celebrate the moments of your life!

Remember when we were little and white ladies on TV sat on wicker porch furniture and got all horny reminiscing about French waiters and shit?

This holiday, I'm thankful for You Tube.

a dialogue. in pictures.

a new day is dawning.

[Sometimes the world looks perfect.
Nothing to rearrange.]

You guys! Fabulous news…

[Sometimes you just
Get a feelin' like you need some kind of change!]

Catmo just moved to Chicago!

[No matter what the odds are this time,
Nothing's gonna stand in my way!]

Even better news? She starts her new job tomorrow!

[Standing tall!]

Which means it’s only a matter of time until blogging opportunities pop up in between Diet Coke breaks.

[On the wings of my dreams!]

Perhaps, Catherine, it’s best to focus on actually working right now, it being your first week and all.

But your legions of loyal fans (and by “legions” I mean me, Mike Brzica and the occasional, well-meaning stalker who meanders over here from the hyperlink on your MySpace profile) eagerly anticipate the next time you’ll have a few gobs of salary-based time to squander.

[Rain and thunder, wind and haze
I'm bound for better days!]

We value those nuggets of creative energy in a way Michigan Avenue can’t.

[It's my life!
It's my dream!]

So when it feels right?

[Nothing's gonna stop me now.]

Blog on blogger.

America or burst!

It's only a matter of time... and the pending return of a more regular schedule, actual obligations, etc.

After a brief hiatus, I see a quietly triumphant return to the blogging world on the horizon - possibly kicked off by a "How I Spent My Summer Vacation" essay titled "How I Spent Three Glorious Weeks of Experimental Unemployment." Said essay will include an ode to Portland, a shout out to trundle beds and a heartfelt CompuServe eulogy.

However, because I'm starting a new job where my reputation and salary are on the line, I might call for a name change. Something like, "Working at work."

discover me discovering you.

Lady 1: Zombie John Mayer #2 is my bartender.

Lady 2: Did you sleep with Zombie John Mayer? Did his undead penis fall off when you touched it?

Lady 1: Yes and Yes. It's still inside me, decomposing in my dark, moist uterus.

Lady 2: You know it's going to kill you from the inside out.

Lady 1: It's going to turn into a Zombie Kyle Bowling Fetus.

Lady 2: Only with gray skin and musical talent. Your host body is a wonderland.

i've never seen such a gossamer blouse.

Being that this blog is entitled "Fucking Around at Work", I felt compelled to share with you all that Catherine recently put in her two weeks and will soon graduate (temporarily) from the "working world" onto the glorious stage of life known as "transition". I could not be more proud.

While I hope to continue fucking around at work, Catherine will now be able to fuck around from a variety of cyber spaces. But I'm guessing most frequently from the Saddlecreek Panera wifi spot. Or via her parents' CompuServe dial-up circa 1996.

To celebrate Catherine's last Casual Friday, please enjoy these great moments in office-centric cinema. You'll laugh. You'll cry. You'll download Yaz's "Only You" off iTunes. TGIF!

whoa.

If I achieved celebrity status and was subsequently asked to put together an iTunes celebrity playlist from the purchased music on my computer at work

Us - Regina Spektor
Favorite Regina Spektor song.

Phantom Limb - The Shins
Not entirely sure?

Breathe Me - Sia
It makes me tired, especially when my space heater's on, but I like the way she says "ouch."

Falling Slowly - Glen Hansard and Marketa Irglova
Nothing like falling in love with a Czechoslovakian stranger.

Only You - Yaz
Insanely romantic in a grab a Fruit Roll-Up, let's go watch Flight of the Navigator in the den sort of way,

Crushed Bones - Why?
My little brother introduced me to it, thus signifying the end of his Barenaked Ladies phase and the beginning of something much more tolerable.

This Year - The Mountain Goats
Although I rarely, if ever, get beaten by my stepfather, it's my anthem for '07.

If You Need a Reason - Mason Jennings
Something to listen to when God doesn't give me the things I ask for... like inner peace or ponies wearing shoes.

