Wednesday, June 29, 2005

Ok, look Bitch, I’ve got a Tupperware of feces here. You get me?

WARNING- Yes, I did blog your very funny/pitiful tale of poo, un-named friend. But it's funny, don't you see? Pleeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaase don't be mad at me. Life gave you lemons; but look, I made lemonade.

Last night I received a phone call from a friend (to remain nameless) who needed a favor. Apparently he has some kind of HORRIBLE illness that involves intense pain and the inability to eat solids. His doctors think it might be ecoli. In short, things are pretty much sucking for him.

He asked if we would go pick up some prescriptions from the pharmacy for him (particularly vicodin which would make life suck less). Of course we were more than happy to do that, so we rushed to his place to collect his prescriptions. When we got there, he updated us with further information. Not only did he need us to pick up his prescriptions, he also needed us to get a container for a stool sample, which had to be taken before he took his medicine and had to be delivered to a lab by no later than one hour from which it was, errr… produced. Knowing he was in no condition to deal with any of this, we grabbed the prescriptions and ran giggling.

At the pharmacy the prescriptions were quickly filled. By way of conversation we asked the pharmacist how to handle this stool thing. She made a TON of phone calls and found that the lab at Northwest Hospital would be open all night and that all we needed was some stool and the correct paperwork (which we had) and we would be in business. She also found out that we didn’t need to have a sterile container, in fact anything would do. After much pondering we chose the Gladware- after all, it provides double seal protection.

Nearly falling no less than 7 floors to our deaths trying to walk up the stairs while making poo jokes and laughing hysterically, we decided that my roommate should be the one to explain the procedure. The ins and more importantly, the outs of the operation. I would be relegated to our house to prepare dinner. Eventually, the friend showed up with a curiously light but full Gladware and some embarrassment.

I raced to the hospital, poo in hand. Well, in Gladware, in a Bartells bag, in my handbag- just like a nesting doll or Kinder Surprise. Anyway, I arrived at the hospital, wandered in circles till I found the lab and gave the nice nurse there my friend’s poo. She then asked if I was a relative. Having worked in a hospital, I knew I should have just lied and claimed to be his sister, but I was afraid that they’d catch me. I told them I was a friend. Then THAT WOMAN tried to give me his poo back. “No, no, no,” said I, “this is your poo now.” She claimed that she couldn’t take it without an authorizing signature. I told her that I had a pen and a note from the doctor and that I would sign whatever. Still, she resisted the poo. Finally I told her that I know that there some kind form for the third party delivery of specimens and that I would sign that. After rolling her eyes no less than three times she called her supervisor, took photocopies of his ID and insurance cards and I signed a form and left.

I guess that nurse ain’t taking no shit off of just anyone.

July?! I haven’t used July in a year.

Today my buddy Steve told me that I was too judgmental of people’s inability to use the correct numerical abbreviations for the months of the year on the legally binding affidavits that I deal with at work. Lord knows I hate to seem judgmental, but these abbreviations are the same every year. While Steve may want to think that he has saved time/brain space by not memorizing those pesky abbreviations, I’d like to make the point that after over two decades of using the same abbreviations repeatedly, that perhaps, they would somehow just pop up in your brain.

In retaliation Steve said, “Well you only use the same one once a year.”

Technically, if you need to write the date every day that’s 28-31 times per year, Steve. And you’re 25, Steve. You will have now used “6” for the month of “June” 600 times, not counting the number of times you may have used that abbreviation to reference June during a different month, or the repetition of the abbreviation through multiple daily uses.

Additionally, if you can count to 12 (a kindergarten Grade Level Expectation) and know the order of the months (also a K Level GLE- as we say in the biz), I bet that you can figure it out when using on a legally binding affidavit, necessary to retain your job.

Journey- thirty years of sucking and counting

Hey Neal, nice to see you. Wait, who are these guys? Oh Journey? Really? What happened to those other guys? Oh that’s too bad. I almost didn’t see you slouching in the corner for the last 20 years. So, I hear you’re touring again- that’s great. Yea…. Are you bringing Steve Perry? Did he die? No, I mean I just assumed. No, but seriously, that’s great. That’s gonna totally rock. Yea that song, Lovin, Touchin, Squeezin- I still get goosebumps. We should totally get together sometime. You coming to Seattle? No? Oh, that’s too bad. Well maybe you can swing by my place, maybe when I’m really drunk. I mean Billy Joel and Chicago might be there, but, you know, there’s always room for you. Uhmhum. Well you too sweetheart.

Oooooo is that Loverboy?

