Movie Review II: Road House (No, Really) UPDATED

J and I sat down last night to watch our TiFaux’ed episode of 24,* but fate had other plans.

You see, Road House was on.

J and I? Um, we'd never seen this movie before. We’re both children of the 80’s, so I don’t know how this little gem passed us both by, unseen until now. We were transfixed, and our plans to watch 24 were quickly abandoned.

We sat there, mesmerized for over 2 hours (that shit is LONG!). Immediately after it was over, I turned to J and said, “That was, without hyperbole, the most awesome thing I’ve ever seen in all my life. I must write about this.” J kindly pointed out that we are probably the only two people in America, nay, the universe, who haven’t seen Road House, and that the internet is likely rife with posts reviewing this glorious cinematic achievemnt. I checked around, and he was right. Undaunted, I set out to find a unique way to convey my impressions, rather than just a straight movie review. And then it dawned upon me: Various forms of poetry! Because my fourth grade teacher said I'd use that shit again later in life, and by gum, I will prove her right:

ACROSTIC!

Wherein I utilize my favorite type of poetry to tackle the insanely tiny and skin-tight sweatpants Patrick Swayze seems to favor in the movie:

Patrick Swayze eschews Underpants. How do I know This, you ask?

In the movie, he dons The klassy low-riding sweatpants seen below.

Anyone can see that these are intended for a woman, and a Wee one, at that. Argh, the tightness—While he is Young n' strapping, I DON'T need to see his beaver cleaver on display.

Shudder. We get it, P. Sway. You love your junk. Now, A suggestion. I implore You. Next time, try a pair that fits. Consider a button fly, or ones with a Zipper. Because… Ewwwwww !

(This picture does not even do the Pants of Offensive Inappropriateness justice, but it was the best I could find.)

CINQUAIN!

Wherein I address the hair. Dear God, Swayze’s HAIR in this movie:

Mullet

Poofy and tall

Sits atop Swayze’s head

Growing larger, gathering strength

I’m scared.

LIMERICK!

Wherein I tackle one of the movie’s most perplexing and infamous lines:

There once was an evil young thug, Who punched Swayze’s fine-lookin’ mug. He looked down upon him with abject derision, And said, “I used to fuck guys like you in prison,” As I spat out my drink on the rug.

(Really, what the HELL?! That line came out of nowhere.)

There’s other good stuff, such as Kelly Lynch playing a doctor (you know she’s supposed to be smart because she has huge-ass glasses), as well as the fact that Swayze’s King of All Bouncers character apparently has a PhD in philosophy. This enables him to spout such pearls of wisdom as, “Pain don’t hurt” and “I want you to be nice until it's time to not be nice.” Oh, and the high flying kicks! The Tai Chi! The toppling polar bears! It’s all just far too much to describe.

If you haven’t yet seen this (unlikely, I know), I highly recommend it. (And if you have seen this, why did you not tell me about it?!)

UPDATE: Holy God, how did I not mention the boobies?! So. Many. Boobies.

Okay, carry on.

* Am I the only one who has a hard time taking Jack’s dad seriously as a villain due to his heartwarming turn as a kindly old farmer in Babe? I’m aware that James Cromwell plays bad guys with some frequency, but really. That movie seriously mitigates that fact. Yes, I just devoted an entire paragraph to a movie about a talking piglet. Shut up, it’s a cute movie, and I don’t care who knows it.

The Notebook

I was just doing some (uncharacteristic) organizing, and I unearthed my daily planner from 10^th grade. Naturally, I sat down to read it (obviously abandoning the whole "organizing" thing), and became immediately engrossed. There were perplexing tasks that my 16-year-old self had written, such as "BRING IN WATER GUN!" and humbling ones, such as the take-home trigonometry problem that I am wholly unable to do, ten years later. Largely, however, they made me cringe. To wit:

Watch Party o’ 5!!!!!!!

What I like about this is my use of “o’,” in what you will soon see is the first of many attempts to be clever. Furthermore, I very much like the sense of excitement I manage to convey with my many exclamation points (7, I counted). But oh, that Bailey...