The Ringing in My Ears - Her Space Holiday
Reminds me of late nights in Creighton's journalism lab, talking shit about public safety, comfortably oblivious to the notion that one day, there will be bigger fish to fry than Red Bull stains on computer screens.

Mambo, Italiano - Dean Martin
The DJ played this no fewer than nine times at my cousin's Big Fat Italian Wedding reception. It's appeal is either rooted in nostalgia or masochism.

When U Love Somebody - Fruit Bats
Still debating whether or not love really tastes like a bitten tongue.

Last Night (Remix) - Diddy featuring Lil Kim, Busta Rhymes, Big Boi, Rich Boy, Yung Joc & Keyshia Cole
Makes me want to dance like only a select group of people is watching.

Bleed to Love Her - Fleetwood Mac
Imagining life's soundtrack over Camel Lights in the passenger seat of Annie Reap's mom's Saturn.

Tonight I Have to Leave It - Shout Out Louds
An NPR discovery.

Come Around (feat. Timbaland) - M.I.A.
Thanks, Annie.

Great Ghosts - The Microphones
A staple of seven hour drives to and from St. Louis. Appropriate for daylight, but detrimental once the road gets dark and Mary Clare falls asleep.

If Looks Could Kill - Camera Obscura
The first nine seconds remind me of a Chips Ahoy commercial, and the rest makes me wish I could sing.

Imitosis - Andrew Bird
If I ever choreograph a dance, it will be to this song. Leotards for everyone.

completely inappropriate. and therefore, completely hilarious. at least to us.

Me: someBODY once told me the WORLD is gonna roll me…

Catherine: I aint the sharpest tool in the she-ed!

Me: What if you had to have sex with the lead singer of Smashmouth RIGHT NOW or someone would kill your dog?

Catherine: He like, got arrested for rape or something. And I'd do it - even if my dog was safe.

me: I’d do it because I have a soft spot for rapists. I’m super attracted to them.

Catherine: Me too - I like it when the guy's in control of the situation.

me: Yes. He takes the initiative, and that really takes the pressure off a girl like me. Rape advocacy.

Catherine: I'm a rapist advocate. I speak for the voiceless. Give me money to fund my safe house for rapists.

me: Ok. I'll have a fundraiser. Called "Take Back The Night…Again."

Catherine: And the picture on your poster could be a big man and a little woman playing tug of war with the moon.

Me: Clip art style. And we'll have a kids’ haunted house where masked men jump out from behind mirrors. Everyone will be invited!

cat scratch fever.

Someone once told me that 90% of internet content was pornography. I would argue that at least 30% of that supposed 90% [that is, 27% of all internet content] is not porn, but cats. And this would be an awesome argument void of any anger or hostility. Because that would just be silly. Cats on the internet never make people angry!

I realize this is news to no one. Cats on the net have been hot for some time. [Note: I will, from this point in the post on, refer to "the internet" as simply "the net".] In fact, I was starting to worry that cats on the net had peaked. "Jumped the shark" if you will. But today, cats on the net have been re-energized for me, due to my discovery of the low-budge, cat centric, still photo heavy, music video.

I almost died.
Prepare to be awesomed:

It's quite possibly the most gorgeous day in the history of all days ever...

And I'm at work, slightly hungover, space heater going full force. Every few minutes I'll gaze out the window wistfully and imagine myself swimming or running through a sprinkler in a pair of old Umbros or ... not working.

Sometimes I'll do a random Google image search for "dogs in costumes," an activity that unfailingly brings up a new and exciting array of costumed dogs. However, this past week's search dredged up something less whimsical and more nightmarish. It's not a dog wearing a costume per say, but rather a human wearing a dog costume. Technically, the costume in question is a "dog walker" costume, because it's common knowledge that dog walkers are so rare, so uniquely identifiable that a costume is required to recapture the look achieved when walking ones dog.

