Conversion is a Mitzvah

I remember when I was in high school I saw this holiday SNL skit where Bill Gates (played by Chris Kattan) breaks into the air waves to announce that he has purchased Christmas and will either be be re-naming it Micromas or Christmasoft. The skit ends with him also announcing that all Mac users are now Jewish.

Well break out the Manischewitz and gefilte fish.





I'd tell you what I ordered, but then that'd be too easy.


P.S. I tried really hard to work in a bris joke, but my metaphors kept getting circumcised.

How My Bathroom Tried to Kill Me (Or At Least Detain Me Against My Will For 2 Hours)

What can I say? This is what I get for renting a house built circa 800 B.C. You guys know the basic jist, but I'll fill in the details...

Yesterday morning was just like any other week day morning right up until the part where I tried to actually leave my bathroom. You never want to feel a door knob over rotate twice as much as it should and then give two hard clicks, especially when said knob is attached to the only door in your windowless bathroom.

After using a moderate amount of "man strength" on the the now broken door knob, I decided that this might need some pressure from the opposite side (door swings in to the bathroom and it's always easier to push that to pull, right?). That's when I decided to roust the KJ and see if she couldn't free me. Needless to say she was none too pleased about having to get up 5 minutes earlier than usual by my cries for help form the bathroom, but like the impossibely wonderful wife that she is, she came to my aid...kind of. After about 10 minutes of us both trying combinations of brute force and knob twisiting we decided to escalate our attempts. Thats when the Safeway card and metal nail file came into play. Let me tell you, years of TV have led me sorely astray: picking a lock with improvised tools is pretty much impossible.

After about a total of 25 minutes of bathroom incarceration the decision was made to call in the Locksmith. Little known fact about locksmiths is that when you try and call them at 6:27 AM in the morning, they charge you $40 just to take your call. Then they charge you $110 just to come to your house. Luckily this the landlords deal and not ours.

Anyway, once we knew a professional was enroute, things lightened up a bit. Somehow I got a hold of a sharpie and some paper.

At first it was just cries for help...

Then as I resigned to my fate, the messages became more prophetic (read: pathetic)...





Eventually the locksmith showed up and after failing to pop the door open with something that resembled an inflatable raft that he shoved through the crack in the door, he eventually just drilled through the lock and freed me from my porcelian and terry cloth prison.

Lesson I learned from this experience:

1. I could never make it in prison - being locked up by yourself is hella boring.
2. Throat losanges actually taste pretty good...after about the 4th one.
3. Bathroom floors get dirtier the longer you stare at them.
4. Locksmithery is where the money's at.
5. There is no fear greater than knowing that your wife now has the ability to post on your blog.

****UPDATE****

Unbeknownst to me, a video of my ordeal was captured.

My Husband is Trapped in the Bathroom

Hello to Dustin's blogging friends. This is KJ. Unfortunately Dustin cannot blog today because he is stuck in the john.

I awoke this morning to the sound of Dustin banging on the bathroom door and shouting my name. It turns out one of the downsides to living in a pre-1950's house is old, sticky door knobs. Dustin turned the bathroom handle and the lock jammed. We proceeded to try picking the lock with everything from a credit card to nail file. All hope is fading and our failed attempts have left Dustin stranded to die alone in the loo.

****UPDATE 11:58 AM****

I have been freed from the clutches of our evil and most assuredly cursed bathroom. Fear not my readers, I was able to survive on throat losanges and mouth wash. I promise a full account my harrowing experience tomorrow....assuming I don't manage to lock myself in the fridge or something.

Just Freaking Work

Why can't computers just do what they're supposed to? Is it too much to ask? Why do I spend so much time pleading with Jesus for XP to just load like a good little operating system?

God help me I'll convert. I'll convert to Mac and we'll see whose crying then.


*currently both the laptops residing at mi casa are down. This doesn't help me watch episodes of Lost online and dammit, I need to know wtf is in that hatch they found in the jungle!!!!