Dub tape for [friend]

This was the mid 1990's. Would you like to know what was on this tape? Because I did in fact write the track listing down in the planner. Here’s a sampling:

Shoop

THE MACARENA (kill. me.)

Be My Lover

No Diggity

Ironic

Gangsta’s Paradise

Here Comes the Hotstepper (I will pay you eleventy billion dollars if you can tell me what this song was about.)

What if God was One of Us

Wonderwall

Waterfalls (i.e., Don’t go chasing them)

Total Eclipse of the Heart (Disco remix!)

100% Pure Love (From the back to the middle and around again/I’m gonna be there ‘til the end, 100% pure love…You’re welcome.)

Cotton Eye Joe (The only thing sadder than this song being on there in the first place? The fact that I remember being SO excited to actually “catch” it when I was making the tape.)

Misery (Soul Asylum? Anyone?)

Rhythm of the Night

Do you not want a copy of this, like, right now?! And that’s only Side 1!

Have a little fun! Partay!

Please note: This is an actual task that I, of my own volition, chose to write in there, complete with a checkbox that I ACTUALLY CHECKED OFF.

Do [Teacher]

Since I feel very strongly that I would’ve remembered doing my teacher, I can only assume that I meant “do the assignment for the teacher's class.”

C Word Vocab Test

Think about it--how awesome would an actual “c word” vocabulary quiz be? Just the c-word, over and over, in a multitude of phrases that you had to define.

Wait anxiously by the phone

Oh, lord. I cannot believe I’m even mentioning this one. Apparently (and I say apparently, because many things I had written in the planner related to this task were crossed out), I was waiting for a guy I had a crush on to call me. I’d met him at a party, and he was a friend of one of my friends. Anyway, I decided that the above was the only way to truly assign the task of awaiting said call.

Wait, it gets worse.

I…oh, boy. Deep breaths. I, uh, MAY have written out a list of potential conversation topics, should the conversation have hit a lull. Again, they are largely crossed out, however, I could make out “Last night’s Simpsons” “Why not on team?” (Basketball? Baseball? Also, why did I care?) and…ready for this?

“WEATHER.”

Tuesday April 8—Romeo and Juliet Comes Out on Tape! Rent it! Buy it!

There is a significance to this, which I thought I might have mentioned before, but I just checked, and I did not.: In my teen years, I had a MASSIVE crush on Leonardo DiCaprio. Like, huge. (Amanda, I know you can relate, in light of your mad JTT love.) I cannot convey how strong my feelings were at the time, except to say that I saw Titanic four (4) times in the theater. Furthermore, I was so very in love with his smoking hotness in Romeo and Juliet that I was counting down the days until the movie came out on video (evidently, April 8), and I could buy a copy of my very own. This wouldn't have been so bad, had I not asked the Blockbuster clerk if I could also purchase the lifesize promotional cut-out of him.

Smooth.

All Over The Place

This was originally going to be something about my many issues with the movie Rent, but I'm still recovering from last week, and I am just too tired. I'd started writing about it on the subway in my pretty new Notebook of Adorable…ness.

At the time, I had thought what I had written so far sounded pretty good. Then I reread it at home, and here’s what I had, verbatim: “Why Chris Columbus direct Rent? Movie is about drugs, aids, sex. He does children’s movies! Completely incongruous. Would be like Quentin Tarantino directing Charlotte’s Web…which would actually be awesome! Charlotte would be all, “Wilbur, though you ain't got sense enough to disregard your own feces, you are one charming motherfucking pig.”* And then they’d dance. GET CHEESE and teeny batteries for DVD player remote!!!” Ahem.

I get sidetracked easily. Do you see why I abandoned that potential post? Maybe another day, when I can actually form a cohesive thought and stick with it, but for now? I’m all over the place:

*************

Today, there was a crazy hobo on my subway train who smelled like an asstray. An asstray? Yes, an asstray. That is to say, he smelled like someone who'd just smoked this many cigarettes…

Photo credit: cellar.org

…and carried with him the unmistakable and intoxicating aroma of old, moldy ass. An asstray, if you will. I felt bad, but not bad enough to want to hang around and inhale any of his stenchparticles (totally a word). I tried my best to edge as far away from him as possible, but my efforts were hindered by: a) every other person in the car attempting to do the same thing, and b) the large metal pole against which I was standing. (Damn you, solid matter!) As you may know, I mysteriously tend to attract hobos like moths to a flame. This one, predictably, was no different. He stared at me for a moment, and flourished his hand in my face, whereupon he whisper/shouted to me, “You are the sexy!”