Sneaky Bastards

Quite some time ago our across the hall neighbors moved out and since then we’ve been waiting to see what kind of folks would move in. We have a great relationship with all of our neighbors, inviting each other to parties and for dinner, and we wanted to meet these new neighbors to see if this could continue. But in spite of the fact that Batty, our apartment manager (who’s closely related to a banana in terms of IQ) told us that they would be moving in over a month ago.

One night last week, we were bouncing around the hallway chatting with our next-door neighbor when the door suddenly the door across the hall flew open and an impressively tattooed man emerged with a tiny little pug. We all jumped a good two feet since we hadn’t seen nor heard anything coming and going from that apartment. We greeted him lamely and dashed in to the apartment.

Quick! There’s work to do. In flash the roommate was getting out my mixing bowls as I tied on my apron. Twenty-five minutes later we knocked on their door with fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies. The new neighbor came to the door and opened it cautiously, after all it was 11 on a weeknight in a bad neighborhood. Luckily it was just his Stepford Neighbors. We chatted momentarily about this and that and then scampered back to our place feeling smug.

The next day there was a basket in front of our door containing a thank you note, potpourri, candles and some other odiferous stuff.

We’ve been out-neighbored.


After a long search for a cheap apartment in a moderately un-appalling neighborhood in Seattle, I have found it. Yesterday after viewing it, then dragging the roomy back to re-view it, I decided to take it. A sweet little studio a block from Green Lake—only 600 dollars. I was completely ecstatic all yesterday evening. “Yes I have a plan, no more looking, no more thinking about it all the time!”

However, last night I started tossing and turning. Was moving out of the roommate life-style an awkward attempt at baby-stepping into responsible adulthood? Where the nut am I going to fit my comics? Why didn’t I take exact measurements of the apartment YESTERDAY so that I could obsessively make a scale diagram of the room and then cut out tiny scale paper furniture. I don’t own silverware! I will have to choose silverware! And I have to put together a new bed. And buy a new mattress set. THIS SUCKS!

I can’t believe that I’m having commitment issues with an apartment.

Wednesday, June 22, 2005

This ain't Hells Kitchen

Look, Seattle Police Department, this ain't Hell's Kitchen; it's a small neighborhood full of cute little houses, liquor stores, and strip clubs. Granted it isn't a good neighborhood; but I bet you, with your bullet proof vest, tazer, night stick, mace, gun and hundreds of buddies could probably show up and survive. You know I manage to walk in this very neighborhood carrying a pack of gum, car keys, and a cell phone.

I know it must not be the whole neighborhood that you're afraid of- I see you ALL THE TIME at the Starbucks 1.5 blocks South of my house. Perhaps you are afraid of me? Don't worry, I'm really quite gentle-- once you get to know me.

You know, while I can't excite myself to feel that bad for the big haired trailer trash getting the shit kicked out of her by her biker/red neck/asshole boyfriend/husband/pimp in the parking lot of the bar across the alley from my "luxurious apartment home," I still feel kinda obligated to call you guys. I feel that if I bother to peep anxiously out my window in my underoos and tank top waiting for the woman to die/runaway or you to come and rescue her/any hope of me sleeping that night, that you could bother to show up. I should not have to slither onto my porch and throw shoes at her assailant to make them go away. For one thing, it is a waste of shoe; for another she just is going to hop in his truck/Cadillac/'hog' and proceed to get the shit kicked out of her in a new and exciting location. Oh boy! Maybe her spawn/miniature future criminals will be there and get their nightly beatings too. Oh yea, and it scares the living daylights out of me.

So, in conclusion, Seattle Police Department, please show up when I call. Or do I have to walk the 1.5 blocks to Starbucks and come to get you myself?

Life of crime,unpredictably, not working out so well.

I had a job interview downtown this morning at 8:30 am. At 6:30 am my alarm went off, I stretched like a cat and rolled out of bed. Showering leisurely I mentally prepared myself for the usual questions. I did my hair and donned my suit.
At the bank(I needed cash for parking) the machine told me it could not complete my transaction at that time. "Oh well," I thought, "I have plenty of time." Now the funny thing is that right before I entered my pin number I had thought, "Hey, it would suck if my card didn't work." Wow! I was right.
Anyway, I continued towards the freeway, stopping at Safeway to buy whatever to get cash back. I picked out Newsweek, as it had a dinosaur on the cover, and handed it to the girl. After I had entered my pin the machine spit out an error message. The girl said, "Wow, I've never seen this one before. It says your card was reported stolen." Great. Back inside my car I decide to call and wake my roommate up and ask if she had any cash. At my house, now running late, I collected the cash, thanked the roommy and got on the road.
Later that day I got into my office and I had a voicemail from my bank asking for me to call them. The girl at the bank asked if I had seen the news. I told her I don't watch TV. You see, dear reader, I don't watch TV because I'm afraid it will actually make me as stupid as everyone else in America. This one time, I was left to my own devices with my friend's TV and I watched 2 episodes of America's Top Model. At the end, I snapped out of it with 1.5 hours of life and the Pythagorean Theorem completely gone.
Now, let me advise you bank workers, school workers, and hospital workers of America, when a problem comes up, do not say "Have you seen the news?" by way of explanation. Can we just reserve that phrase for small talk or an actual crisis? Thanks. Obviously, after hearing that i was all freaked out "This made the news? I am totally screwed."
Ah, but no, I guess I am just one of thousands of victims of some sort of card number thieving incident that all of the Newlywed watching assholes of America have heard about, "duh." My new card should come some time next week, she hoped. And as it turns out, I got that job.
But the point is, incompetent thieves stole my number but weren't sneaky enough to get away with it; thus before they could so much as order one Bowflex Fitness Machine or make 750$ worth of calls to Tibet, my card was cancelled. So really while these guys were shitty thieves, they clearly excel at really inconveniencing a lot of people.