According to FamilyFun.com, dog walkers are A) Children, B) Charlie Chaplin, C) Hasidic Jews, D) Mustachioed, E) Disproportionately smaller than their dogs and F) In awe of their disproportionately larger dogs. Oh, and G) Male business executives. And H) Prone to owning men dressed like dogs.

Expect a second, equally meaningless post regarding that man's paws/leash/face.

an overheard exchange.

Lady 1: Seth Rogen’s t-shirt looks soft.

Lady 2: It would probably feel good against your back if he was spooning you and you were naked. I'm just saying.

Lady 1: Yeah! Like if I was naked, and he was pantless, but not shirtless, and I could feel his boner on my lower back?


Lady 2: Yes! Or sort of on your butt crack.

Lady 1: Yeah! Like right where I’d have a pilonidal cyst if I led a sedentary lifestyle?

Lady 2: Right there.


Aaaaaand SCENE!

A little old. A lot . . . great.

Let us gaze upon the striped shirt once again.

let me count the ways.

My girl crush on Katherine Heigl grows stronger each day...

my fear of mustard and pickles is ruining my life.

There's really nothing more to say...

Two weeks without you.

In an effort to save money until our lease runs out - money that will inevitably be spent on more worthwhile things like unsweetened iced coffee with TWO sugars, tickets to bad movies and red wine - we've decided to go without cable television. And because my parents have the last remaining set of rabbit ears, gently duck taped to the side of their Zenith, we've been relegated to 72 channels of salt and pepper fuzz. An important side note is that, in addition to this loss, we're also without a functioning DVD player.

And we're going on day 14.

I tried to take the Laura Ingles approach to this dilemma - finish the books I've started over the past year, dog-eared on the 80th page and cast aside underneath a pile of US Weeklies, start some new ones, hold lively conversations by the unlit fireplace and make molasses candy with Pa.

In actuality, I stockpiled every VHS I could find, rummaging through crates left sealed since freshman year of college, raiding my trunk for boxes never unpacked from previous moves, combing the dusty collections at Thrift America in search of films released during my childhood, when I was forced to go Bambi or go home. Cortney managed to come up with "Inventing the Abbotts" and "Center Stage." I brought a well-worn copy of Guffman to the table, a never-watched copy of "Sliding Doors," a "Circle of Friends" covered in my sixteen-year-old kisses and chubby angst, and an "Only You" that I purchased at the afore-mentioned thrift store for $.75. Our arsenal of plastic and tape lasted all of one week before we'd watched them all - twice or more.

The question at hand is this: Are 16 more days of this even remotely feasible? I'd like to think I'll spend the remainder of this emotional obstacle course finishing those books, listening to NPR in my idling Ford Focus and slowly coming to the realization that I never needed TV. When all is said and done, I'll renounce its continued presence in my life and slowly sip the alternatively purchased glass of Yellow Tail Shiraz, proud of the maturity a Cox-free lifestyle has summoned. However, as I listen to muffled commentary of last night's "Hills" episode through thin cubicle walls, I get that tingle in my toes that reminds me of how intrinsically tied I am to every one of those 72 channels. It's only a matter of time before we're reunited. And I have no doubt that it will be beautiful.

i've got some good news and some bad news.

I got my fortune read over the weekend.

Or rather, I got a really shitty fortune made up for me by my friends Jason and Shawn.

It's bittersweet, my future.

The good news?
I will fulfill my lifelong dream of marrying a caricature artist. It will be a beautiful and special relationship and our wedding invitations will be hand made by said life partner, featuring comical, big-headed renditions of the two of us riding in a hot air balloon together.

The bad?
Within months, my new life partner will die, leaving me nothing but his unpaid student loan debt from years of caricature school. And I don't know if you guys were aware, but caricature school is fucking expensive.

But as Shawn was quick to point out, I'm the one who supported his artistic ventures and encouraged him not just to buy the "How To Draw Caricatures" book, but to go through professional caricature school to ensure his talent was recognized and not squandered.

