It’s Friday I’m in love…

As I am currently and literally watching paint dry, I thought I would report a few things while we wait to start painting the second coat in the kitchen.

1. Last night, I saw David Spade and Scott Weiland sing David Bowie’s “Suffragette City.” Add that to the list of things I thought I would never see.

2. Friend: So what’s your favorite Pete Yorn song?
Me: The one where he’s hot.

3. Husband: I wrote David an email which asked him what he was doing the weekend of July 22nd. Mainly to taunt him because we are going to Ryan Adams.
Me: What was his response?
Husband: He said “I’m studying for the Lousiana bar exam. Dick.”
Me: HA
Husband: But he is going to see Damien Rice.
Me: If I was studying for the bar and also went to see Damien Rice, at the same time, I think I would probably have license to kill myself.

4. If I don’t post ever again, it is because I drank myself to death at Mike’s Fourth of July party. Hopefully we won’t leave before random strangers start simulating sexual acts and stripping on top of the pool table.

5. David Hasselhoff is still awesomeness personified.

6. Just to increase traffic to this site: ANDERSON COOPER ANDERSON COOPER ANDERSON COOPER

7. Dane Cook is the opposite of funny. Shut the fuck up already with your stupid loud non-comedy.

Got a ticket to a show…

I am still recovering from my dead-cold-pass out-drop-to-the-floor faint on Tuesday morning.

Why, you ask?

Because it was at that point in time that I scored the magical tickets of destiny.

These tickets that ensured that within a two and a half week timeframe later this summer, we will be seeing both Pete Yorn and Ryan Adams live in concert in venues so small that they can’t even hold all the Yurkanins.*

The TICKETS OF DESTINY, my friends.

I will not have to pee in the Howard University emergency room restroom while waiting in line to get in at either concert. There is a good chance our car will be waiting for us upon our return. If only Kevin Griffin is the special guest….at that point, I will commit suicide, or at least make a pact with myself to never attend another concert again, because that would be the trifecta of perfection.

Ryan Adams. With the Cardinals. Pete Yorn. Acoustic tour. Oh. my. fucking. god.

I do believe I have the vapors.

*The Yurkanins are not a folk band or a Slavic terrorist group. They are my maternal side of the family, which includes my dear departed grandfather, his 17 brothers and sisters, and their various and sundry progeny. Now that I think about it, the Astrodome might not be able to hold us at this point.

The Great Ass Disease Debacle

We are having a party this weekend for a small group of really good friends. We haven’t had a full-blown party in a long time, for several reasons. Our small and stupidly overpriced house can’t fit but so many people comfortably, and we haven’t really had the time or the inclination to throw one. Basically, I am lazy.

Or it could be that the last time we had a big fiesta, The Great Ass Disease Debacle occurred.

My husband decided to start alcohol consumption about two or three hours before the party started. I agreed, as he is a smart man, and joined him shortly thereafter. By the time our friends got here, we were pretty well loaded. Fast forward several hours to later parts of the evening, and everyone had caught up to us. Everyone was having a great time, people who had never met were striking up conversations, and no one died of alcohol poisioning. However, everyone had brought friends with them, which was totally awesome and raucous, but also caused there to be a lack of adequate seating.

At some point, my husband noticed the husband of one of my friends that he had never met before standing along the wall. Husband, having been drinking for probably six hours at that point, decides to ask friend’s husband why he wasn’t sitting somewhere on a sofa or something. Instead of being a polite inquiry, the question went something like this: “What the hell is wrong with you? Why aren’t you sitting down? Do you have some kind of ass disease or something?”

At this point, several of us in the know made a quick exit for the back porch and completely lost our shit, because the truth of the matter was this: Friend’s husband indeed has suffered from a disease of the ass.

We totally sold my poor husband out for the sake of hilarity and let him hang himself. We didn’t go too far from the scene of the crime, because we heard every word that followed through the screen door.

To my friend’s husband’s eternal credit, he started laughing and said nothing. My husband proceeded to not only continue to ask about ass diseases, but also VOLUNTEERED TO FORM A WALKATHON AND RAISE MONEY IN THE FIGHT FOR A CURE FOR FRIEND’S HUSBAND’S ASS DISEASE. HE VOLUNTEERED TO MAKE T-SHIRTS.