Cheers, Morons.

Monday, June 20, 2005

Celebrity Exceptions List

For those of you readers who may be woefully ignorant (hi Steve) I thought I would explain the Celebrity Exceptions List.The Celebrities Exception List is the list of the names of no more than 10 celebrities who, no matter what stage your relationship is in, you can sleep with, should the opportunity arise, with NO relationship repercussions. These are your freebies.
So as this is being posted on a blog, future victims, I mean suitors, consider this ample warning.

Celebrity Exceptions
Jon Stewart
Jason Dohring
Ryan Reynolds
Johnny Depp
Christian Bale
Vin Diesel (I know I should be embarrassed, but he's kinda funny and has that voice.)
The Rock (He's funny and his face is on a slurpy cup.)
Matthew McConaughey (Everything from Texas is bigger, right?)
Owen Wilson (allows me to act out my Wes Anderson fetish on someone less ugly than Wes Anderson)
Keith Urban

Tuesday, June 14, 2005

His arrogance, my impatience.

This morning my cell phone rang with an unavailable number. Naturally, as a government worker, I opted to pick up the personal call. It was a caller from John Kerry's office (presumably a volunteer). After listening to various smacking noises and squawking of the WORST Jersey accent I have EVER heard (I went to college in Philadelphia mind you), I finally grasped that this call was an attempt to raise money for Kerry's new child health care legislation by cataloguing how pitiful these children are and how this is my "civic duty." Through her gum smacking (yes, she was chewing gum) she asked me if I wanted to donate a penny for every 10,000 uninsured (sad pitiful violin music background-- pictures of sad cancer patients with beat up teddy bears) children in America. I immediately said "what's that come out to? $200?" Oh don't worry kids, only $110.
I asked if there was a website or literature I could get a hold of where I could read the actual text of the legislation as it stands now. She implied that there wasn't. I told her that I would not donate a cent to this unless I could read the text. She admitted that she could mail me something, and wouldn't I like a $25 donation voucher with it? I told her no, I explained that I'm sure that where to send donations is one of the key bullet items in the literature. I also felt like mentioning that chewing gum while soliciting donations was bad practice and that I already gave John Kerry money and got zero returns... but I refrained.
I love the idea of kids having insurance. I was a poor kid who didn't have medical or dental insurance. I had a tumor in my arm for YEARS until I grew up, got a job and had it removed on my insurance-- and I almost died in surgery and even now can't really depend on my left arm to successfully hold important things like martinis. So I am the last person who would stand against this legislation- provided that it can be transparently funded, doesn't have anything scary attached to it, and that it will actually fulfill its purpose. I have no interest in donating money to Kerry so that he can strut around looking smug. (Ooooh look at me, I have three purple hearts AND I love children. A lot. But not too much.)
Recently I received two email messages from John Kerry. (Ironically I get an equal number of John Kerry junk mail to penis growth junkmail at my hotmail account. In spite of my not having a penis to EN:LARGE, I can't decide which is more useless.) The first was titled "their arrogance, our patience" and the second was titled "messing up." I didn't read either of them because I have enough bitter vitriol without hearing rabid anti-republican raving.
This is yet another episode in a string of: I seriously can't believe that I wanted this guy to be president. I don't particularly feel like having a tirade on what's happened to the democrats, or why Kerry lost, or anything that energetic today; but for crying out loud. I feel like Kerry's attempt to stay fresh in people's minds and achieve more brownie points in preparation for another shot at the presidency is completely masturbatory and embarrassing.
And as you all know I am the last person to use the word masturbation in a negative sense.

Guilty as the day is long!