And that's just the price I have to pay.

It's a nuclear show and the stars are gone.

Four-years-behind-the-times-me really likes this song.

fucked up item of the week.

Happy Friday everyone!
Now scream. Scream real loud!




(Revelation of fucked up-ness courtesy of Jezebel and Salon.)

What you say in between bites of parsley, Britney Spears, is beautiful. And I believe.

I realize that this is the internet equivalent of wearing chandelier earrings or eating bunless Quarter Pounders (what else is very 2005?), but until Annie sent this to me today, I hadn’t seen Britney Spears’ reefer-induced, belch-laden elegy to time travel. And I almost cast it off as just another piece of meaningless drivel I use to pass the time between minutes, when a few of her many words cut to the core of my very being.



Britney, I’m missing out on life too. I’m watching it pass me by from my Seward Street porch, once shaded by that diseased tree that shed day-glo powder all over the driveway. And like you, I wonder if any of those inventors have gotten off their lazy, bespectacled asses and invented time travel yet. Because you know what I’d do, Brit, if I could travel back in time?

I would pause “Inventing the Abbotts” when I went to the bathroom because I think I missed the part where Joaquin Phoenix pushes Billy Crudup off the porch.

I would give my dad a better father’s day present.

I would quell my desire for instant gratification and leave my Lean Cuisine in the microwave for the full 2 minutes, 45 seconds, thus avoiding any unpleasantly surprising frozen diced tomatoes.

I would learn how to do a cartwheel.

girly post.

Joel McHale is a fox.
I wish I had cable.

try to look away. i dare you.

Every so often, a phenomenon comes along that changes the way we see the world. Simultaneously attractive and repulsive, the enigma reveals itself subtly and we become seized by obsessive curiosity and affectionate disgust.

Some people pick scabs. Pop zits.

We do research. And then we post pictures of our findings in our “Who I’d like to meet” section on MySpace.

Phantom twins, hairless cats, mummified babies kept as family heirlooms, tonsiloliths mistaken for orally transmitted genital warts (that was a close one), Suri Cruise - the list goes on and on.

And every time we come across a new, hideously glorious wonder, we think it can’t get any better. But we’re proven wrong. Time and time again, we’re proven wrong.

On that note, I really hope I never get a pilonidal cyst. (The Latin root alone stimulates my butt’s gag reflex.) Unless they reinstate the draft - then I’m totally pulling a Limbaugh. And buying a brand new pack of Target brand Q-tips so Catmo can clean it out for me.

You’re welcome Kitten.

An open letter to those who choose to wear other people's pants.

I rarely find myself wearing other people's clothing. On occasion, I'll borrow a shirt from my sister. Maybe something from one of my roommates when the fear starts to creep in that the outfit I've been donning during mediocre Old Market evenings is slowly becoming a uniform. But mark my words: I always, without fail, make sure I check the pockets, crevices, hems and button holes for cocaine before leaving the house. Why risk ruining an evening at (insert bar bearing name of Irishman or amphibian here), or worse, a day at work, with a completely avoidable arrest and subsequent PR fiasco? It's just something I do. And maybe, Lindsay Lohan, it's something you should do too.

Back in the technological saddle. (My blog horse's name is Midnight Lady.)

It's been about three years since I last blogged, Livejournal style, surrounded by the cold comfort of Swanson Hall in a neon-lit room that bore the faint aroma of Nag Champa and Easy Mac. Subject matter usually centered on the angst of working in a Sodexho-owned coffee shop, the obligations of CSU Program Board, the trials and tribulations of Dr. Shrage's Atmospheric Science class. Basically, I was in it. And I've been out of it for awhile now. You'll have to bear with me while I channel my inner 20-year-old and learn what it's like to write about everything and nothing again.

Starting with Zach Braff...

Deez Nuts.

Get ready. We're about to throw down.



(What exactly we'll be throwing down, I'm not too sure yet. But it will be good. And full of Zach Braff jokes that you might not fully appreciate just yet.)