Kids These Days

So last night KJ and I were at Barnes and Noble hunting for travel books for our impending Italian excursion (a post for another day).  As we walk in I suddenly get this strange and undeniable thirst for Mt. Dew.  Gross, right?

So I tell KJ to start scouting the travel section while I go hit up the coffee corner at the back of the store.  She gives me this look like "You really think you're gonna find Mt. Dew back there?"  Now, this is supposed to be a rhetorical look, but I shoot back my look of "I is gonna find me some Mt. Dew, comes da hell or da high water!"  You see KJ and I do all out talking via looks these days.  Except that her looks are more eloquent and mine sound like a female version of Tracy Morgan (" Pancakes is ready!")

Anyway,  I wander back to where this 16 yr. old Asian kid is trying really hard to look like he's as good as any Starbucks' barista.  Did I mention I'm in sweat pants, slippers, and a giant hoddie?  I like my weekends like I like my shoes, comfy yet versatile.  So I proceed to dig through their selections of Honest Tea, and IBC Rootbear.  Damn.  No Mt. Dew.   On a hunch I check the menu board and spot "fountain drinks."  FUCK YA!!

I shuffle up the counter and am about to order my medium Mt. Dew when it hits me, the coffee shop size paradox:  Is it 'grande' or is it 'medium' ?  A while back there was this article floating around the intertubes about some dude who decided to hold up a Starbucks line while he and the barista had a pissing match about whether you had to order a drink in their vernacular ('tall,' 'grande,' or 'venti').  Right or wrong, people that do this are generally a special brand of tool-esq failure and my rule of thumb is just to order what the menu lists as the size.

But it's a Mt. Dew.  Do I really order a 'grande' Mt. Dew?

I go with the menu and indeed order a 'grande' Mt. Dew, but with a look that says "I know this sounds silly, but hook a brother up" hoping to appeal to the 16 yr. old's still un-yet defined sense of masculinity and need for acceptance by older males.

Failure.

He shoots me this look like "Omg, did you really just order a 'grande' Mt. Dew?  You're the stupidest person I've seen all day and I will laugh at you tomorrow with all my high school thespian friends around our sack lunches of ritz crackers and amp'd energy drinks."  He proceeds to go get my Mt. Dew, but instead of putting it in a normal white paper soft drink cup, he fills up a clear plastic grande sized coffe cup.  You know, the kind that my lovely mocha frappuccinos come in?  Ya those ones.

Now I'm pissed.  All I wanted was a Mt. Dew, but this little fuckwit has decided to give me grief over it at 9:15 PM on a Sunday night.  He sets the drink down in front of me and says "one grande   Mt. Dew" with enough glib and emphasis on the "grande" to fill a bath tub.  The. Beast. Just. Got. Un.Leash.Ed.

Now, if you've met me, then you know that despite my best efforts to make myself sound bad-ass, I'm pretty much a total push over.  I smile.  I say 'please' and 'thank you.'  I generally just want people to have good days and so I try and do my part to bring a little sunshine to whomever I'm around.  Which is why when I decide to take sunshine off the menu, it's probably best to back away slowly.

I reach into my pocket and pull out two $1 bills to cover the $1.73 price for my drink and toss them on the counter.  At this point I've narrowed my eyes and locked in my "You just started some shit, son, and now I'm gonna finish it" look.  Still smiling from ear to ear with that shit eating grin, the counter boy opens up the register, deposits my bills, and counts out 27 cents in change.  The second he shuts the register and starts to hand me the coins I say in my 'yes I'm mocking you' tone "Dude, looks like you've had a rough day, why don't you keep the change."

The kid stops, looks at me and then looks at the change in his hand.  I then motion with my chin all the way down the counter back to where the IBC Rootbeer is kept and where I noticed the change jar sits.  He then gives me the quintessential "dude, wtf are you doing?" look which is every teenager's fall back for when they realize they are too far deep into something they didn't bargain for.  As he walks down to the change jar, deposits the coins, and walks back, I just stand there demurely sipping my Mt. Dew through the bright pink straw he so kindly provided me with.  He reestablishes eye contact and I can tell he's officially a little freaked.  I give it half a tick and then smile and say "Mmmm, Mt. Dew" then walk away.