Sorry, my Oklahoma shows when I get angry.
Can I just mention a few things:
1. If all Michael Jackson has to say for himself is that now he knows not to sleep with little boys, well good for him. Somehow every other man in America who isn't a child molestor intuitively knows that sleeping with children who aren't yours is probably a bad idea. What the bazillion bedrooms in his creepy child-trap compound were all full? He deserves to go to jail for being stupid enough to look that guilty. Especially given that this isn't the first time this has happened.
2. We ought to throw that poor child's mother in jail for puposely endangering her child for profit. She clearly was setting Michael Jackson up to extort him or to have him abuse her son and sue him. But I still don't think that acquits Jackson of being a complete fucktard, or a child molestor.
3. Exciting ways to make yourself look guilty of molesting children:
-Invite children to visit you without their parents.
-Live in an amusement park.
-Let the children sleep in your room.
-Talk about your love of children all the time.
-Act bat-shit crazy.
-When eventually charged with molestation call in you crazy friends to testify- Elizabeth Taylor? Maculy Culkin?
-When previously accused of multiple counts of child molestation, don't go to court, instead pay off their families.
-Sleep in the same bed as a child.
-Molest children.
Now answer this for me, which of these is Jackson not guilty of.

Monday, June 13, 2005

Thank You New Custodian Guy

Thank you for taking my garbage and recycling every day, even when they’re not full.
Thank you for always remembering that the recycling goes on the right and the garbage on the left so that I will not mix up them up as I move papers endlessly.
Thank you for checking me out everyday, but never in a sleazy way.
Thank you for offering to move all those heavy paper boxes today. I hate moving those.
Thank you for asking the overweight secretary if she needed help with her car even when she was only adding oil to the engine.
Thank you for not listening to noisy metal on your walkman, thus not hearing me when I need something.
Thank you for pretending not to notice that I was crying in my cube when I broke up with my boyfriend. Thank you for looking concerned.

I’m sorry that you have a crummy job and that you work with jerks; don’t worry I think they are jerks too. I’m sorry I don’t know your name, because (believe it or not) I am shy and I’m irrationally ashamed that you have to pick up after me. I’m sorry that the enormous woman in the cube behind me was rude to you today, she’s rude to me too.

I will always say please and thank you because I’m grateful you’re here, and I will hand you my recycling and garbage cans and never expect you to squeeze past me to pick them up from under my desk when I am just sitting there. I will never criticize your vacuuming, complain about how long you take to clean the bathroom, or make fun of your Forest Gump attire and haircut.

You are more humble, full of grace, and infinitely kinder than I. You work hard at a job nobody likes or seems to appreciate, and never act grumpy or complain.I respect you, new custodian guy, and I hope you can tell.

The Tibetan Death Plane

Updated 7/27/05*
The Tibetan Death Plane is a concept that I came up with in college (specifically, the day I found out that John Travolta is a licensed pilot). The basic idea is that I pick out all of the celebrities that I hate and place them on a plane bound for the scenic mountains of Tibet. Unfortunately for my least favorite celebrities, the plane is literally going to smash into a scenic mountain in Tibet. I figure that this plan has three prongs (like a seafood fork).

Prong 1. Pick doomed celebrities and organize seating positions. Order of death is important.

Prong 2. Buy plane, fuel, etc. and find way to sabotage it. Bad emergency instructions?
(Please stow your carry-on bags precariously in the open over head bins or in front of the doors labeled Emergency Exit. In case of loss of pressure, please avoid the scary looking plastic bags that may drop from the ceiling. They are completely filled with poisonous snakes. In case of water landing, your movie headphones can be used as a flotation device. Please be sure to remember not to buckle your safety belts as they will ruin your designer frocks; we will leave a reminder light on for the duration of the flight. Thank you for flying TDA.)

Prong 3. Come up with and execute (badum cha) fancy/elaborate ruse to persuade celebrities to board the plane. Feaux charity perhaps? No, not Save Tibet, that's already been done. Maybe Grace Tibet with Your Razor Sharp Cheek Bones? I'll give it some thought.

So we're really only at Prong 1. I've actually been stalled here a while. You see first I was in college, so I was just mostly drunk. Then I had to straighten up and fly right- i.e. write my thesis. Then I was kinda working on some other evil plots which also didn't come to fruition plus I am in my mid/early twenties so I'm still mostly drunk. But, anyway, here's the list as it stands. I'll be updating fairly regularly.

