Oct
23
October 23, 2007
By posting the pictures of our newly operational and yuppified kitchen, I probably gave the impression that the remodel was finished and that the contractors had vacated our house once and for all, but sadly, NO. One thing I’ve learned about a remodel is that whatever you think the scope of the work is, the actual work will be much more extensive because everything you touch impacts something else—so if you create a new entryway into your house, that will screw up the flooring that was in that area, and you’ll have to have some swarthy ponytailed motherfucker camp out in your house for days on end while he tries to figure out how to weave in new hardwoods to match the existing (currently, he’s “not sure” how to match the color. Sweet).
When I got home yesterday—after a particularly irritating exit from Workplace where 1) I stumbled on the ridiculously expensive, impractical cobblestone driveway and actually fell to the ground like a lumbering pregnant buffoon/buffalo (note: no injuries were sustained save for my dignity), and 2) I nearly had to go back inside and weepily ask that whoever’s car was parked right next to mine move, because my GIANT BELLY couldn’t fit through my partially-opened door (with some grunting and wedging, I did finally manage it, but jesus, it was distressingly close)—Mr. Swarthy was still dorking around with the flooring, rendering the entryway into the kitchen inaccessible, and I am only partially ashamed to confess that I nearly cried.
“It’s only for tonight,” JB said, trying to placate me, and I may have gotten little shrieky about how I NEEDED! ACCESS! To! The OVEN! (See, you need an oven to make cookies.) Plus, we had gotten rid of all our temporary food/utensil storage, and so literally everything we needed was in the kitchen, on the other side of Flooring Zone. That was about when Swarthy announced he couldn’t figure out what stain to use, and thankfully departed, leaving a giant cloud of “dustless” dust from the sander in his wake (another Handy Contractor Tip: anyone who says their floor sander is dustless is so full of shit he squeaks going into turns).
So anyway, they still need to fix the floors, install some trim, paint some remaining areas, wrap up some electrical work, and the driveway needs to be finished. But hey, we’re very very close, and as long as the kitchen is up and running (and I can get IN it), I’m cool.
In unrelated news, I have to say that as a Tarantino fan I was greatly disappointed in Death Proof. My coworker, whose opinion on movies I respect and nearly always agree with, says he thinks the film was genius, so I’m obviously missing something because I thought that watching it was like having Tarantino’s sweaty dick on my shoulder, bonking me in an annoying fashion as he furiously whacked off to the bevy of big-titted beauties he cast in the movie. Excepting a few really decent scenes, I just wanted him to get the fuck off me. Stop forcing me to take part in your indulgent masturbatory cinematic spooge, Quentin.
(In comparison, Rodriguez’s contribution at least felt like he was giving me the common goddamn courtesy of a reach-around.)
Well, as long as this entry has taken the regrettable turn that it has, I may as well tell you that I saw a video on the internet recently that was so disturbing it seems to have lodged itself in my brain, and the only way I can purge myself of the evil is by telling you: I saw a man giving a dolphin a blow job. And yes, there was a . . . oh my god . . . a happy ending. For the dolphin, anyway. I mean, not that I can be sure the dolphin was happy to have a human manipulating its, um, anatomy, but there was evidence that a biological function occurred and—ANYWAY. So now at the most random of moments, when my mind is otherwise occupied with vague pleasantries related to the startlingly sunny October weather we’re having in Seattle, or the many cookie recipe choices I have at my disposal, suddenly out of NOWHERE I’ll hear this Flipper sound in my head—eh-eh-eh-eh-eh-eh—and I’ll see that dolphin. And I’ll wonder just what the hell kind of bad wiring a guy has to have in his hat-rack to wake up in the morning and decide that you know what, TODAY’S the day I finally fellate that there bottlenose. I mean, carpe diem and all that, but jesus. Go whack off on somebody’s shoulder like the normal skeezebags, dude.
Oct
21
October 21, 2007
Psst. Hey. Hey, do you hear that noise? Yeah, that noise. I think it’s . . . well, I can’t be sure, but I think it just might be the sound of A THOUSAND FUCKING ANGELS SINGING A GLORY-FILLED HALLELUJAH.
Can I get an amen.
Oh baby, oh baby, that’s right, show me allllllll your storage. Show me how you hold alllllll my pots and pans and boxes of brownie mix. Oh yeah.
Old Kitchen, I’m sorry. We had some okay times. But I’ve moved on. It only took 39281475 months, but I’ve moved on.
How did I spend my weekend? Cooking various fattening things, including Swistle/Quaker’s Oatmeal Scotchies (laptop as recipe book! GENIUS, as long as you don’t get cookie dough on the case. In which case there is nothing to do, you must lick it clean). I never thought I’d be so excited to use an oven, and you don’t even want to know what I did when we turned on the dishwasher for the first time. It may have involved an unfortunate dance move featuring a vigorous ass-slapping manuever.
Oh! As if that’s not enough excitement for one weekend, BEHOLD:
I’m . . . sorry, were you maybe taking a sip of a beverage just now? Sorry about that. Here’s a tissue.
JB’s fancy new hairdo is the result of a very successful fundraising activity his office is doing, where individuals raise money and the company matches dollar for dollar. Thanks to his promise that he’d spend this week sporting a red-dyed mohawk, he and one other coworker raised about $5,000 total. JB’s donating his half to Fred Hutchinson Research Center. Not bad for a guy who appears to be trying really, really hard to look like Chuck Liddell.
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