I love my big booty

Going to the beach (at least on this coast), reminds me that real women are not 5'10" and 100 pounds, and that I look pretty damn good in comparison. Or maybe it's just because I was in Jersey.

Everything I know about serial killers, I learned from watching Lifetime

Sundays mean Lifetime Original Movies. Don't scoff, not only are they entertaining - they are educational, too. For instance, last night we watched "To Serve and Protect", a four-hour saga about a family of cops trying to catch a master-of-disguise serial killer in Dallas (shut up - it could happen). Anyway, the serial killer had some very interesting characteristics that I believe should be noted:

1. He drank milk. By the glass. No, really.
2. When he wasn't in disguise, he wore silk pajamas. Nothing but.
3. He was an abstract painter.
4. He had a pet fox. Stuffed.
5. And a shaved head.

Now, each of these things individually might constitute a random quirk. We all have them. But do you really want to risk it?

Watch your neighbors closely. If they exhibit one or more of the above characteristic, your life may be in danger. I'm just looking out for ya.

Digital cable is killing me

Showing The Decline of the Western Civilization Part II: The Metal Years at midnight on Sunday is just evil. If it's sleep vs. Faster Pussycat, sleep with almost never win. Sleep vs. work - now that's another story.

Common phrases used by my grandparents and their meanings:

Chicken got lips? Grandpa
1. Response to a question in which the answer is obviously no.
2. Response to a question is which the answer is yes, sarcastic.

How are things down on the Mungahila? Grandpa
1. How are things where you are?

Shivagit Grandma
1. Give a shit, but nicer. Ex: I don't Shivagit what your Grandfather says!

Jesus Christ [Hay-zoo Kree-stay] Grandma
1. An expression of frustration. It is important to note that when spoken with an accent, the Lord's name is never placed in perilous vain.

Burns my grommit Grandma
1. Makes me angry, gets my goat. Ex: It really burns my grommet that Bush thinks he can interrupt my soaps!

Goodbye my dear, sweet friends

So it looks like some lifestyle changes are in order, at least temporarily. These wretched cluster headaches have claimed the right side of my head. After much research and denial, it has been concluded that alcohol and nicotine, my two favorite people, are triggering them. Until the headaches go, they have to go.

Another day, another mouse

My apartment is where mice go to die.

I know cats are nocturnal and all, but I didn't expect a full-fledged kitty party when I got up at 2:00am to pee. Mulder was on the sink, watching intently as John Brown batted around what my bleary eyes assumed was a bottlecap or tuft of hair. Once seated and slightly more awake, however, I realized it was actually a baby rat (SO much grosser than the tiny mouse from last time). I don't know about you, but peeing with your legs in the air, while in a state of panic is not such an easy task.

The body is missing. I can only hope it will be discovered by the boyfriend before he goes off to work.

While you're here, check out my perfectly functional archives!

Straight from the boyfriend's mouth

I can always tell when you went out and got smashed because I come home and find you sleeping naked with red lipstick on.

Accessory to murder

The other night, I came home from work and saw a weak, banged up little mouse being chased by the ferocious John Brown. I actually shrieked and jumped in the air. When I watch women on TV do that, I roll my eyes. But I did it. I FREAKED out. I paced back and forth in the living room, panicking. I finally decided to take action - I waited until the chase brought them into the bathroom. I shut the door, changed my clothes and went to the gym.

I'm evil and heartless.

When I got home, I opened the bathroom door and a very proud John Brown looked up at me, his amber eyes saying, "I did it all for you, Mommy". Behind him was a tiny little mouse head. No body. I began to hyperventilate and sob hysterically.

I called the boyfriend, praying he'd be on his way home from work to save the day. He wasn't. I called Julie, who suggested I call the super. That was a much too embarassing option. I entered the bathroom six times and exited in tears. Finally, I got the dustpan and tearfully cleaned up, then I nearly THREW up.

I am SUCH a girly-girl. It's horrifying.

Mum would be so proud

Some bloke in the UK found my site while searching for the term "alyson hannigan howard stern ass".

Ouch

My brain has lodged a fierce complaint against the gin I soaked it in last night.

She's so cute I want to bang my head against the wall

If you don't know who Pucca is, she's Korea's answer to Hello Kitty. And ten times cuter. The boyfriend bought me oodles of Pucca goodies in Amsterdam. I think I like his stoned shopping tastes.

Yes, it's profoundly creepy

Oddly enough, being called by the name of the person who had your job before you has the same sting as being called another name in bed.

Our next contestant once got locked INSIDE her apartment

Final Jeopardy! score: $18,800.

I would have chosen you too, Ben Covington

I'm exceptionally giddy after seeing a shaggy-haired Scott Speedman riding the Downtown 1 or 9 (Not sure which one I was on). I was standing, he was sitting. Thrice we made eye contact. Thrice I had to stifle a giggle. He got off at 14th Street right behind me. He was close enough to lick.

The Big City may kick my ass on occasion, but today I love it. And I love you, Ben. Always and forever on Felicity reruns.

I want to be your blowjob queen

All of that impatient waiting has finally paid off. Liz Phair's new album hits the shelves June 24th. I can barely contain myself.