Now, I most definitely was NOT the sexy today; I couldn’t find the cute suit I wanted to wear (read: I know EXACTLY where it is—in the bottom of our “To Be Dry Cleaned” bag, and it’s only there because I was too lazy to hang up the jacket the last time, and now it’s a ball o’ wrinkes), and consequently had to wear a suit that makes me look like a young Barbara Bush. Furthermore, instead of the funky heels I’d been planning on wearing, I took one look at the slushy weather, said, “screw this,” and put on boots. Totally NOT the sexy.

But my point is this: I have heard this weird “You are the sexy” phrase exactly one other time in my twenty-six years, and wouldn’t you know it, it was also uttered to me by a crazy street person. Which begs the question—is it possible that there are hobo get-togethers? Where they preview the season’s new fashions (Derelicte!), and decide what weird things they’re going to say just to mess with you? (“Let’s go with ‘You are the sexy!’” “That’s fine for you, but I think I’m going to go with demanding to pet people’s coats!”)

I must know.

************* Moving on. I have some more makeup recommendations. Unlike the last ones, these are not juxtaposed with a discussion on whale vomit.

As I’d mentioned before, I was attempting to track down a new NARS lip gloss , and it was all but impossible to find in New York. I finally found it in Vegas, and it is SO pretty. It’s called Rose Birman. I am in love. In addition, I found a blush which is apparently made out of magical fairy dust and angels’ wings: Smashbox’s O-Glow. “The first intuitive blush, this clear gel reacts with your personal skin chemistry to turn cheeks the exact color you blush.” People. Sephora is not lying. It sounds crazy, but the stuff works, and it lasts all day. It makes you look flushed and glowy, and incredibly natural. I’m intrigued, and obsessed.

************** Finally, you’ll be happy to know that Toopweets is 100% recovered from Baby Virusearinfectionvomitfest-itis. Please watch the following, and tell me: Does the fact that you can literally hear me laughing in the background make me a bad mother? You decide! (Please note: the clean folded baby laundry on the left had nothing to do with me, and everything to do with Wonder Nanny.) *Yes, I knew that by heart on the train. I used to have a thing for Pulp Fiction.

Simms City (A Long-Ass Post, But There Are Pictures...and Cursing!)

Oh hi.

I’ve been a bit AWOL lately. You see, there are certain things in life that can derail you from recapping your little Vegas trip to the (undoubtedly eager) internet. One such thing is a phone call from your parents/babysitters moments after your plane has landed back in New York at 2:30 am on Thursday, informing you that your baby has a double ear infection, a virus, and a fever of 104.5 degrees.

(Have I mentioned that we were literally gone for two and-a-half days? And Toopweets has never really been sick before?)

We subsequently had a tearful reunion, which commenced “Operation: No Sleep ‘Til 2008.” This involves lots of cool stuff, including, but not limited to: countless hours at the pediatrician, a severely dehydrated baby, the aforementioned double ear infection, Snotfest II: The Snottening, and of course, no rest for J, Toopweets, or me. Sick babies--Fun for the whole family!

Oh, yeah…

And The Little Fever That Could? Why, the following night, it climbed to 105.8 FUCKING DEGREES.

We have never been more terrified in our lives. Fortunately, Toopweets is much better now (knock wood). And J & I have both developed close, middle-of-the-night phone relationships with the pediatrician, who has demonstrated an almost uncanny ability to do some supafast math at 3 am to calculate Toopweets’ medicine dosage. Had I not been a complete and utter hysterical mess at the time, I think I would’ve appreciated it more.

Anyway, I’m back. A little worse for the wear after that, but back nonetheless.

************************

So, Vegas.

The trip, though short, was fantastic. Thanks again to all of you for your incredible suggestions, many of which I tried to squeeze in to our 2.5 days there. We stayed at The Venetian, which I HIGHLY recommend, for it is awesome. See? Pretty!

