May 2007 Archives

I would have thought my croquet skills would have been about average. I'm a decent mini-golfer and, dude, I totally hit par on Wii golfing. But no, I just suck. It didn't help that I was doing okay at the beginning and then kept getting knocked out of the way by faster balls or poison balls, or that the grass was a little long, or that it was getting dark. I was so far behind everyone that they kept forgetting I was still playing. They were all clustered around the final two wickets debating who had the better shot and I was all back three wickets feebly tapping my ball only to watch it slowly advance two inches. I was all, "Hey guys, it's my turn!" and they would turn patiently and watch me, but it was like they were busy swimming laps and I was in the shallow end making them stop and look at my cute orange floaters.

I spent the weekend alternately eating, watching excellent Memorial Day movies on television (Kill Bill, vol. 1 and 2), drinking, and watching some more television (Run's House marathon). J and I went out to dinner one night and on the way back "Stayin' Alive" came on the radio and we cracked ourselves up watching people walk around and imagining they were strutting to the song. It worked particularly well with men in wifebeaters.

Because I'm a super sucker for free stuff, I'd signed up a long time ago for a 7UP challenge to be mailed to me. They send you a can of 7UP, a can of Sierra Mist, and a can of Sprite, and instruct you how to conduct your own blind taste test. This is exactly the kind of thing that appeals to me, y'know. Free stuff, meaningless challenges, testing people.

So we rigged up a screen and some A, B, and C tags and switched off testing each other and then my parents. Let me tell you one thing: these sodas taste almost exactly the same. We got the diet versions, so maybe that has something to do with it, but no one had a clear, distinct favorite, and everyone sipped the samples numerous times trying to figure out if one had a more punchy lemon lime taste. In the end, J and I both went for the Sierra Mist and my parents both went for the Sprite. I realized 7UP didn't include any sort of "report back to us with results!" and this was probably why. With all of them tasting nearly identical, I guess the best they could hope for was a 33% figure.

The weather here has been rediculous. I woke up to shining blue skies and a warm breeze and by the afternoon, it was like the 7th plague out there.

Come save me soon, because I don't want to be around for the locusts. (Unless it's this kind of Locust and it's in Tempe, in which case: bring it, Rich!)

Man, my arms are all sore. From boxing. On a Wii. Our friend left his Wii at our house last week and it's been a nonstop fake sport party ever since. Play golf at 8pm? Sure! Box some weird scraggly guy who looks like The Dude? KO in two rounds. Canoe around a lake while trying to gather special points bubble? Ehh, can't quite do that one yet. But soon. J and I both created miis, so when we play against one another there's an added layer of super competitiveness. It doesn't so much suck to lose as it sucks to watch your pansy mii weep while the other mii does a victory dance. Jerk victory mii.

The fun of playing these games reminds me of when Heather and I holed up for an entire weekend one summer because we'd rented a Nintendo Game Genie from Blockbuster and were putting it to good use. Good use included having infinite lives on Arkanoid so that we could get to the final level that looks like a face and is full of unbreakable gold bricks and also lasers shooting at you. We eventually defeated the game, but it took every bit of that infinite life business, and I don't think you can convince me anyone ever beat that game without the aid of a Game Genie. That weekend we also defeated Super Mario Brothers. Then we drank like three malts apiece and probably never picked up a controller again.

It turns out our nerdiness was only in hibernation, though. As soon as computer games became the new video games, we were on that shit like a thief on a potion. We were mostly engrossed with Quest for Glory series and did pretty well. We had to periodically chase my brother out of the room because he didn't like playing the game so much as buying the hint book, reading it cover to cover, and then trying to tell us all the secrets.

Around this time, we also discovered the internet. And can I just tell you that our favorite pastime was to log into random internet sites, give ourselves screen names that had the words "vampire" or "amazon" or "wench" in the title and try to find "cute guys." Remember this is the dawn of the chat room era and we were, oh, FOURTEEN. Our method for finding "cute guys" was to pick a name that sounded "cute" like, I don't know, Owen or Tyler or whatever name we thought could only belong to the cutest boys ever, and then randomly seeing if they were available to chat. And wouldn't you know it, most of them were! Luckily, my mom, who was in no way more versed in the ways of chat rooms or the possible evils of internet predators, was a good mom and gave us time limits for the computer, keeping us from chatting with Todds all night long. This might also have to do with the fact that we had dial up and were paying by the minute or something.