Yes, I'm a bitch.  Yes, it was all about control.  But goddammit, don't play games with my Mt. Dew!!!

The Secret Life of Dave

So there's this guy. You might have heard of him, his name is Dave. He has one of these blog things too. Oh ya, he also has his own special spot on my side bar. Did I mention that I slept with him...twice?

That's not the point though.

After I posted about becoming horribly addicted to Lost, I was staring at the picture I had posted of Matthew Fox (Jack) and realized it looked remarkably similar to a picture on my side bar...

(Click on the picture for a larger view)


The resemblance is undeniable. Dave IS Matthew Fox!!! Think about it. He's always flying to crazy places across the globe. He lives in a secluded shack way out in the middle of no where so people won't mob him for autographs. It all fits! Right down to his ability to grow uber sexy stubble.

Dude, cats out of the bag. When you gonna introduce me to Sayid?

You Know Your Family Knows You Too Well When...

...they give you this t-shirt as a late Christmas gift.

Sal, you're the best!

Bad Habits, Blah Blah Blah

Thanks to Hilly for naming me her Blogger of the Month! If you've wandered over from her place, thanks for visiting. After reading her post I can safely say that she set your expectations way too high, but I'll let you be the judge....

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



I didn't bring many things back with me when I returned from New York. I guess my slightly disturbing obsession with giant slices of pizza could be considered a token memento. You could probably count my raw hatred for mice as another small take away. I've recently discovered though that one Manhattan habit has stuck with me rather forcefully and that would a blatant and unapologetic disrespect as well as disregard for rules designed around telling pedestrians when/where they can and can't walk.

If you've ever been to New York it's not hard to figure out that cross walk signals are really just there so that pigeons have something to shit on. Any New Yorker worth their salt won't hesitate to cross a 5 lane street anywhere along the block as long as they've got at least 15 seconds before oncoming traffic gets to them. It's impressive really to watch people of all sizes brazenly defy crazed taxis and decrepit delivery trucks.

Unfortunately these cojones aren't shared by Seattlites. I can't tell you the number of times I've seen crowds of people waiting at a crosswalk in front of a vacant street, held in place by that damned orange hand. I always seem to hear what sounds like soft bleating in those moments and have the unshakable urge to prod at these masses with a shepherd's crook.

I, on the other hand, take no greater joy than emerging from these lemming conventions and then looking over my shoulder as I'm jaywalking through the crosswalk with an expression on my face that says "That's right motherfucka's...I just walked across the damn street!" It really is priceless.

However yesterday someone had to spoil my fun. As I defiantly crossed a 3 lane street, hundreds of feet from the nearest cross walk, a "Parking Enforcement Officer" on a bike cruised slowly past me and yelled loud enough for all eight other pedestrians to hear...

"Careful as you jaywalk across the street, sir!"

The condescension and mockery in her tone were unmistakable to me as someone who A.) went to Middle School, and B.) is an avid watcher of House. Even more infuriating though was the implication that I was in mortal danger for walking across a street void of cars in both directions for 500+ feet. It was like a first grade teacher telling a Ph. D. student to be "careful coloring outside the lines..." Okay, that comparison got a little convoluted, but you get the picture.

I seriously wish I could have come back with something like "Duly noted, officer I-ride-a-bike-and-fail-at-life-continuously," but instead, like the tater tot that rolls off the pan and under the oven, the moment flicked by too quickly and was gone. I do remember thinking immediately afterwards though "wow, didn't realize passive aggressive snarking was now a mandatory prerequisite in the Parking Enforcement school."