As I’d noted before, J was there on business, so I was on my own during the day.

One of my first intended stops was the The Bellagio, a gorgeous and fairly well-known hotel (thanks to such films as Ocean’s 11). I was pretty sure I’d be able to recognize it by the famous fountains, but I still asked a doorman at our hotel for directions. He specifically told me to head right. Which I did. For about two miles. Inasmuch as The Strip in pretty much a straight line, it’d be fairly difficult for someone to get lost. Needless to say, I managed. The doorman could’ve mixed up “left” and “right” (possible), or I could’ve stopped paying attention after he told me to make the first right (also highly possible). Either way, I soon realized that the classic and stately Bellagio was nowhere to be seen. Instead, I found this, and realized that perhaps I’d gone too far:

I subsequently noted that this particular area of The Strip was apparently “Things That Scare the Everloving Shit out of Metalia” Boulevard. To wit:

(I've said it before, and I'll say it again: I. Hate. Clowns.)

(Was anyone else horribly scarred by the Zoltar machine in Big? No? Just me, then?)

(These masks will haunt my dreams.)

I made it to a few of the less frightening hotels, and took pictures, like the total tourist that I was.

Hello, I am apparently the world's largest chocolate fountain. *Drool*

Chihuly glass

Happy Chinese New Year Tobias Fünke would've been sooo jealous...

Also in news that matters to absolutely no one but me, the NARS counter in the Neiman Marcus there had in stock the lip gloss I have been scouring all of Manhattan to find (unsuccessfully, if that wasn’t abundantly clear). Woot! That night, we went to Tao, and I had a few drinks for the first time in 87 years. We subsequently won a bit of money at the casino. Double woot!

In Random World, I was sitting in the hotel lobby the afternoon we were departing, waiting for J, and happened to have been checking out what Chirky was up to. A girl passed by the table where I was seated, and doubled back. She stared at my laptop for a moment, professed her love for Chirky’s blog, and proceeded to walk off. I cannot blame her in the least, and I’ve already shared this with Chirky, but it was still a tad... um…crazy, is the word I’m looking for.

The trip was great, but I was a bit bummed that I didn’t see any famous people in Vegas. If TV and movies have taught me nothing else, I was bound to see a few actors there, or at the very least, Nicolas Cage.

Fortunately, fate saw to it that we spotted not one, but TWO celebrities in the airport on the way home. (Their similar last names are sheer coincidence.) First, we saw Molly Sims, and dude, she is incredibly hot. I forgot I was a heterosexual woman for a minute, is what I’m saying. She is also in possession of very shiny, pretty hair. Still reeling from her hotness, we then spied Phil Simms, who, while not hot, per se, had the effect of turning J, a lifelong New York Giants fan, into a giddy little boy. The excitement grew when we saw him take a seat by our gate, as that meant he’d be flying back to New York with us.

Perhaps no one was excited as me, for reasons I shall soon explain. I can’t STAND flying; I hate everything about it, and it scares me to no end. I am so crazy on planes that when they have those delightful sudden drops in altitude, I involuntarily slam my right foot down, as if I AM BRAKING IN A CAR. Hello, I am insane. Consequently, my joy at seeing that Phil Simms was going to be on the plane was due to the fact that, as I told J, “A famous person is on our plane! Now nothing bad can happen!” For the first time, I relaxed as the plane took off. Of course, because I am a big old overthinker, I realized that there could just as easily be a newspaper headline reading, “Famous Football Player in Fiery Crash,” and began gripping the armrests in my usual fashion. Again, crazy. Obviously, though, the flight was fine, and Phil Simms? He likes his crossword puzzle books.

I was also singled out by security for a wholly embarrassing security check (of course!) and singlehandedly caused a total ticket machine mafunction (ditto!), but I think I'll save that for another day.

**********

Oh! I almost forgot. The winner of the contest is...Lawyerish, for cracking up myself and J with the COMPLETELY apropos Charles Nelson Reilly reference. Well played, my friend.

Tempted as I was to purchase this klassy shot glass (which, if you can’t make out the lettering, reads “I BLEW it in Vegas, featuring, uh…just look at their feet)...

