Insta-fun!

Wow, motormouth johnson is going interactive. Welcome to the weekly poll! Vote once a day!

You might have noticed that I didn’t post last week. I was busy working: Eight hours each day at the temp job, then three hours each night at Family Fun Week (aka Vacation Bible School) at my church.

So, there is much minutia to catch up on, one piece of which my favorite co-worker reminded me of today when she told me her dog threw up on her kitchen floor and it made her think of My Darling Husband.

You see, last week, about 3:30 a.m., I woke up to MDH saying, “Max, did you just pee on my leg?” Max is Our Darling Kitten who is seriously nocturnal, which makes him not-so-darling. Brian turned on the light and realized that Max hadn’t urinated, but rather vomited on his leg. Brian was remarkably sweet about it, cleaned himself and the kitten up and made sure Max felt OK, but then when he got back into bed he said, “Sure, you just wanted to puke on my leg.”

This sent me into hysterics, which made MDH upset until I explained, “I’m not laughing because of the puke, I’m laughing because of what you said.” This placated him, but then every time I’d try to quiet down I’d hear his voice in my head and that would set me off again. This made MDH even more upset.

“Come on, you know how things are funnier than the middle of the night than they are by the light of day? This is one of those things,” I said.

Nonetheless, I could not settle down, so I slept on the sofa. And the next morning, when I told my favorite coworker about it, it was still pretty funny.

So, does it reflect well or poorly upon me that my thesis adviser is also the creator of the Bulwer-Lytton bad-writing contest?

The 2004 winners have been announced. If I’d been a judge, this would have been #1:

Johnny’s first kiss with Melissa knocked him back on his heels like the bass line of the “Theme from Peter Gunn” — an odd sensation since Johnny wasn’t born until 1972 and Peter Gunn was over because Blake Edwards, who created Peter Gunn, had begun the Pink Panther movies starring another Peter, Peter Sellars, best remembered for his performance as Chauncey Gardner in “Being There” but whose truly great role was in “Dr. Strangelove” co-starring Slim Pickens who rides an atomic bomb to earth where it explodes — and that was what Melissa’s first kiss was really like.

Kent Neely, Edwardsville, IL, 7/02/2004

This weekend, I did something I’ve never done before. I sang the national anthem at the Chico Rooks soccer game. Having promised various people not to “muck it up” or grab my crotch or do anything else Barr-ish, I stood on the field, faced the flag, gripped the microphone in my right hand and belted out my best anthem ever, except for the time I sang it as the audition song for District Honor Choir in high school and I could get out two lines on everybreath, instead of just one.

If you ever have the opportunity, sing the anthem at a sporting event. Even if it’s before curling, or that sport where they throw telephone poles. Of course, in that case, you would probably be singing the Scottish national anthem, which probably doesn’t include any of Monstro’s favorite Scottish words, most of which are culled from Trainspotting.

(thanks Julie for the Trainspotting/Irvine Welsh link!) (ed note: lost in translation)

Wow, fixed the dates, got the comments going again — it’s a good Friday! And now, My Darling Husband has the blog bug. Check him out at http://www.motormouth.com/monstro .

Happy 3-day weekend, all!

Well, in fixing the datestamp on this blog, I have erased my comments from the face of it. Sigh. I shall figure it out eventually, but not right now, as three more boxes of work have come in. Ta!  [ed note: this was copied over from my blogspot days]

This morning before 8:30 five egregious errors were brought to my attention, apparently due to the fact that my adding machine hates me and I’m not too fond of it, either. But I had it all fixed up by 9:30 and felt a little better.

Then, I came back to work after lunch and was informed by the accountant that he’d received a phone call from the gub’mint guy in Sacramento, the recipient of those forms I had to type (TYPE!) the other day. The GG called to compliment us for our amazingly professional-looking job on the survey. It’s the best one he’s ever seen, apparently, and he’s looked at 10,000 of the things every year since, I don’t know, Lucifer had Most Favored Angel status.

When I’m bad, I fix it. And when I’m good, I’m spectacular!

Now, if I could just find a two-bedroom apartment in Northampton, I’d be set. But I’ll rest on my laurels for the next half-an-hour. Heck, I’ve earned it!

My mom always says that, when something big changes. “Oh, it’s the end of an era,” followed by a sigh. Sometimes a mock sigh, but a sigh, nonetheless.

In any case, it is the end of an era — our Erik-as-roommate era. We had our last night at home with Erik last night. Monstro and I are very sad about the whole thing.

The night started after work. Kyle took us out for sushi, and we gorged. Anyone in Chico must run, not walk, to the newly reopened GenKai for Tamo and co’s outrageous sushi rolls. My favorite? It’s a tie between the Saturday Night Fever, which employs a blowtorch, and the Benson, which we ordered last time in tribute to my maiden name, and then learned it’s the best freakin’ roll ever created sans blowtorch. Instead of rice, they lay paper-thin red snapper over the top. Oh. My. Word.

After dinner we went back to the house and hung out on the porch for the hundredth-something time. I took a picture of Erik wrestling with the kitten. I honestly don’t know who will miss him more: Monstro, me, or Maxwell Hanes. They have a very avuncular (thanks, Julie) relationship. Max’ll be bummed to be stuck with Mom and Dad, I think.

“I know the picture I want of my roommates,” Erik said. “Monstro in his chair, smoking, with Motormouth behind and her arms around him.”

“Should I be holding my beer?” Monstro asked.

“Oh yeah,” Erik replied.

We got in position and Erik prepared to take the pic. “Monstro, look less gay, more Ethan Hawke.” Monstro puzzled over this until Erik clarified, “Ethan Hawke in ‘Gattaca,’ dude.” The picture was snapped. Erik went inside and I hijacked his camera and took a cleavage shot down my t-shirt. All the girls did this for Dusty at her graduation party, and it seemed like a fun tradition to continue.

Then we went inside, watched three episodes of “Family Guy” on DVD (Erik’s DVD), and at 11 I went to bed, after receiving a glasses-into-the-face hug from Erik.

Our consolation is, when we’re freezing our buns off in MA, Erik will be even colder in Aberdeen, Scotland. It’s a small consolation, but it’s something.

So I’ve been getting more spam than usual (which is saying a *lot*), and it’s been tricking me into opening it. It’s not offering to enlarge my johnson (which has taken on a whole ‘nother meaning since taking a married name), but rather, it’s a mess of unrelated words strung together. Like this:

bon brahmsian tabloid andrei bull bob felicity

cotyledon black chelate jitterbugger defiant souvenir aphasic ambassador solemn mathews shrugging herculean

Vocabulary list, maybe? Unsolicited make-it-yourself haiku? What do you think?

There’s nothing like completing a 14-page government census form on a typewriter to make one appreciate one’s computer. Even if said computer is a PC. ’nuff said.