Once we gave out my phone number and some "cute boys" called us. They wanted to meet up, but my mom said over her dead body would she drive us to meet some internet boys and we were all, "That's so uncool. A mall IS a public place!"

But then we got over it and started going to gothy dance clubs in Boulder with some new friends we met in high school.

I promised J I'd come back upstairs for some Wii bowling. I'm a little nervous that I'll get so good at the video game that I'll be unpleasantly surprised the next time I go to pick up an actual 12 pound ball and try to pitch it down the lane.

Unsurprisingly, the ANTM finale was nothing too special, though I did have Jaslene and Renee's places switched. Krista made the point that Renee has been the villain the entire season, so of course they couldn't have her win. Fair enough. I had to go back and look to see how old the girl was after the entire show centered around how freakin' haggard she looked. Dudes: 20. Natasha had a baby, too, so it's not the baby-making that makes you look old. My money's on the lifetime of smoking and tanning. Poor Renee. If someone had told me she was 34, I would not have been surprised. I would have thought, man, she looks good for 34! But 20? Sad. I feel the same way about Erica Durance, who looks great if she was 37 instead of 29.

My favorite part of the episode was Tyra being all, "Do you feel like the girls resent you for being from Russia when this is America's Next Top Model?" And Natasha was all, "Uh, nooo..." Leave it to Tyra's passive aggressive producing to introduce a non-existent conflict into the last thirty minutes of the show! Brilliant. Though my question would have been more along the lines of, "Do you feel the other girls are completely weirded out that you seem to be a mail order bride?"

My entire faith in Lost has been renewed now that they have a definite end in sight. Hey check it, did you see the screen captures of invisible Jacob? Crazypants. I have no idea where anything's going, but I did fall into their sappy little trap and get all misty-eyed at the thought of Charlie having to sacrifice himself for Claire and Aaron. That, my friends, is what happens when you watch Lost after drinking too many White Russians. "The night I met you" written in Sharpie makes you all sentimental.

This weekend I am going clothes shopping. This is a big deal. Every season, I get really throw away-y and toss all the clothes that shrunk weird or I suddenly hate, thinking that I'll just buy new clothes when I need them. The flaw in this thinking is believing I will actually have more money in the future than I do at the current time. So what inevitably happens is that the season changes, I pull down my box of stored clothes, and discover exactly two tops and three bottoms, plus some old flipflops or a pair of boots. Which I then have to wear repeatedly because they are my only clothes. But this weekend is all about changing that, though I feel a bit lost without my beloved H&M. It turns out clothes can be expensive if you don't buy them from H&M. The problem is I need to actually dress a little worse, then Stacy and Clinton will appear and hand me a $5,000 credit card and tell me not to buy skinny jeans.

I missed last week's finale of "The Amazing Race" and had to tape it, so I'd been avoiding any spoiler news. I made it an entire week without hearing a peep from the internet, the television, or any live person. Which, when you think about it only means that I'm the only person on earth who watches this show, much less cares about the outcome of the All-Stars edition. To a lesser degree, I should have also taken the hint that it might have been the most boring finale ever, with the completely nondescript team winning over the endearing, tough-as-nails blonds and the team with a little person and her weird cousin who gained random thick accents whenever they talked to a foreign person or taxi driver.

Big letdown. I do not, however, fear that the ANTM finale tomorrow will bear similarly yawn-inducing results. If for no other reason than we will mostly likely be three White Russians to the wind by the time Trya announces a winner. Look: if you aren't planning on drinking White Russians at your finale party tomorrow, something has gone horribly wrong with the part of your brain that thinks up themed food. It's okay, there's still time to purchase the Kahlua and vodka. Which just leaves the rest of the party food. Any ideas? Dionne's Mean Texas Chili? Jasleen's Spicy Tamales? Rene's "I'm Doin' This For My Kid's Future" Pawned Pearl Cookies?