I remain undeterred though. I shall flout city law until I get where I am going or am struck down by that sneaky DHL truck that forever looms in the nightmares of the pedestrian masses. Either that or I get a ticket from a bike cop. I wonder if that counts as a moving violation?

Withdrawls

This is a cry for help.

Friends, you have seen me through my many addictions. Tater tot binges that left me covered in a fine film of grease. Chapstick episodes that would shame even Angelina Jolie. Bouts of Google obsession that ended up in restraining orders. But nothing has ever come close to being this bad.

KJ and I made the fateful decision last Tuesday to give Netflix a try. Opting for the 2 DVD selection we thought we'd start with one movie and one TV series that way we could finish the movie first and get the next DVD of the television series by the time we had finished the first. I see now that this was foolish thinking...foolish because the series we decided to check out was Lost.

OhmyGodthatshitislikefuckingcrackinmyveins!!!!!!1!111!!! We managed to stretch the first four episodes until Saturday, but now we seriously jonesing for another taste. Netflix is playing with our emotions too. They managed to get us the first DVD's in 46 hours, but these second ones...ya...they're taking their sweet ass time (49 hrs and counting you DVD pimping bastards!!!).

Seriously, I gotta know what happens. How the hell did Locke's legs get fixed?? What is Kate's sinister crime?? WHY FOR THE LOVE OF GOD ARE THERE POLAR BEARS ON THE ISLAND!?!?!?!?!

:: weeping :: I'm sorry you have to see me like this. I thought I could tame this tiger, but now I've nothing left. Not even my pride.

Learn from my mistake children, don't commit to this most vicious of vices for it is a cruel mistress.

A Pleasant Sunday

KJ's sister flew into town today and we all went out and saw Juno at the local theater.


Wicked funny one-liners, but don't expect anything as blatant as Thank You For Smoking.

Dinner consisted of bean patty burgers, fruit smoothies and of course tater tots.



Somehow though, tater tots have decided to evolve...



Apparently there is a market for additional crisp.

On Flickr, Thats Where I'm a Viking

Apparently finally mastering the Picasa-Flickr mass uploading trick paid off.

I have This Fantasy

***The following is only marginally based on real events ***

[Scene: KJ and I driving home from dinner tonight]

KJ: Is this failure pulling out in front of you without signaling?

Me: No I think she is just trying to straighten her parallel parking job.

KJ: Wait...then why is her car now perpendicular to the curb.

Me: Maybe she is trying to get into the turn lane...no...I think she's U-turning...across three lanes of traffic...from the curb.

KJ: Hahaha, that truck just blocked her in

Me: Wow, she's really pissed at the truck. Look at the arm waving she's got going on there.

KJ: I think it's a dude...

Me: Whaaa...no way.

KJ: Ahhhh....she, or, it pulled out before I could get a good look. You really should have layed on the horn to let her...err...him know what a dufus they were being.

Me: Ya, but then she/he would have gotten pissed and probably just sat there blocking both lanes of traffic just to punish me. Or even worse, gotten out of the car and came up to our car.

KJ: Really, what do people expect to do when they run up on your car? I mean, unless they plan on punching out your windows with their fists or kicking in your headlights...what is their plan? They expect that pounding on the window will cause us massive headaches or something? Are we goldfish?

Me: I kind of have a fantasy about that.

KJ: What, the punching in someone's windows or being a goldfish.

Me: No, someone coming up and pounding on my window all pissed at me. I have the perfect response.

KJ: Run them over?

Me: No, just bust out the cellphone, dial 9-1-1 and then hold it up to the window with my finger on the send button with a look on my face like "WHAT!?"

KJ: What do you mean, "WHAT!?"

Me: Like "WHAT!?! You want me to call the cops on your stupid ass, MOFO??? Cause the way I see it you got two options, 1. Keep acting retarded and get TASED right before the police hall you off to the clink, or 2. Move your 1997 Geo Metro into the proper flow of traffic. 3 seconds, BEE-OTCH!!"

KJ: Oh, that is a lot of inference for one "WHAT?!" look.

