God bless us, every one!

The Christmas Season is truly upon us, people. And if the story I am about to tell you doesn't warm the cockles of your heart, then you're nothing but a Scrooge with a lump of coal in your chest.

There is a shopping plaza not far from our home that houses an Albertson's, Blockbuster, La Madeleine, and some other stores. We're there fairly often and have noticed that a new Chinese restaurant, Howard Wang's, was being built. After being stymied a few times, we gave it another try tonight and, huzzah!, success. Not only was Howard Wang's open, it was doing crackin' business for a Tuesday night in a relatively lameass part of town. After being asked if we had reservations (Uh, no. You're a Chinese joint in a strip mall.) we were seated and discovered an extensive menu featuring "Chinese" favorites like Singapore Rice Noodles, Pad Thai (!), and ... fried calamari??? Huh. Still, we were willing to give it a shot, so we made our selections and waited for our server.

And we waited, and we waited, and we waited.

Finally, a guy breezed by our table and then backpedaled to ask us if anyone's taken our order. Nope. So he took it, obviously having no idea what he was doing, asking what kind of rice we want with our noodles, trying to sell us on an appetizer 30 seconds after we ordered the lettuce wraps.

Eventually the waiter apologized profusely for sucking, and BK laughed and asked how long they've been open. Waiter dude replied that their grand opening is actually tomorrow. We must have looked confused cause he was kind enough to elaborate, telling us they've been open since Friday for practice, taking walk-ins.

And then the heavens opened up and the Little Baby Jesus, the Reason for the Season, graced us, Karo and BK, WITH A CHRISTMAS MIRACLE. Because, people, then the waiter said:

"Since we don't actually open until tomorrow and this is just practice, all the food is free."

I almost fell on my knees, OH hearing the angels' voices, oh niiiiiight diviiiiine.

So yeah, the lettuce wraps were a little dry, and the entrées were served with a 15-minute gap between them during which the hot tea and (saltless) edamame arrived, and calamari and a second serving of lettuce wraps which we did not order were placed on our table, and my kung pao tofu was lukewarm and had no scallions and huge, unfried pieces of unfirm tofu, BUT WE DIDN'T CARE. It was FREE!

A Christmas miracle. Right here in North Dallas.

Pangs of guilt

joshua, originally uploaded by *Karo*.

Poor Joshua Wanat is being cruelly ignored in my blog, and it's high time I do something about it. Here he is, fiercest kitty in all the land! No hall rug stands a chance against his snaggle-toothed bite!

Also, when BK sells comic books on eBay he takes pictures of them on this couch. I think it would be a neat idea to name a store Yellow Plaid Couch.

Now I have to go gum some prunes because I just used the word "neat" and did not mean "tidy."

It is so cold in my cubicle my nail beds are turning purple

Yesterday my father called me to let me know that he thinks my childhood cat might go to the Big Sandbox in the Sky any day now. This is hardly surprising as the cat is closing in on 20 years and apparently no longer does much in the way of eating. In true Stanimal fashion, though, this constitutes a tragedy in which no shred of light can be found.

Have I mentioned that, as a rule, my dad needs to lighten up?

So all this talk of elderly cats got me thinking about the creature you see here. This is Bobbie Socks. Bobbie Socks is the pet of my sasspot of a college roommate, Karen. I had the pleasure of living with Bobbie Socks from 1996-1998, and by "pleasure" I mean "not so much." If you think the Stanimal needs to lighten up, wait til you get a load of Bobbie Socks.

There are some things you need to know about Bobbie Socks in order to understand our antagonistic relationship, the first being that Bobbie Socks hates me. I don't take this personally, as Bobbie Socks hates everyone equally, as evidenced by her inclusion on this web site. Bobbie Socks hates being imprisoned by her vile human captors, and bides her time until she can make a break for it. This involves crouching by the door and darting outside the minute it is opened. The problem is that Bobbie Socks has always been an indoor cat, so when she gets outside she is petrified with fear and immediately runs and hides. I still bear the scars of that one fateful day in 1997 when Bobbie Socks made a mad dash for freedom 30 minutes before my physics final. She hid directly under the center of a parked car, and a sailor would have blushed at my language as I was reduced to laying on the ground and sliding an open can of tuna fish towards her with a stick. She would take a few bites, then I would slooowly slide the can a little further out. She would eat, I would slide, it was like an intricate dance routine that ended with me sliding the can out from under the car and then snatching up Bobbie Socks as she emerged for just a few more delicious bites. She tore my wrist up good with her back claws to pay me back for the indignity of being redeposited into her carpeted, three-room prison.

Ah, memories. There was also the time when Bobbie Socks got shut out from her litter box (oh Karen, Karen, what gourmet foods you cooked and essays you crafted but DAMN if that litter box didn't get STANKY between its three to four week cleanouts) over a Thanksgiving holiday and carefully chose my armchair as her urinal. (A week's worth of turds, meanwhile, were all neatly arranged under the coffee table.)