...I restrained myself, and actually got you something useful. (Which, by the way, was really really difficult to find.) Lawyerish, email me your address, and it'll be on its way.

**********

Finally, here is a token picture of me and J in Vegas inside our hotel...

...and a picture of Toopweets at rest. (You know he's sick because he's: (a) napping, and (b) doing so during the day.)

I'll be checking in on you guys soon!

The Odds are Slim...

...That there will not be WiFi access in/around our hotel in Vegas. All the same, if there is not, I can't take the chance that my super-serious post is what you'll be seeing until my return. Consequently, please feast your eyes on this recently-unearthed picture, as it is the polar opposite of serious.: This is me, about two years old. I am actively picking my nose, and evidently, could NOT be happier about it. I am also rocking an aggressively massive childmullet. (Hmmm...I guess I did have thick bangs at one point.) I tell you, you just can't teach classy behavior like this. It's all instinct, baby. (I do, however, adore my wee alphabet socks.) (PS: The contest is till open, and um...yeah, I'd be lying if I said I wasn't strangely excited about picking out a horrendously tacky Vegas prize for the winner of said contest.)

Shine On, You Crazy Diamond

Last week, I randomly ran into someone I haven’t seen in a while (and am not that close with). We were talking for a bit, and mid-conversation, she asked if she could see my engagement ring. “Beautiful!” she exclaimed. “But is the diamond conflict-free?”

Now I truly have no idea, but I’d probably say that the diamonds in my engagement ring are not from a conflict-free zone. J and I had gotten engaged a while ago, before this issue had become such a hot topic. I didn’t explain that to her, or course. I simply said that I didn’t think so.

She dropped my hand as if it was aflame. “Well, I saw Blood Diamond.” she said, “And when I get engaged, I will NEVER accept a diamond that isn’t conflict-free.” I stared at her for a bit, and made an excuse about needing to get back to work. (Naturally, the whole way back, my mind was reeling with potential replies I could’ve thrown back at her. I’ll spare you, because they were uniformly awful and mean.)

I guarantee you that if I asked this girl what she has personally done to get involved in this cause, or even the name some of the “hot zones” involved, she wouldn’t be able to tell me shit. And that’s what gets me--I have no problem with people seeing a major issue, and wanting to do the ethical thing, the humane thing. My beef is with people who, if they’re being honest about their actions, are really just doing the popular thing; something that makes them feel a little more superior, and a little less insecure.

If this “conflict diamond” issue has risen to the fore when J and I were getting engaged, would this have impacted the purchase? Maybe. But am I going to throw out my engagement ring because some girl I kind of know saw a movie, and wants to be a little smug about her newfound knowledge? Never. I have a hard time believing that this girl genuinely wanted to impart any message to me, other than, “I’m better than you, because I care more. You heartless bastard, you.”

It’s not just about the “blood diamonds,” by the way; every time a celebrity champions a cause, an army of people take up the battle cry. And I don’t frown upon stars using their fame for a good reason. It just seems (to me, anyway) that the people who sneer at your diamond, give you a speech about getting a puppy from a breeder, or whine about you drinking coffee from Starbucks are inevitably clueless. Ask them anything that requires research (you know, beyond seeing a movie, reading a PETA poster, or mindlessly accepting everything their hippie boyfriend tells them about “free trade” coffee), and they’ll be blustering about nothing in no time flat. This is an imperfect world, and unfortunately, there’s always going to be something that needs fixing. The diamonds we wear, the places we buy our pets, the food we eat; all of it can be done “better.” But “better” is inexorably subjective; it’s determined by someone else’s standards.

Wanting to educate people about a humanitarian cause is fantastic, and I’m all for it. But as with most things, there’s a way to do it. What it comes down to, I guess, is actually believing in what we purport to stand for, and not just serving as a mouthpiece; a puppet for someone else’s agenda. And perhaps most importantly, not being a dick to other people about what we feel is important.

(Note: Sorry for the uncharacteristically serious post. I did not bump my head or anything; this really just pissed me the hell off. I’m sure I’ll be back to waxing poetic about makeup or weird hobos tomorrow.)

