So I Lied

What can I say? I took a quiz...

Shank e-mailed me, saying he's giving up on the blogwar he started. He is without a doubt the lamest blogwarrior of all time. I shall decide if I accept his defeat without the terms of surrender or not. And the way I shall decide this is: if I remember the whole stupid affair in two weeks, he will be punished.

Damned pussy.
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Now, this. THIS is the last entry until my return. I have almost completely convinced myself to leave the laptop at home. Then I think about it, and start to have nervous twitches. So we'll see. If I start cell-text-messaging you like a crazy person (i.e., like myself on a typical weekend), you'll know I am computer-free.

The Last Post

This will probably be my last post before getting the hell out of Dodge. I'll be back in time for Richie Sambora's birthday. You all know when that is, right? Of course you don't. You're not psychotic like I am.

Anyway, Shank has until my return to either accept the terms of surrender I have laid out for him, or to suffer the consequences. I strongly suggest he accept.

Have a good 4th o' July, everybody. I will. Yay, freedom!

I Remember

Shank doesn't remember our phone call, but I remember it quite clearly.

I remember when he was trying to convince me to leave Paul for him, and mentioned Paul sent him a wedding gift. I asked what the gift was, to which Shank replied, "I'm not telling you. I know you and Paul are in cahoots together."

Which obviously means Shank can't remember what Paul sent him. The ungrateful little bastard.

And I remember when I ended the call and told Shank I was indeed "totally blowing [him] off" and he seemed to lose all concentration before mumbling, "I'd like that." But that sort of thing isn't exactly a newsflash, is it? Not when his post titles are things like Jenelle is going down. I mean, I think everybody here knows where his head is at, and exactly what he was doing within five seconds of my hanging up on him.

This whole blogwar is just a ruse by Shank to get some attention from someone who does not return his affections and focuses instead on his co-bloggers.

It's sad, really.

But. Any blogwar must have conditions. Terms of surrender. And these are the first I will offer. If they are not met, the next will be worse. And so on.

1. Shank must begin every post with the phrase, "I know I'm not as good as Jim and Paul, but I hope you'll like the following. I spent a lot of time and thought on it. Please be kind." This must be done for one week.

2. Shank will stop thinking of me when he has his "alone time." It freaks me out.

Should Shank accept and fulfill these terms, I will go back to ignoring him except when he blogs about me, and we shall consider the blogwar at an end.

Torrential Downpour

Daylight, 15 mph, wipers on full speed, can't see anything but the waves kicking up on either side of the car? Not so good.

The rain stopped like 30 minutes ago and there is still a small stream flowing through the parking lot.

But I can now officially say I am ready for my vacation. Everything is bought, laundry is laundered, everything that can be is packed, and I could leave within 15 minutes. But I'll wait until Wednesday. I work Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday...will leave for my parents' house after work Wednesday. Will finish packing up my gear (the camping equipment is in storage near them), and take off with the kids Thursday morning.

I am so ready. Work will suck beyond all reason for the next three days.

History for Jackasses

I'm not going to name any names, mostly because he doesn't blog under his real name, but someone I was talking to on the phone last night was looking at a map of Iowa. He noted there was a town named Waterloo and said, "Hey, is that where that guy--"

I interrupted, because I knew where this was going, "No. That was a different Waterloo. In a different country. He did sell this area to America, though."

"What?"

"The Louisiana Purchase?" I paused. No recognition seemed forthcoming, but then finally there was a response.

"Oh yeah. He got f***ed in that deal, huh?"

So for your benefit, mystery phone blogger, there is a not-very-brief synopsis written in a language you'll understand in the extended about Napoleon and his journey to Waterloo. Waterloo in Belgium. You've heard of it, I'm sure. They have waffles.

Poland has historically been a little troublemaking c**t. Back in the day, Russia sent 300,000 soldiers to the border of Poland in hopes of capturing it (or recapturing it, actually, but we're not talking about Poland here--we're talking about Waterloo). This wasn't cool with Napoleon, who was all like, "Bitches, you better back off." So Napoleon thought he'd invade Russia and teach 'em a lesson.