Pilot: John Travolta- Because he has a pilot license (stupid).
On the lap of Pilot so as to be assured of first death: Angelina Jolie- she is a annoying media hound who thinks it's ok to have sex with a sibling as long as you don't produce children.
Co-Pilot: Unassigned

Passenger Roster
Paris Hilton- that's hot.
Avril Lavine- things are about to get a lot less complicated
Ryan Seacrest
Emeril Lagasse- noise he makes when he hits that mountain. "Bam!"
Michael Bolton- no talent ass-clown.
John Bolton- "The time has come," the Walrus said,"To talk of many things:Of shoes--and ships--and sealing-wax--Of cabbages--and kings--And why the sea is boiling hot--And whether pigs have wings."
Scott Adams - Dilbert artist.
Bill Keane- Artist of Family Circus (waiting to suck)
J-Lo- shouldna sang, now she'll sing with the fishes
George Lucas
Nick Cage
Rush Limbaugh
Dennis Kucinich
Pam Anderson
Tommy Lee Jones
Dr. Phil
Tom Green
Carrot Top
Celine Dion
John Tesh
Whitney Houstan
Michael Jackson
Michael Moore
Rush Limbaugh
Toby Keith
Rick Santorum
Brittany Spears
Kate Winslet
Kevin Federline

Book Report 1: Catch Me if You Can

Dear Reader,
My friend/sugar daddy/future spouse/future president Terry ( ) reads all kinds of intriguing books, political whatnot, etc. and reviews them on his blog, address above.As a helpful resource for you I will begin to catalogue the less embarrassing things that I read. This way you can determine whether or not you are interested in reading this crap. Terry is way more patient and thoughtful than I am, so be sure to set your sights nice and low.

So without further ado:

Catch Me if You Can, by Frank Abignale
Should you read this book? Yes.
Is this one of those books written after successful movie? No, asshole.
Type/Genre and Length: autobiography- fairly short. (author's note- yes, I am critiquing length on my blog-- keep that in mind gentlemen.)
Synopsis: 16 year old Frank runs away from home and begins scams all over the world. Popular movie based on this book was not as cool. I promise.
Notes: This guy is completely brilliant and should have been allowed to keep the money. He should also run for president on the Jon Stewart principal. (He is smarter than we are. In fact he was smarter than we are when he was 16.) Also, smart guys are sexy; thus, even though he is in his 60s now I totally still want to do him. We'll put him on my "old guys that I'd still do list".

the Canadian-American 'freindship' must be stopped

No, really. My fellow Americans, how can we be friends with the people who foisted Carrot Top, Celine Dion, Sarah McLaughlin, and Bryan Adams on us? Did you ever really love a woman? Jesus! Come on you guys, their mascot is the beaver!!

We had a Canadian-American Friendship Celebration last Sunday, wherein they closed the main border crossing North of Seattle for 5 hours. I sat for well over an hour at my super secret commercial truck crossing entrance trying to get back from visiting my mother (that traitor!) in Vancouver.Apparently this whole closed border thing was all over the American news, but was it on the news in Canada? No, because some lady in Ontario survived a bear attack. Screw that, you know what's a successful day? When you don't get attacked by a bear. In fact, I have had thousands of bear-free days in succession-- put me on the news, damn it! Did they put the announcement up on the BORDER CROSSING INFORMATION BOARD in advance so that people entering Canada would know that they would be helplessly trapped, forced to listen to Bachman Turner Overdrive, Avril Levine, Bare Naked Ladies, Sum 41, and Celine Dion for an HOUR while trapped behind a convincing look alike of the EXTREME!!!!! truck from Harold and Kumar?? Did a helpful Canadian news anchor remind me to keep at least $1.25 in Canadian cash so that I could buy ice cream while waiting in line?? No!!! I guess the ice cream guys new the border was going to be closed; maybe they were watching the AMERICAN NEWS!

And as for you, Canada, let's just chat about our friendship. What have you done for US lately?

Let me go first, we give you:
-our popular culture
-the ability to have no military force
-someone to foist blame on
-a reason to wear tiny red leaves on everything to show everyone that you are just like Americans, but leafier.
-places to send your refugee doctors (those who would like to repay their student loans)
-the ability to crow about having better hockey players
-one military victory

You give us:
-Ryan Reynolds (now available in the US)
-maple syrup (available in the US)
-t-shirts with beavers on them (also available in the US)
-a place to flee to when drafted (available in Brazil)

Canada, with a friend like you, who needs an enemy? We're just gonna go hang out with Israel and Syria. They're our real friends.

Sunday, June 12, 2005

He has an excuse, he's part gay.

One night the object of a long term infatuation told me that it was cruel how I have the uncanny ability to make men fall in love with me. By that he didn't mean himself.