After several summers during high school and college spent hostessing at various restaurants, I swore I would never get behind the podium again. But that's exactly what I did Sunday night, ushering people to their tables, handing out menus, and pushing extra chairs up to accommodate big parties. But this time, it was raising money for breast cancer, which made everything alright. The drinking ladies group I'm in, LUPEC, puts on a "Breakfast for Boobs" every year, where a local diner donates their space and some cooks and we strap on aprons and make our husbands and boyfriends bus tables. The money raised goes to breast cancer organizations (the big one, and a great local one that donates therapeutic massages to women going through breast cancer treatments). It was actually a lot of fun, though I think the fact that all the customers were friendly and supportive and not cranky and demanding makes all the difference in the world.

While I'm still only one of two Bunnette videos up there, I got an email from Crazy Legs that strongly suggested there would be entries up soon by ladies named Pink Snow, Trixie, and Dani. Crazy Legs works at the Penthouse Executive Club. My ego doesn't want to talk about it right now.

My weekend kicked some ass. Of course, this weekend falling on Cinco de Mayo, the awesomeness had to involve margaritas. We thought it would be a beautiful day and we would sit in our friends John and Aubrey's yard and sip on drinks. But instead it rained a lot. The upside to this was that we drove by a building that had been struck by lightning.

I've never seen a freshly hit by lightning building!

When we arrived at the house, John had made a pitcher of margaritas with a secret ingredient.

I know, you think this is gross. But let me tell you something: beer is an excellent ingredient in margaritas. It adds just a hint of carbonation, cuts the sweetness a little, and makes the whole thing just the right amount of frothy.

Put this stuff in a blender:

1.5 cups limeade
.5 cup triple sec
(or two cups margarita mix)
1 cup tequila
1/2 can of beer (though I'm sure a corona would work well, too)
squirt of lime
lots of ice

Blend, pour, enjoy.

I'm not crazy. This works like zucchini in chocolate cake. The margaritas made us ravenous and we walked up to the local tamale shop and bought a bag full of green chili cheese ones. I could have eaten at least three more than we got, but probably not 53.5. The evening blurred a little after that, but we somehow got roped into a pub quiz downtown and more drinking. Unfortunately the drinking didn't involve much water, which made going to the Denver Diner sound like a really good idea after we failed to finish in first place at the quiz. How is it that we remembered Mariah Carey and Boyz II Men joined forces to record "One Sweet Day" but we drew a blank on who Danica McKellar was? Damn.

The next morning we went out for brunch for my mom's birthday. Can I just tell you that bananas foster, cheesecake, and Oreos played a large role in my meal?

The night before our friend Micah asked if we were interested in seeing an Elvis Costello show. For free! Of course, there is only one answer to that question.

Rock! He did an acoustic version of "Allison" that killed me dead.

Today I came home from work and there was a package in the mail for me. I thought it was my May letter from the Modern Letter Project. But there was no letter, only hot dogs!

The only person I could think of that would send me hot dog earrings is Krista, but she denied it. It's a mystery. Did you send me hot dog jewelry?

So, here's the thing. I'm trying out to be a Bunnette. What is a Bunnette you ask? Bunnettes are those lovely ladies who stand behind the competitive eaters during the 4th of July Nathan's Hot Dog Competition and hold up signs indicating how many dogs and buns have been consumed. In the past, the Bunnette selection was handled from the inside, but this year they opened it up as a contest of sorts. You send in a video, people vote on videos, top videos become Bunnettes.

Why am I doing this? I love this competition. The eaters are great people. Also, after spending like 8 hours in 90-degree heat and 95% humidity on the press stand last year, I am definitely ready to cover this story from a different angle. Who doesn't want the behind-the-scenes-my-life-as-a-Bunnette story? No one.

I should also note that I agonized over this for a while, because while last year's Bunnette's didn't offer much anxiety (cute ladies in somewhat frumpy jean skirts and giant vests), the Wingettes, who are pretty much strippers who populate the Wing Bowl, offered a lot of anxiety. Were they doing this contest to up the sexy factor and make the Bunnettes more strippery? In the end, I wanted to do it enough that I just went with my gut and made something that I hoped would make people laugh.