Unfortunately for Nappy, the Russians weren't trying to engage him in any real battles. They kept retreating and drawing him into freaking Siberia. F***ing p***ies. But they weren't, really. It was strategy, the sly f***s. They burned the crops and slaughtered the cows and sh*t, leaving no food for Nappy and his army. Finally near Moscow, there was a giant bloody battle, but losses were pretty well even. The Russians burned Moscow and retreated. Nappy strolled into Moscow, thinking the whole thing would be over, but he was f***ed.

Moscow was ruined, and controlling it did f***-all for Nappy. Word was coming from France that Nappy was losing control there, so he had to head home. By the time he got there, he had lost over 500,000 soldiers. The war between France and Russia attracted other nations, like wars do. Prussia, England, and some others joined Russia...even f***ing Sweden got in on the action. Giving Nappy a beatdown, Viking style, yeah!

Nappy was outnumbered, and forced to slink home with his tail between his legs, promising not to be a d**k, but the other countries weren't having it. They made him surrender unconditionally and exiled him to be emperor of a small island called Elba. He hung out there for less than a year before escaping and returning to France. The king of France sent some soldiers to take care of business, but when they met Napoleon, he was all like, "You bitches gonna shoot your emperor?" And they were all like, "F**k no!"

So Nappy had himself an army again, and more joined him, and the countries who beat his ass were royally pissed. So they sent soldiers to kick his ass again, and everybody met up in Belgium, a mile or so from Waterloo. Nappy was given a f***ing boot up his ass this time, and the countries didn't mess around with sending his bitch-ass to an island nearby. He was booted to Saint Helena in the South Atlantic, and lived there for almost 6 years before kicking it from f***ing stomach cancer.

Blog War

You'd think a newlywed male would have better things to do than starting a blogwar and text messaging threats to call me at night.

But I guess that's what happens when you marry your second choice, eh, Shank?

Now, if you'll excuse me, it is Friday night. Ta.

A Swimsuit and a Bucket of Taffy

Decided after looking at my swimsuits that one needs to be retired and replaced. So I went swimsuit shopping this evening. A little late in the season, which means the selection is limited, but I'm not too picky, so it's okay.

Swimsuit shopping doesn't affect me the way it seems to do most women. I don't expect to be transformed into a Sports Illustrated swimsuit model, so my requirements are simple.

1. Must cover butt. No riding up when I bend over, walk, etc. I'm not trying to wear a thong or pick the suit out of my buttcrack.

2. Must support boobies. I have them, and bras are not optional in my world. The suit must provide support.

3. Some degree of chest modesty. Spilling out of the top when I lean over, or providing a look at everything but the nipples? Not good.

I swim in my swimming suits. I don't sunbathe or lie around looking cute on a lounge chair or purposely sashay past hot guys in them. They are a practical thing, and if they meet my practical requirements, I'm pretty much good to go. I don't have crying jags in the dressing room. Try a few on, pick the best, be annoyed about the high cost, and leave. The end.
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After I went swimsuit shopping, I stopped by WalMart. I remembered everything on my list for my trip except sunblock. And I picked up a bag of saltwater taffy. I transferred it into an old ice cream bucket. The kids will love it. I'll love it. Love taffy. Of course, now whenever I hear or see or think the word "taffy", I hear an annoying song in my head.
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Proof that the pressure is making Britney crazy...girlfriend looks nuttier than a Snickers.

Am I The Only One Not Surprised?!

Team USA was knocked out of the World Cup in what was not exactly a shocker. At least, I didn't think so. Everyone else seems deluded enough to be surprised.

Hello, they had scored one goal in the first two games, and that goal was knocked in by an opposing player.

Anyway, maybe now everyone in this country will lose interest in the whole affair and I can go back to watching baseball at work. Not a big soccer fan, in case you hadn't noticed.

(Go, Sweden!)

Unbridgable

The hsbf hates Shrek. He also hates history and museums.

I told him we can no longer be friends.

No more boyfriends for me.

