flirting with me. Which is odd, and also somewhat terrifying. Let’s not anger Crazy Waitress.”
Me: “I agree.”
Time passes. Time passes. We eat chips and salsa. Time passes.
Kitchen Person: “You ordered a chicken quesadilla?”
SecretAgent and I: “No. STILL NO.” (At this point we break down hysterically laughing, wondering if somehow Crazy Waitress is behind what is now getting to be an inordinately long wait for our actual food, although again, the kitchen staff seems quite willing to feed us. Just not anything we, you know, ordered.)
Crazy Waitress: (comes over, bringing SecretAgent’s beer). “What’s so funny? Did I miss a joke?”
SecretAgent and I: (kind of terrified). “Um… no?”
Crazy Waitress: (Gazing at SecretAgent. Seriously.
Gazing.) “Oh. I thought maybe
HE did something funny.”
Me: “Um, nope!”
Crazy Waitress: (Glaring at me). “Oh. Fine then. Your food should be here soon.” (Flounces off).
Me: “
’Did I miss a joke?” What ARE you, our friend now??”
SecretAgent: “No joke, just Crazy Waitress.”
Time passes. Time passes. Time passes.
Me: “Ok, this is ridiculous. We should have food. I think we should say something to Crazy Waitress.”
SecretAgent: “Citycat,
WHAT did we decide about angering Crazy Waitress???”
Anyway, we did end up getting our food. And I will continue recapping the night in a later entry, because this is long and I have work to do. But I promise it includes:
- The Worst. Movie. Ever.
- With squid references.
- Being invited to tour the city on a short bus.
- Being hugged by random men.
- Ending up actually
physically in the middle of a bachelor party.
Till later!