Me: Ya, kinda only exists in the fantasy.

KJ: Gotcha...

Snip Snip

Now that I've found a good hair place I don't have to worry about repeats of past atrocities. My new stylist Suzie (or "goddess of hair that I shall forever worship and tip abundantly lest she afflict me with the brillo") is awesome and washes my hair no less than three times when I come in for a shorning. Before you nay sayers tell me it's cause of the cooties, I'll have you know that it's because in her words "it's not often I get to run my fingers through such amazingly beautiful hair..." Pretty much she sense the turbulent past my curls and I share and is working hard to heal the rift between us.

Anyway, the thing that I love the most about her is that in the end stages of our sessions, right after she trims my side burns to perfect 90 degree angles and right before she massages mint smelling something-or-other into my scalp, she trims my eyebrows. No joke. Just puts the comb up to my eyebrows and electric clippers them. Zap-Zap. Not that I think I have overly bushy eyebrows, but a little tidying up around the edges never hurt anyone.

The non-trimmed brow...



...and now the trimmed one, or as I refer to it, le brow de sexification...


Le sexy, no?

Tree Graveyard

When KJ said she wanted to send out a Christmas letter this year I scoffed at her "antiquated" idea.



Apparently we have a lot of antiquated friends.

Your Children Will Thank Me

I increasingly seem to find myself thinking about kids. I'm at that age now where most of my friends are having mostly legitimate children and upon arriving at a party I tend to be greeted by the site of a baby bottle as often as I do a can of Pabst (rarely both at the same time, but it happens). Up 'till now my general approach to children has been "unless you can comprehend the phrase 'fetch me a...cookie/tater tot/ thumbdrive, etc ....' you're of no use to me." However, I see now that assuming anything under 6 years old is merely a "lump o' baby" and would just as soon poop/puke/fart/belch on me as isn't exactly accurate. I've had the dawning realization that I'll need to invest time and energy into my eventual ilk before they to learn to speak/run/operate-the-remote-so-daddy-can-watch-MythBusters.

Thus I've decided that I should record all the knowledge I currently possess (distilled somewhat, for my head is an ocean awash with genius) in order to share with my future minions. But really, why stop with just my children? Seeing as how I'm all for equality and as well as genius, I am also full of benevolence, I think that all children everywhere should have the opportunity to the know the truths that the universe hath showed me. So I've decided to write a letter to my, as well as your, future spawn.

Dear Unborn Servants Offspring,

First let me say, sorry for fubar'ing the environment. We could have fixed it, but if you ever get the chance to ride in a jacked up Ford Super Duty 450 or pour a bottle of leftover paint thinner down a storm drain...you'll understand that we were just havin' too much fun too stop.

I am bequeathing this letter of unparalleled wisdom to you with the knowledge that the world you grow up in will be filled with...well...people like me. And since I don't want to risk losing my future workforce see you manipulated because you didn't know the way of the world, I will share with you now the things I know to be truth.

*Parents* They pretty much lie to you until your sixteen to keep you safe. If they start telling you the truth before then it's because they want you to move out or because they're hippies. If they still aren't shooting you straight by the time you turn 17, get a tatoo...and a lawyer.

*Siblings* Either they will build forts out of couch cushions with you in the living room or steal your ice cream. And by ice cream I mean inheritance.

*School* Trading a fruit rollup for homemade brownies is a good deal. Especially if it's not your fruit roll up.

*Love* ...is like a Boston Creme filled donut.

*The Internet* If you don't have more than 5 e-mail addresses than you're not trying hard enough.

*Clowns* The real reason for the existence of the NRA

*Vegetarians* They'll out live us, but don't let them smell your fear.

*International Politics* ...The hammer of the gods will drive our ships to new lands, To fight the horde, singing and crying: Valhalla, I am coming!...

And finally...

*Vegetables* Anyone that ever tries to tell you that a potato isn't a vegetable is clearly an agent of Satan.