Until Septemberish. I like getting birthday presents.
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The former hsbf has a tendency to follow me around work, and the most recent time I walked into the back room and he followed me, leaving the store unattended. So I asked what the hell he was doing (probably in so many words), and he said, "I've been following you all day."

So he knows. And now he knows I know. And I know he knows. And he knows I know he knows. And I know he knows I know.

No point, really. But everyone knows.
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For the love of God, how long does the World Cup last?! It's not even the end of the first round! I. can't. take. it. anymore.
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Go, Sweden!

Nothing Some Rope and Stakes Won't Fix

I have been thinking for quite some time now that I need to add a table to my collection of camping gear. It needs to be small enough to fit in my trunk (without folding the rear seats), and that effectively eliminates most portable outdoor tables. Coleman has a table that folds in half, but an uncomfortable percentage of negative reviews scared me away--I don't want something too flimsy.

I finally found something today that I think will work. It's plastic on top and has aluminum legs. The legs have crossbars at the bottoms to give the table more stability. So even though it is lightweight, I should be able to stake it into the ground to keep it from blowing away or whatever. We tend to get one muthah of a thunderstorm at least one night when I go camping, so having a table--even a heavier one than what I found--blow over/away is a legitimate problem.

Yay, camping! I have a total one-track mind lately. Look forward to more fascinating entries in the week and a half to come. Then look forward to none, probably, when I'm actually camping.

Happy Yesterday

I hope you fathers had a happy Father's Day. My dad did, for the most part.

I made breakfast--ham and cheese omelette per his request. And I made most of dinner--including my first ever baked potatoes. I'm almost embarassed to admit that. But I'm not a big baked potato fan. I prefer mine mashed.

So I broke out the Betty Crocker cookbook, and went with the 350 degree oven for 90 minutes. I washed them, stabbed them with a fork, wrapped them loosely in foil, and stuck them in the oven. I debated about rubbing them down with butter, but didn't. And want to hear something weird? They were the best baked potatoes I ever had. They were cooked all the way through and soft like I like them (remember the mashed). I didn't even do anything to them. So clearly I was prejudiced for my own cooking. It's the only explanation.

We took the boat out for a little while, and that was good. The water hasn't quite warmed up in the lake yet, though.

Not such a bad day.

Thanks, Italy

For scoring a goal for the United States.

I'm at work. Obviously. Or I wouldn't even know there was a game on.

Shocker

Someone has reconsidered his stance on motorcycle helmets after smashing a windshield with his face.

Whodathought?
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I just ordered pizza. Thin crust, chicken with green peppers. I like to order "weird" pizza because it ensures the leftovers won't be eaten by the roommate. It's dinner for three days, man. Few things suck more than looking forward to leftover pizza for dinner, only to get home and find it's gone. I especially like the alfredo chicken pizza, but didn't want to spring for that tonight. Trying to save for vacation, you know.

Must Have Been Boring Anyway

I was going to blog about something, I just know it. But now I can't remember it. So it was obviously fascinating.
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I like to play tennis, and I found someone who likes it enough to want to play but not enough to want to be dumb and competitive about it. Perfect, because that's how much I like it. Just enough to run after the ball, but not enough to grunt like a Monica when I hit it...or throw a John McEnroe if I miss it. The perfect balance.

It seems like back in The Day, everyone played tennis. Now I have a hard time finding a partner. All the girls at work like tennis enough to watch the French Open like it's their favorite sport, but not enough to own a racket. (I should mention that this week they all watch the World Cup like soccer's their favorite sport. I'm thinking there is a pattern here. And that pattern is that we like whatever random sport is popular at the moment.)

So, to recap: tennis = good when played in a friendly, laidback way. Soccer = totally boring if not for the guys in shorts. And still pretty boring. Denise Richards = shady. I know I didn't talk about her in this post, but it needs to be said from time to time.

Carry on.

The End of Lazy Hair

I got a haircut that will require product and actual work in the mornings. No more of this throwing it into a ponytail stuff. Ponytails are nice and easy, but cause breakage and aren't exactly stylish. That's not good. My hair is now short. Well, short for me. Average length for most people. Shoulder-length to be exact...and not a millimeter below my shoulders.