So, here is my video. The voting hasn't started yet, but I'll be sure to let you know. Because if there is anything more embarrassing than trying out to be a Bunnette, it is trying and failing. People, don't let me fail!

I did something this weekend that has the potential to be the most embarrassing thing I've ever done. Very possibly. But the nature of the thing will eventually be quite public, so I will supply you with the appropriate link when the time comes. Also, I will need your help eventually.

* * *

This weekend was the first very warm one of the year. It felt distinctly like summer, but the nice kind of summer where everything is pleasant and not killing you with deadening heat and mosquitos and high air conditioning bills. It was also a weekend to enjoy in a backyard. When we moved into our place, fence in the back was missing. Our landlords told us the previous tenants had run the fence over with a car, destroyed the house, and left it abandoned. The landlords promised to fix the fence as soon as possible.

I should note, for sake of clarity, that our place backs up to an alley and commercial parking lot, which is on one of the busiest streets in Denver. So we didn't have much privacy. And we often had to pick trash out of our yard that had blown in from the alley. The yard is nice. There was just no fence between us and Bum #4 pushing his cart down the street. So we were understandably excited for the privacy fence.

Before the cold weather set in, our landlord put up a chunk of the fence. It covered most of the open area, with large gaps on either side. We waited all winter, picking trash out of snowbanks. Then, finally, it was spring and perfect weather for fence-building. The landlord told us he would be over one afternoon to put up the rest of the fence. We were gone all day and came home to...something. It was obvious (to me) that whatever he did wasn't finished yet. There was a gate over the main walk-through gap, but it was a completely different wood than the rest of the fence. Also? It was made up of slim, ladder-like horizontal slats with six-inch gaps between them. Additionally, the gate did not reach the wall. It looked like this:

We waited a couple days, but when I tentatively asked if the gate was, in fact, finished, the landlords answered: yes. It was a new design! I carefully explained that while the design was nice, it offered no privacy. It offered the exact same view as if there were no fence at all.

The next day, the landlord was there, examining the fence and looking very grumpy. He was not happy that I had complained. He emphasized the unique design quality of the fence. I emphasized the dirty alley and the parking lot. He told me he had to think beyond us and think about what future tenants might find desirable. I said they would probably find a backyard with no view of the busy street more desirable than what he called a "neat design feature." He got huffy and told me that he thought he knew a thing or two more than me about renting and selling houses.

He grumpily conceded that if I wanted some privacy, maybe he could attach something to the fence. Like opaque PLEXIGLASS. Y'know, like a shower stall! At this point, I was too bewildered to counter with anything reasonable. I asked if we would attach a string to the gate latch so it could be opened from inside. He sighed heavily and said the point of the first design was to avoid anything as ugly as a string. He said he could cover the top and bottom slats with the plexiglass and leave a couple middle slats open so you could reach your hand through to unlatch the gate.

Much more reasonable than a string. He tried to sweeten me up by telling me how cool it was that we could put a padlock on the gate latch when we left, as an added security feature. Which would be awesome if the gate wasn't, oh I don't know, a freaking LADDER. Or if there wasn't a large gap to the left of the gate where someone could just mosey on through.

We did some very polite bickering back and forth and we both left angry. I called and vented to J. I called and vented to my mom. I kept thinking that I wanted to meet the ONE person who would prefer to have this gate that peered into the parking lot and alley than have a private backyard in a busy area. And the plexiglass! Was he crazy?

After an excruciating 24 hours, where I relived the whole conversation no less than half a dozen times for various friends who came over (and who all asked unprompted, "So what's up with the gate?"). Then, on Sunday, I came home from some errands and found, to my delight, a whole fence. A totally normal, boring, keep-the-public-from-seeing-your-every-move fence! And I could tell the landlord was peeved and thought we didn't have any taste and thought this was the equivalent of giving a whiney toddler generic box mac and cheese after his gourmet three-cheese blend homemade stuff was turned down. Like, "There, are you happy now?!"

But we totally are.