At that point, someone told my husband that there was in fact, an actual ass disease involved, and he felt like, well, an asshole. However, I think all parties involved thought this was the funniest thing that they had witnessed in a long time, and now my husband tells this story with pride. He should, because it was fantastic, and I could have stopped it, but didn’t.

I am to blame here, because I am the kind of person that puts cheap laughs in front of the potential embarassment of my loved ones.

When men were men and caffeine pills were actually heroin

Today, a good friend sent me a link to one of the greatest cinematic masterpieces to come out of the late 80s/early 90s.

It’s the Jessie Spano/Hot Sundae/No Doz freakout/Emmy reel from Saved by the Bell.

The leotard-clad girl group managed by Zack Morris. The cheesy synthesized version of their one and only song “Go For It.” Jessie Spano’s inability to handle, at the same time, the pressures of both being a bitch to AC Slater and preparing for a gig at the Max. Her subsequent downward spiral into serious caffeine pill addiction. The lying. The deception. (The fake memoir written for Oprah’s book club would come later.) Zack Morris’ through-the-window intervention. The very realistic, hard-core withdrawal from said caffeine pills, which lasted approximately two minutes. She’s so excited. She’s so excited. She’s so…..tired.

This was simply a preview of the glory that is Showgirls.

I remember watching this as a kid and thinking, man, caffeine pills are really bad for you and can totally fuck up your system. I should probably never take them. Now I realize that there is only one explanation – Jessie Spano was a Mormon.

If you’ve never seen this episode, do it immediately. Then, find the Zack Attack episode and have yourself a marathon.

Reasons number 10,362 that my husband is more awesome than yours

I came home today and found waiting for me the following things:

1. A pizza
2. A clean house (courtesy of the maid service, but he arranged it, so we’ll count it.)
3. A refrigerator full of beer and freshly-made iced tea
4. The AC cranked to “Antartic frost”, when I know he really prefers “normal human comfort level”
5. A brand new pair of the hard to get Puma Sandals I have been coveting for months.
6. The statement “Pete Yorn tickets have been secured.”

You rule, husband who shall remain nameless. I’m sorry my first question was, “So what’s her name?”

And last night, we got to watch TWO hours of glorious HASSELHOFF. Also, for those of you who asked, the score is now Sink – 1, Jimison – 1.

Tragic

Today, while perusing CNN.com, ostensibly to see what was going on in the world, but really to stalk Anderson Cooper, I come across this. Oh, hell no.

Not you too, Anderson. You were my only hope. Please. Tell me you haven’t been sucked into the Brangelina cult. I know 360 needs the ratings bump, but this made me not watch. Aren’t there polygamists out there to out? Illegal aliens to track down? Ineffectual senators to verbally bitchslap? Roberto Cavalli raincoats to sport in the middle of hurricanes? These are not the media droids you are looking for.*

Don’t you know that when your annoying three year old cousin keeps pulling on your pant leg and being a pain in the ass that the only way to get them to stop their nonsense is to IGNORE THEM? That feeding in to their incessant need for attention simply makes things worse?

That when insincere things are only done for the media glarethat when the press goes away, so will the insincerity? No one will convince me that these two make a single move without massive anaylsis of how it will affect the public’s perception of them. You don’t one day allow Billy Bob Thornton to discuss your limo sex or make out with your brother on national television and then magically turn into the Virgin Mary without cold, calculated PR manuevers. There’s nothing wrong with that, but pretending to try to save the world when thereal goal is the massive reworking of a public image reeks of hypocrisy.

And yet, here I am talking about this mess. My excuse is that my sleep schedule is screwed up and I am wide awake when I should be asleep.

*I swear to buddha, if I have to see one more picture of Brad Pitt staring at his child as if he is holding the fucking Baby Jesus returned to earth to save humanity from the evils of being ugly, I may die. At the very least, I will vomit. Brad, I liked you better when you and Jennifer were stoned and looked dirty all the time.