Tuesday, June 07, 2005

Dairy Queen Gives Fast Food Hegemony the Finger

Last month my roommate, our friend, and my roommate's mother, and I all traveled to Portland. On our return we decided to stop at a Dairy Queen for various 'cool treats.' We gleefully discussed which trademarked frozen confection we desired. My roommate craved the butterscotch dipped cone, her mother a chocolate on chocolate dipped cone, our friend a nice peanut butter cup Blizzard, and I desired the cherry dipped cone. I left my order with my roommate and skittered into the restroom.When I returned the Dairy Queen harpies were laughing and my roommate's mother was looking quite perturbed. They were insisting that Dairy Queens did not have more than one variety of dipped cone, nor did they serve chocolate soft serve. Their DQ had never had any of such freakish and peculiar items. We were appalled, but reasoned that we were in the middle of nowhere and perhaps, that was the problem. Everyone got something else, but I didn't feel like wasting calories on a low quality milkshake.

The next week my roommate and I were out and about and stopped by a nice suburban Seattle DQ. While they had chocolate soft serve, they did not have dipped cones. This dirth of proper food/ good service reminded me of the following incidents:
1. My Mom got a job at a DQ in Oklahoma as a teenager. On her first day she stood excitedly in her red visor and polo shirt being trained in Cool Treat-ology. The man showed her how to make the trademarked three bulb softserve cone and then carefully flipped it over dipping it in the chocolate dip. He then began to turn it right side up when disaster struck: the cone fell to the floor with a crunch. Looking both ways, he picked it up and said, "Well, that happens a lot because of the wrapper. Just dip it again and nobody will notice." Which he did.
2. There was a DQ near to my high school (the DQ has since been closed down-- I think it's a Starbucks now) and my friend worked there. It is probably the only DQ where you could ask for a pickle Blizzard and get it. Actually, most people got them without having asked.

Anyway, thinking back on DQ I started to get angry. Angry enough to send an impassioned email explaining to DQ proper franchising policy. I explained that DQ needed to seek out its roots. Shun the Chocolate Moo-Late, which incidentally comes in a size called Mega-Moo, and return to Peanut Buster Parfaits and the other treats that have become synonymous with DQ. I reasoned that when you go to a MacDonald’s, aside from certain regional considerations, you will always find the same menu. I could go to every MacDonald’s in the state and have the exact same menu. Satisfaction is deciding that you want a certain product, knowing where it is, going there and getting it. I explained that DQ is in a no-man's land, their Hot-Eats not well known enough to attract serious diners (especially their kids meals, which should be their first priority) and their ice-cream quality is not as good as other franchises like Baskin & Robins, Ben & Jerry’s, Hagen Daas, or even local ice cream parlors. But they do have signature Cool Treats, something MOST other ice cream parlors can't boast. I wanted to make sure that they knew that product quality didn't even have to improve. It was a moving and insightful plea.

The response I received:

hank you for contacting International Dairy Queen, Inc. (IDQ) with your concerns regarding the availability of the cherry and butterscotch cone coating at your local Dairy Queen® restaurants.
As you may already know, the majority of Dairy Queen restaurants throughout the United States are independently owned and operated franchises. This being the case, product availability is ultimately left up to the discretion of the franchise operator. Our cherry and butterscotch cone coating are system-wide approved products, although it is not a required, core menu item. Again, the final determination whether or not to offer these flavors of cone coating is made at the restaurant level by the franchise operator. If you have not already done so, please let your local Dairy Queen operators know how much you enjoy, and now miss, our cherry and butterscotch cone coating.
Thank you, once again, for taking the time to share your concerns regarding this product availability issue. We truly hope you will continue to patronize our franchised restaurants and give us the opportunity to serve you again in the near future.
Best regards,
Allison Eicher
Consumer Relations Assistant
International Dairy Queen, Inc.

I was tempted to respond, "WHAT ABOUT CHOCOLATE ICE CREAM???" I mean seriously, what the hell is on the 'core menu' if CHOCOLATE ICE CREAM isn't on there?

Anyway, I used the handy franchise finder on their website and phoned every DQ within 45 minutes of my house (something like 25), might I add I live in a major metropolitan city. So guess how many DQs have the butterscotch dipped cone. TWO. TWO and they are both in the SAME suburb of a completely DIFFERENT city. So the day before yesterday my roommate and I drive all the way to Kirkland (40 minutes) for cones and when we arrive we tell the astonished employees that yes, we are taking a picture of the cone so that we can prove to EVERY DQ in Seattle that it does TOO exist.

Additional thoughts on International Dairy Queen Inc.:
You guys own ORANGE JULIUS!?! What the hell? Do you specialize in restaurants where the food is absolutely inedible? How can you make money selling weenies in the mall? The only thing ANYONE EVER orders there is the Strawberry Julius. You are COMPLETE idiots.

So, in conclusion, International Dairy Queen Inc. way to give it to the man! You show those successful fast food restaurants like MacDonald’s, Burger King, Wendy’s, Taco Bell, Arby's, Jack in the Box, Taco Time, Carl's Junior, Popeye's, Kentucky Friend Chicken, and In and Out Burger that you don't have to kowtow to customers who demand product availability and good service!