Randomness, as well as a Contest & Prize II

Stefanie just posted about a mysterious sketch on Sesame Street that only she remembers. I’ve been having a similar problem. You see, recently, I saw a commercial for a shitty dragon movie, and remarked offhandedly to my friend that I had been six the last time I'd seen a dragon movie. She asked which one, and I started describing it, whereupon she looked at me like I was, in fact a dragon. Convinced that she was the weird one, and not me, I subsequently asked J about this movie. He tried to convince me that I was talking about The Neverending Story, which I was not. I asked a few more people, and NO ONE knows what I'm talking about. I'm now convinced that I apparently made up an entire movie.

I just wrote a description of the movie, and doubled back to put in this disclaimer:

NOTE: THIS IS AN ACTUAL DESCRIPTION OF THE MOVIE. I AM NOT DRUNK OR HIGH. WELL, MY ASSHOLE NEIGHBORS MAY BE VARNISHING THEIR FLOOR FOR THE 63^RD TIME, BUT I THINK OUR TOLERANCE IS QUITE STRONG AT THIS POINT. THOUGH REST ASSURED, THEY CONTINUE TO BE ASSHOLES.

Ahem.

The movie in question involves an orphan boy who runs away from his mean foster family's home. His mean foster family chases after him, when who should appear to save the day but a magical invisible dragon.

Of course.

Dragon scares away Boy’s mean foster family, makes himself visible to Boy, and Boy and Dragon become fast friends. Now, don’t ask me how, but Boy is subsequently discovered by a drunken elderly man who invites Boy to live with him in a secluded lighthouse. Did I mention that this is a children’s movie? Because it is. I see how you could’ve gotten confused, what with the foster child abuse, alcoholism, and the fact that an old man asking a young boy to live with him was apparently viewed as a solid idea.

(Side note: For those of you wondering why I didn’t just plug this all into Google, I was, quite frankly, afraid to look up “drunk man little boy lighthouse dragon.”)

You’ll be relieved, however, to know that it’s not just the two of them; the old man’s spinster daughter lives in the lighthouse, too. I don’t remember much more, other than Dragon inadvertently getting Boy into a lot of trouble by virtue of his invisibility (to everyone else but Boy). Oh, and a traumatic scene (to my 6-year old self, anyway) where a schoolteacher beats Boy for his fanciful dragon stories. Also, Dragon ultimately reveals himself, and saves the day somehow.

If you know what the hell I’m talking about, please save me from myself. I will love you forever.

Contest! Contest!

This is the man that was sitting across from J on the train:

(I'd have put a full black bar over his eyes, but then you'd miss his awesome coke bottle glasses, and that would just be a tremendous shame.)

I have no words. I mean, I can’t even…there’s too much going on here. I ran a contest last month, and it was a lot of fun to see the responses, so I’m doing it again now.

Best caption gets a prize from our upcoming Vegas trip. (We leave Monday! Woot! I still despise planes! Boo!) It may or may not be deliciously tacky.

(I’ll be back next Thursday, so that’s when the contest ends.)

Go!

Yet Another Reason to Use Your Debit Card

There are many things you cannot anticipate when you get up in the morning.

You don’t know who you’ll see, what your day will bring, or whether you’ll unsuspectingly step directly into freshly paved patch of street with a new pointy-heeled boot. (Hint: Are you me? Then, yes. Yes you will.)

Life is uncertain, my friends. And what better way to learn that lesson than to discover that you’re holding a dollar bill with a mystery booger on it?

Oy.

Something compelled me to purchase my morning coffee from the little street cart as opposed to Starbucks, where I usually feed my addiction get my latte. I like to think it was me being frugal, and perhaps...even socially responsible?

Okay, okay!

If you must know, there was no line by the coffee cart, and the Starbucks line was out the damn door. My decision to go to the cart had everything to do with that, and nothing to do with Starbucks…social….responsibi—um, hmmm. (People who feel compelled to discuss their issues with Starbucks’ global domination with me WHILE I’m holding a cup of Starbucks coffee in my hand irk me to no end, such that I’ve become incredibly adept at tuning them out entirely. I’ve thus completely avoided becoming informed about said issues. Spite is the best teacher!)