Happy Father’s Day

Things I have learned from my dad, in no particular order:

1. An understanding and passion for all things college basketball
2. A deep and abiding trust in anything Consumer Reports says
3. The importance of working your absolute hardest, regardless of the job
4. The need to arrive approximately five hours before your plane leaves
5. To only buy Hondas or Acuras
6. That old war movies are great
7. If you want something done correctly, do it yourself. If you don’t know how to do it correctly, pay someone to do it for you before you screw it up.
8. Buy the most expensive shoes you can afford.
9. Golf is hard.
10. Reading the newspaper on Sunday is an event.

Today: a recap

Thanks to Deadwood, the word “trim” has a whole new meaning. Thus, I giggled to myself all day long…because I was painting the trim in the bathroom. It sounds so dirty.

The people at the Verizon store are quite possibly the rudest, most incompetent salespeople I have ever encountered. Seriously, you work on commission, which generally necessitates you to actually approach customers and see what they need. Come help me out, you sons of bitches.

Something weird was going on at BedBathandBeyond today. Every single employee stopped me to say hi and ask me if I needed help. Several of them did it multiple times. I can conclude it was one of three things: 1. Corporate was in there doing some sort of audit, because there were about 3 times as many workers as usual. 2. My attractive outfit of paint-covered clothing, baseball cap, and sunglasses led them to believe I was actually Jennifer Aniston gone incognito, and they wanted to suss me out for an autograph opportunity. 3. My attractive outfit of paint-covered clothing, baseball cap, and sunglasses led them to believe I was possibly very, very lost, off my meds and related to the guy constantly that walks up and down Broad Street carrying things in plastic bags.

Sink -1. Jimison – 0.

I am currently observing my dear husband attempt to fix our kitchen faucet. The sprayer hose is somehow stuck in the on position in such a way that if you turn on the water, you are hit with a full-force blast.

So far, I have observed and heard the following things:

1. Considerable amounts of banging and turning of wrenches.
2. Water shooting up in a geyser-like fashion from the place that the faucet was once attached.
3. Water being shot across the kitchen from the sprayer, followed by the comment, “I don’t think we wanted to do that. The kitchen floor is a little bit wet.”
4. A fair amount of swearing, although that might be coming from the TV.
5. “Hmm.” “What’s that honey?” “Well, I put the faucet back together, and there just doesn’t seem to be a place for this piece to go.” “Interesting.”
6. “Do you know what you are doing?” “Suuuuure.”
7. More banging and turning of wrenches.
8. Standing back and glaring at the faucet while stating, “Why is it leaking now?”
9. “Well, I stopped the leak, but we are in no better shape than we were before.” “So essentially, you created a secondary problem and fixed it, without addressing the initial issue?” “That would be correct.” “Ok.”
10. mumblemumblesyousonofabitch.
11. “I feel totally defeated, but that was fun.”
12. “Good news! We’re getting a new faucet!!”

There is about 250,000 dollars of fancy pants college education between the two of us, but nowhere in there was a single course on plumbing. Liberal Arts education, my ass.

To my husband, I say two things:

1. If you had a book on how to fix it, I have no doubt you could do it. But I looked on Amazon and did not find a single avaliable copy of My Hose Sprayer Is Stuck in the On Position and All I got Were These Two B.A.s and a J.D. They also seem to be out of the best-selling My IQ Qualifies Me for Mensa, But What the Hell Does a Diverter Valve Look Like?

2. Some women find men who can magically fix things around the house to be especially attractive. I do not. I generally find that these are often men who like Nascar and cheap beer. Sure, if you were one of those, I would have a functioning sink. But it might also coincide with me having to possibly drink Bud Light on a regular basis, and that is something I could not handle.

For the same reason people don’t write their own wills, we don’t fix our own faucet.

Gratuitous puppy picture for this nasty, miserable, rainy day.

That is an actual dog, not a stuffed animal. And she now is a four-and-a-half year old ass kicker who saves us from the clutches of our evil sprinkler on a regular basis.

That sprinkler is clearly bent on world domination, so it’s good we have a guardian.