No one's gloomy or complaining while the flatware's entertaining.

Today I typed the following into Google: "do rats need to live in pairs?"
I received some articles and the following suggestion:
"Did you mean: do rats need to live in Paris?"
Why, yes, yes I did. Sadly Google had very little to tell me in response to the titillating question.

In college I worked in the kitchens for a while and they used a brand of cling-wrap called Purity Wrap. This was hilarious at a women's college. Well, hilarious to me, as a boyfriended person.

After my frustrated blog-outburst this morning, I have since gotten a few more promising job calls and feel moderately better. Waffles and bacon. That's how I feel now.

Is there any word you can Google and not get anime images? Try waffle, raccoon, and oh say, bacon. I dare you.

Today a Japanese friend of mine who now lives in New York made some comment about American consumerist society, at which point I choked on my drink. From a denizen of the land of Prada bathroom slippers. The land where 'to go to Starbucks' has its own verb (Sutaabaru). Yea, she can blow me.

Goodbye Blog, Hello Cthulhu

I am going to be out of town to organize and attend my uncle's memorial service. I probably will not update my blog until Monday.

In my absence, I leave you in the capable tentacles of Cthulhu.

















I, for one, would like a cookie.

Arch-Nemesis rears ugly head. Twice

So in college there was this girl who I will call she-who-must-not-be-named, and she was a Jewish Princess (her phrase not mine) and was basically single white femaling my best friend. She was always there with her inexplicable possy of south asian women, making ridiculous comments and thrusting about the bedazzled contents of their designer t-shirts.
She may have been stealing my best friend’s life, but the thing that most bothered me about she-who-must-not-be-named, besides her brown-nosing, her snooty attititude, and her performative Jewishness, was her constant blathering about Alan Alda and Isreal.
I swear to God, every sentence was either “My uncle, Alan Alda…” or “This one time at our house in Isreal….” The bitch was crazy. CRAZY. She was bragging about a house in Isreal. Now don’t get me wrong, but I like my summer houses to be further from suicide bombers if at all possible. You know Nantucket, Rhode Island, anyplace not Israel. I always wondered if she was going for the “poor thing, trapped in a war zone and nobody but Alan Alda, star of the Emmy winning series MASH, understands the pain she feels as she fights for a greater understanding of her mysterious God.” Except the part where she only went to Seder when it was a combined Seder with Haverford, thus men were in attendance and was from a lovely neighborhood in Manhattan.
Having left Bryn Mawr, I thought I would be free of the her menace. But twice my week has been shattered with she-who-must-not-be-named-ness. Yesterday the indie bookstore that I frequent sent out their normal calendar. Blah blah blah famous author… blah blah local jazz trio… blah blah dorky science lecture (what I am interested in)… ALAN ALDA.
Alan Alda will be here on 9/17 to promote his new book Never Have Your Dog Stuffed. For this special event, receive two tickets to hear Alan Alda speak when you purchase your copy of the book. Tickets will be available when the book goes on sale September 14! There is no reserve seating. Tickets will secure your place in the signing line. Tickets available while supplies last.
I know that it is very sad that poor Alan Alda can’t go anyway without sharing the shame of his wife's sister’s child; but, if you had met this girl, you would understand.
And yesterday this abomination arrived in my work email:

Angela's little one has arrived!!

Hawkeye made his entrance into the world on Friday July, 28th at 10:46 am.

He weighed 9.5 lbs... Yikes!

I am told that he has dark hair with blue eyes. No pictures yet though =(

I am absolutely not shitting you. I have no idea why such intelligent, educated and generally awesome people have decided to punish an innocent baby. I think that somewhere out there she-who-must-not-be-named is twisting her mustache and cackling.