DQ, I salute you!

Monday, June 06, 2005

Sweet Sanitized Starbucks

Alliterate me, baby.
I love the clinical nature of Starbucks.
The Olive Garden of java joints,I salute you.
How is it that every Starbucks has no less than one terminally hot guy working there?
Is it in your rule book?
I bet your rule book is green.

Once I was at a Starbucks and I saw a very pretentious sign for a special blend.
A pea-berry blend.
I know! That's exactly what I thought too.
When I got my coffee I gave the obligatory attractive barista a saucy look and said,
"So is the peaberry blend really that good?"
He leaned in close, above the straws and nutmeg and said,
"It beats the hell out of feces-berry."
If I could have vaulted the counter in one leap, I would have.

Saturday, June 04, 2005

My Secret Crush: John Sydney McCain III

So I randomly picked up this book from my library last week; it's called Survivors; True Tales of Endurance. (John B. Letterman) It's a collection of first person narratives written by people who survived against great odds with short introductory historical narratives by Mr. Letterman.
As I am reading, OK skimming (I am ashamed to admit that I pretty much just speedread non-fiction) I hit this section on John McCain. Now here's the embarrassing part. I've been nursing a political crush on McCain for months now.
Call me sick, but everything I hear him on NPR, CNN, etc. he just seems like a really wonderful guy. Wonderful in that, he seems to be smart, strong, and sensible. I heard this interview on NPR a while ago where John Stewart was talking about the qualities he wants in a president. Specifically he mentioned how Kerry worked so hard to seem like an average Joe, but what we (noters) really want (and what Kerry is) is a guy who is stronger and smarter than us. Secretly we want a decorated war-hero with an Ivy League education, not a bubba. You just can't run two 'cool fellers' against eachother. And that's where Stewart thinks that the democrats are losing out on their share of voters. I thought it was because they are not unified on important political issues....
Anyway, this book chunk written by McCain is ghost written, but still, I can't shake the fact that John McCain seems like a pretty damn cool guy. And it looks like the book even came out after McCain's bid for the presidency. Anyway, this morning I requested three more books on McCain, so we'll see what others have to say.
I'm sure that some people (John Steven McMahon III) will email me later to tear him apart, but nothing can come between me and John Sydney McCain III.

Friday, June 03, 2005

A lot of work to put some whale fat on your face.

So my normally adorable roommate sent me on an errand that she volunteered to run for her soon to be mother in-law. I would normally not be snarky about doing favors but...

1. Right now my roommate doesn't have a job. So all day long while I am working she is doing God knows what. She claims that her wedding stuff is taking up all her days. Well, I guess when your wedding is a fucking circus it might take 40 hours a week for over a month. Moreover, I could probably buy one of those Russian Circuses for what this wedding is costing her parents.
2. This favor involved the cosmetic department at Nordstrom. At 8 o'clock at night.

She asked me to run and get her STBMIL a lip pencil. I wrote this down very carefully as I stood in my pajamas and monkey slippers."Ok, so she needs a refillable lip pencil made by Clinique in the color 'garnet.' Ok, I've gotta go, the mall is going to close soon. Nope, got it," I said.
I hung up the phone and put on real clothes, grabbed Ari (my handbag), and hit the road. I arrived at the mall and parked by Macy's. I went to the Clinique counter and the heavily East-Europeany accented woman asked if I needed help. Ari gave me the sticky note and I told her that I needed a refillable lip pencil in 'garnet.' She told me, "Clinique does not make refillable pencils, only sharpenable ones." I don't really know the difference, so I told her, "that's fine, can I have a pencilly one in Garnet?" Being that I pretty much didn't give a shit and was running out of cell minutes, I just decided to roll with it. She, without looking, responded, "Oh, we don't have anything in Garnet, perhaps you mean Granite? Maybe you mean Mac?" I wanted to say, "Look Natasha, I wrote it down on a sticky, and GRANITE is NOT the same as GARNET. Oh and don't try to jerk me around. Obviously I don't wear makeup, but even I know that Mac is really expensive." Instead I pasted on my smile and told her that I would go check.Instead of checking I went to Norstrom. At that Clinique counter, I told the girl the EXACT same thing that I just told the girl at Macy's. She said, "Ok, let's see, I don't think we make it in Garnet."
It was now 8:45 and the mall voice was telling me to take my shit to the nearest available counter. "Uhm, give me a second." So I called STBMIL. "They don't make it in Garnet, any ideas of what it might be." "Oh God, I don't know, just get something you would wear. Something pinky-purple." "Uhm, Ok."
I tell the girl she has similar coloring to mine and wants something purply-pink. We then draw lines all over her hands looking for something both purply and pinky. Finally we narrowed down to three. THREE very distinct colors. It was now 3 minutes to close. I knew that I was going to have to walk all the way around the outside of the mall because Macy's doors would be locked and I was not happy. I called again. "Ok, sky violet, plummy day, or pansy; anything sound familiar?" "No." "You want the dark one or the light one?" "Give me plum." "Ok, thanks." I bought the plum and went home.
This morning I told my roommate about this and her response was, "Thank God I didn't have to go."
I've got a shotgun, but can anyone loan me a shovel?