Anyway.

I paid for my coffee, and walked away from the coffee cart. Because it was ass-freezingly cold outside, rather than putting my cash away immediately, I hustled said ass into my building lobby, money in hand. “Hmmm.” I thought. “This money is…sticky!”

I naively thought that it was syrup or something. I looked down, and realized I was very, very wrong. It was not syrup at all. It was...this:

And I had TOUCHED IT! I didn’t know what to do.

Who had put the booger there? And for the love of cheese, WHY?! Is it some poor man's version of the expression, "Wiping your ass with $100 bills?"

I sprinted upstairs, threw out the dollar (wouldn’t you have?!) and poured about sixteen pounds of Purell into my hands. I’ve attempted to move on with my life, but each hour has been a struggle. I think there’s only one man out there who can soothe my troubled soul:

Ahhh, much better.

We Now Return to Our Regularly Scheduled Programming…

I was pretty sick and exhausted for the bulk of last week, and thus wasn’t in the mood to move, let alone attempt to compose coherent blog posts.

THANK YOU all so much for your amazing suggestions for Vegas (a special shout-out to Cagey for her incredibly detailed list of suggestions, which probably also should win some prize for “longest comment I will ever get.”) I’m compiling all of the comments into a document I plan on printing out and carrying around with me there. Because nothing says “cool” like wandering around Vegas staring at a sheaf of papers. I may as well don a fanny pack and a t-shirt that says “I’m a tourist, yo!” Who knows? Perhaps I will. Maybe that’s just how Vegas Metalia rolls.

Thank you also for your thoughts on the Blogger issue, and for the offers of assistance. Believe me, each of you who volunteered to help me will immediately regret that decision when I do switch, because you will be flooded with nonstop emails from me. It’s not too late to back out, is what I’m saying.

Seeing as I was recovering from Martian Death Flu, we opted to head over to my parents for the weekend. This was great, as it afforded us the ability to get some extra sleep, and for my parents to spend time with Toopweets. It was also wonderful because it enabled us to avoid our new neighbors.

I think I jinxed myself in talking about The World’s Worst Neighbors in our old place, because these people definitely seem to be making a run for the crown.

I could go into a whole litany of complaints of the offenses they have committed thus far in the ONE WEEK they have been living there.

I could tell you how I politely introduced myself last week, and Lady Neighbor immediately started whining about how her contractor is an asshole son of a bitch, because her kitchen isn’t finished yet. While I empathize, it’d have been nice if she would’ve first said, “Hi, I’m X.” (I mean, I still don’t know her name; just the name of her asshole contractor.)

I could, if I was so inclined, tell you how they bitch at every delivery man who comes to their apartment (with the door open, no less, so we hear every word). For instance, when Lady Neighbor yelled at the mattress dude because she: “Was disappointed in him because [she] thought the mattress was going to be softer.” (Because, as you know, the delivery guys personally hand sew each mattress to your specifications, and can’t sleep at night if you’re disappointed in them.)

If I wanted to, I could tell you how they leave bags of trash in the hallway like hobos, and then whine (with the door open, of course) that the super has spoken to them about this, and they must now deign to actually throw their garbage away in the disposal room like everyone else.

Yes, I could do all of those things. But I will take the high road: I think you’ll learn all you need to know by me simply pointing out that it is presently 10:57 pm and as I write this, they are HAMMERING OUR SHARED WALL.

Oh, also? They fight constantly.

Of course they do.

My favorite so far was the one where she was going on an on like a shrieker monkey, and he muttered something, and then we heard her yell back, “I’m not yelling!”

Have I mentioned that it’s only been a week?

Gah.

In some fun news, I met Darren and Miss Peach today!

We met up at Cowgirl in the village, and had a fantastic time. And I’m not just saying that because I am on a narcotic cough medicine which makes me strangely giddy. Miss Peach and Darren are most definitely as funny, cool,* and entertaining in person as they are online. Thanks for the invite, guys!

To top off the weekend, J and I won some cash in a super bowl pool. Woot!

Hope your weekends were good, too!

(*That is to say, they would probably not, if the situation arose, carry around a chart of blog comments around Vegas with them, as I will be doing.)