Life, unscripted

Today is National Administrative Assistant Frustration day (says me and Tati). Here's a little snippet of my day:

Caller: Is (we'll call him Bobo) Bobo in?

Moi: No he isn't. Can I take a message?

Caller: Can you call him on his cell phone?

Moi: Yes, if it's urgent. Can I get your name and number please?

Caller: Oh, I thought you were just going to patch me through.

Moi: I'm not sure if he's available. I'll call him and relay the information.

Caller: [audibly irritated] Never mind. I'll just call him on his cell.

Follow up call:

Caller: Hi, this is [we'll call him Louey] Louey. I just called a little while ago. It's very important that I speak to Bobo.

Moi: Did you leave him a message on his cell phone?

Caller: Yes, but he hasn't called me back yet.

Moi: I left him a message as well. And an email. He'll get back to one of us as soon as he's available.

Caller: [slightly hysterical] It's very important that I speak with him as soon as possible. Can't you call him at home?

Moi: He's not AT home.

Caller: [terse] Fine. [hangs up]

If it is so dire that people be available all the time, companies shouldn't have summer Fridays.

Tati has also promised a snippet, right after she gets a shot of tequila.

And to think, this isn't the first time

I got locked IN my apartment last night.

That's right, IN. Layna left to shake her booty, casually mentioning on her way out that the door seemed loose and we should call the super soon. Not five minutes after, I decided to go out for food, and couldn't get out.

Now, I know what to do when you lock yourself OUT. You call a locksmith. But when you lock yourself IN? I wasn't sure. I paged my super. I waited. I smoked a few cigarettes, watched a little Law & Order. Paged him again. Watched another episode of Law & Order. Then I started to panic. Third page had a 911 at the end. Super calls me back within 30 seconds (guess that's the only way to get him to call). Super takes doorknob apart and puts it back together.

Now, the automatic door lock no longer works. When leaving, auto door lock must be manually switched on, as locking the door from the outside is now an impossibility. When re-entering the apartment, you must manually unlatch the auto lock. Should you fail to do so, you will be locked inside, your only hope of escape a butter knife. Super leaves, telling me to call if I have any more problems. Apparently, his work here is done.

Now, this isn't something you'd imagine could happen to a person more than once. Senior year in college, after studying for mid-terms for 12 straight hours, Michelle decided to go out for coffee. She couldn't get out. No one could get out. We called the landlord at 3:00am and he asked if the door was locked. Yes, Larry. We're a bunch of dumbasses. He wanted to come in the morning, but we explained that "couldn't leave the house" is not a convincing excuse for missing a mid-term exam. So he came, and gave us our freedom.

I could get into a metaphor for being trapped in my own personal hell here, but I don't want to bring anybody down.

P.S. Also on the list of things that shouldn't happen to a person more than once in a lifetime - getting puked ON New Year's Eve. That's right folks - happened to me twice. Thank you Marina and Kristopher for that little bit of holiday joy.

Mon dieu

I would give a big, sloppy, wet, tongue-laden kiss to the person who could figure out how to make my archives work.

I know you want to lick my feet

Yes, I am going to try to get this job. We'll see if my tootsies are purty enough.

Regarding my health

Diseases or ailments I am currently or was recently certain I have:

colon cancer
brain tumor
cervical cancer
SARS
clinical depression
kidney disease
pregnancy
diminishing eyesight
allergies
migraines
tension headaches
cluster headaches
chronic fatique syndrome
dream anxiety disorder
hypochondria

It's called addiction, folks

I may have gotten Yael hooked on MC, but this is truly unforgiveable.

I'm still not buying it

Hi Jessica,

Thank you for your e-mail. We are happy you are interested in our Target Ad. I inquired with the Buying Department to determine if the models you refer to are actually pregnant. I was advised that Target does have an agreement with Liz Lange that requires the models to be pregnant. Due to privacy and security issues, however, we are unable to give out any personal information regarding the actors or actresses that appear in our advertisements.

Thank you for being a valued Targetguest. Please visit us again at www.target.com.

Katie Hemkin
Guest Relations
www.target.com

You can't throw a mattress in a washing machine

Dear John Brown,

I'm seriously rethinking this cat thing. You know, this whole being a "cat person". Talking to stray cats, squealing in delight whenever a friend buys a kitten. All of it. And quite frankly, it's your fault.

It's not that I don't love you. I do. And it's not that I don't think you're cute. You are, in fact, quite fetching. And rather loveable. And it's not even the way you open the refrigerator door with your strong cat arms and eat all of the meat you can gobble down before being discovered. It boils down to one major issue - the urinating on the furniture.

It started out as an occasional release on the futon. We bought a plastic cover. Then criminal mastermind Mulder taught you how to wiggle your body between the plastic cover and make your own little pee fort. I responded by tucking the cover in too tightly for your wiggle. You in turn scratched the plastic cover, allowing your urine to soak through. I medicated you. You soiled my bed. Twice.

It pains me to say this, J.B., but if this behavior continues, I might have to find you a home where you're the only kitty. Or where the furniture is made out of something waterproof.

Sincerely,
Mom