Thursday, June 02, 2005

Nice to meet you too, Miss VanCunt

So this woman at work signs her name:
V. Gina (last name withheld)
Now, what the hell kind of first name is worse than having to sign your name, vagina? Furthermore, if I were to decide to go by my middle name, I wouldn’t bother using my first initial at all, especially if my name was Tanya Watts (last name withheld).

No, seriously, stop accusing me of having sex with your Yanni-loving boyfriend.

So I got home last night and, lacking the will to cook, went next door and banged on the door. My next-door neighbor, let's call him Suzie, (he has a girl's name, don't blame me-- it's his parents fault) is really pretty cool and I had hoped he was available for dinner.

To be quite honest, and let's be honest with each other, darling, I would spend a lot more time with Suzie, if I wasn't terrified of his girlfriend, let's call her Karl (she has a boy's name so it's still not my fault). Karl is a pretty awesome chick and if it wasn't for her insanely paranoid jealousy/self-esteem problem she would be totally fun to hang with. Unfortunately, she comes between my friendship with Suzie and he comes between my friendship with Karl. Needless to say this makes social occasions a tad bit awkward. You know all about awkward, you know, it's like this one time when a mutual friend of Karl and yours truly invited my roommate and me to a bar where she introduced me as Suzie's other girlfriend. (Seriously I was over at Suzie's talking music and playing x-box. Not even sexy strip-x-box. And only a few times, and usually with at least one of his boys there.) Anyway, my roommate, who we'll call Veruca (hey, she made up her own first name, so clearly she can't be too attached to the real one), and I laughed nervously.

Ha, ha, ha, ha.

Then Karl said to me, "Stop having sex with my boyfriend." Everyone in the crowd laughed as I said, "I'll stop when he stops being so darn sexy." And then Karl said, "I mean it, stop having sex with my boyfriend." We all laughed and looked around at each other nervously. I joked that I couldn't possibly touch Suzie, he listens to Yanni. There was a bit more laughter and I guess I played it off ok. She repeated this enchanting performance throughout the evening and then at the end of the night invited Veruca and me to dinner. Being that there is no polite way to turn down dinner, even if it involves antifreeze coladas, we agreed. The dinner party was strained, but I survived.

Anywho, after that I pretty much stopped hanging out with Suzie and we started keeping our door locked. A while ago I realized that just because Karl is deranged and jealous, doesn't mean that I shouldn't hang out over there, especially since Suzie just modded his x-box. Additionally, if she can't control her weirdness and they break up, maybe they are both better off. (As long as she doesn't kill us both and spend life in jail. That would pretty much suck.) So when I did start hanging out with Suzie again I responded to his question about my noted absence by telling him that Karl's jealous behavior freaked me out.

Which brings us back around to banging on Suzie's door at dinnertime. Suzie finally came to the door and happily agreed to go to Thai at the spiffy joint across the street. We ordered the food and had wonderful conversation as usual. Suzie took the bill, which is fine, and I told him that it was my turn next time; thus proving the event to not be a date-- in case Karl was secretly filming the event. We got back to the apartment and we were chatting about whatever when Suzie decided to share a brief anecdote. Suzie told me his perspective of our initial meeting. Veruca and I were returning from our monthly Arby's pilgrimage when we spied two people carrying boxes into the elevator. We hurried to catch up with them knowing that we had neighbors moving in that day. In our characteristically wacky way we scurried up to them and said, "Hi! Are you guys moving into 602?" The man looked at us quizzically and replied, "I am." We introduced ourselves and told him to pop on over anytime and that we would be leaving a dinner invite on his door 'super-soon.' Apparently, while we were prattling on he was thinking, "hmmmm, I live next to two extremely friendly and outgoing girls, who also happen to be pretty cute. Poor Karl."

This of course freaks me out because apparently Suzie is aware of his girlfriend's little problem, and doesn't care? Worse yet, aids and abets this behavior. Yipes. Furthermore, you are not allowed to buy a girl dinner, tell her how sad you are that she's moving because she's just so darn cool, and then tell her she's cute when you have a scary over-jealous girlfriend who could have bugged the room and could decide to snipe me on the way to Jamba Juice.