In high school, I managed to get up and shower and style my hair every day. It was the Big Hair Era, after all, and I had me some BIG HAIR. Fast forward to now, and I haven't used a blow dryer in almost a year.

What will I do when I have a morning class and don't want to get up in time to do my hair? Hats, my friend. Hats. In theory, I could still wear a ponytail, but short little ponytails are lame.

The Graduate

Well, kids. Not all graduates can stay in Iowa City forever. Some of them have to move away and get jobs and grow up. They have gazillions of dollars in student loans to pay off, and can't do that by keeping a part-time student job.

So they leave. And it's not something to be sad about. It's exciting and it's good. It's Life.

But some of us left behind will miss them.

Good Morning, World

And so long, Abu.

It's already a good day.

6.6.6

As I mentioned in my previous post, I was working today for someone who was afraid to leave the house because of the date.

At around 3:30ish, it seemed as though I may have made the wrong choice. The tornado sirens went off, and it was pretty exciting for awhile. But in the end, God spared us, and there was no tornado hitting the store.

So instead of dying under a pile of college sweatshirts, I got a raise today. Yay, root of all evil!

A Decision

I have decided, after no deliberation, as a purely knee-jerk reaction, that should I ever have children, they will live in a plastic bubble and never get their driver's license until they are of an age to find out they have legal rights and don't need my permission.

A kid who had his driver's license for a week pulled out in front of a truck the other day. He'll be buried tomorrow and his passenger will be buried Wednesday.
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Tomorrow is 6-6-06. One of my co-workers plans to bunker down at home and not leave the house. I'll be at work, making the money she should have been.

Works for me.

Purge! Purge!

I was up until 4:30 this morning, cleaning. I did laundry yesterday, and then started sorting out all my clothes. I'm not one to keep a "summer wardrobe" and "winter wardrobe", but closet space demands that I box up that which I do not need.

While doing that, I also started the throwaway and giveaway piles, and eventually moved beyond clothes to all the other clutter in my room. I don't think my work is completely done, and I need to turn the same attention to my work area (desk, shelves, etc)...to box up things I don't need continuous access to, and throw out things I don't need at all.

I don't get the hard-core cleaning bug very often, but when I do, I just have to go with it.

Now I will tell you a story about yesterday. While cleaning out my closet, I found a little black tank top that has "Material Girl" written on it in silver glitter. (It's not some old 80s shirt, it's actually only a few years old. Truth in advertising, as it were.) I forgot I had it, so I had to justify keeping it. I changed into that to finish my cleaning (tank tops are cooler than the t-shirt I had been wearing). It's one of those shirts that don't quite reach your navel, and I was wearing it with shorts.

So I'm trekking back and forth from my apartment to the laundry room, which happens to be right across from the door to the stairs. I was emptying the dryer of a load of pinks and reds, which was largely underclothes at that point because I hang up my shirts when they're still wet.

Opening the door across from me, and with a huge look of shock at seeing me half-dressed and handling my brightest underwear, was a guy from work. He was visiting one of my neighbors on the other end of the hall, and I was barely able to find that much out. He turned bright red, and I'm not sure he'll ever recover. Which is strange, because it was my colorful underwear and my half-dressed self, so I should be the one embarassed.

I can't wait to hear about it at work.

Poacher

It costs $50 for an annual non-resident Wisconsin fishing license. Or $28 for a 15-day non-resident Wisconsin fishing license.

Alternately, a box of frozen fish sticks is, what? $4?

So anyway, I will continue to fish illegally if I fish at all. I'm not paying $28 for the privilege of catching some crappy little panfish that I'll release anyway. I usually don't maintain interest long enough to catch anything good, and if I did catch one good fish, I'd call it a day. If I was going out on Lake Superior, that'd be different, but to throw a hook out into our lake*...not so much.

I'd be happy to throw a ten-spot in the state coffers to help with the cost of stocking fish and whatnot, but I don't think my slight use is worth much more than that. Maybe I'd get generous and push it to $20, but nearly $30 seems too much.

* (We do have some decent fish in the lake, but it's been awhile since I've caught anything good.)