Which brings me back to my point of elderly cats. Bobbie Socks reluctantly moved on with Karen after college, still oppressed by her captor. A couple of years ago the plumber presented her with just the opportunity she was looking for, and Bobbie Socks ESCAPED. For DAYS. Karen was beside herself and papered the neighborhood with lost cat flyers. The hunger must have been too much to bear, because finally the cat returned to her hated prison. A couple of hours later, Karen gets a knock on her door. It's her mildy creepy neighbor from a few doors down.

Neighbor: I saw that your cat is lost.

Karen: Yeah, I was really worried about her because she's really old. But it's ok now, she just came back.

Neighbor: Oh. Because I was going to tell you, if she's really old, she probably went off somewhere to die.

Karen: ...

Neighbor: Would you like to have dinner with me some time?

A conversation

thanksgiving table, originally uploaded by *Karo*.

A conversation overheard over Thanksgiving dinner between BK and a relative:

BK: I wish Gore had won the 2000 election.

Relative: If Gore had won in 2000, we'd all be speaking Chinese now.

BK: You think the Chinese are trying to take over America?

Relative: No, but the Jews are.

BK: What? Why?

Relative: Because of the Torah.

BK: Relative, you have lost your mind.

Oh baby, baby

Here's BK with his 6-week-old nephew. A few hours after I took this picture, we witnessed something incredible as BK's sister changed him. FIRST, Eli gazed off into the distance and a FOUNTAIN of urine erupted from him onto his onesie, his socks, and his great-grandmother's heirloom quilt. THEN he let a tremendous, juicy fart and crapped all over the changing pad. LASTLY, once he was changed, clean, and dry in a new outfit, he vomited all over himself.

I don't think I've ever laughed so hard in my life.

Some reasons I'm currently feeling thankful

• I get to leave work at noon today. WORD.
  
• I will meet my nephew for the first time this weekend, and all photographs point to him being cute and squeezy.
  
• I am married to a tremendously kind and intelligent man. Who also has hott bunz.
  
• There is a coffeeshop in Oxford, MS with free wireless internet access.
  
• Because of point number one, I might avoid contracting pneumonia as it's 45 degrees outside and the air conditioning is on in my building. My boogies are freezing up.

Agony of defeat

agony of defeat, originally uploaded by *Karo*.

I think it's been far too long since I posted a photo of my dog. I realize I'm a dirty thief who stole the angle from dooce, so there's no need to think disparaging things about me. For that reason, anyway.

So! Tomorrow brings the promise of a Road Trip, which is always good for a trip through one of Texarkana's finest drive-throughs and one of Buster's spectacular in-car pukings. BK and I are going to bop on over to Half Price Books tonight and see if we can't wrastle us up a book on tape. If we can't find something we agree on, I'll be forced to continuously loop A Charlie Brown Christmas (the greatest Christmas album of all time, natch) in the car to get us into the goddamn holiday spirit, cause the 60-degree weather sure as hell isn't doing it.

My father called me tonight to wish me a happy Thanksgiving and to remind me that tomorrow marks the 23-year anniversary of our emigration to America. That's right, we are PILGRIMS, although not the kind that stand on the side of the road holding a turkey muppet. My dad (and you must imagine this conversation in Polish, of course) talked about how there have been some rough patches, but that overall these past 23 years have been all right. I agreed that there were some good memories.

Considering this is the closest we're ever going to come to talking about my mother, and that A Charlie Brown Christmas always makes me a little teary, I might be a little goopy right now.

Stupid feelings.

Jules Verne, eat your heart out

Too bad it's not "economically feasible for the average home." The Holiday Season is upon us, after all!

1954, originally uploaded by *Karo*.

The shame, my god, the shame!

There is a red light on my work phone. This is the "you have a new voicemail" light. This morning, it is lit up for the very first time since I started my new job on October 1. I am very excited about my first-ever UTD voicemail and want to listen to it.

However, I cannot.

Would you like to know why I cannot listen to my voicemail, chickens of the internet? I will tell you. But you must promise to keep reading my blog after I admit what I am about to admit, once you no longer have any respect for me.

I cannot listen to my voicemail because I HAVE FORGOTTEN THE PASSWORD.

In the eight weeks since I set it up, my voicemail password has, *poof*, completely vanished from my brain. I have attempted to access the accursed Meridian Voicemail with Every. Single. Numerical. Password I have ever used. No dice. Every time I punch in a new combination and hit pound, all excited that THIS might be the one, I hear, "invalid password." I have spent 10 minutes hunched over my desk phone, stabbing at the buttons in a futile attempt to HEAR MY NEW MESSAGE.

I've given up and have called the lady at telecommunication services. I left her a very rambling message detailing the depths of my shame and begging her to reset my password. I HONESTY HAVE NO IDEA WHAT IT COULD BE. Was I drunk when I set it up? Did I select a numerical string On the Fly? How many digits is it?!?! I don't knooowwwww.

I don't remember the last time I was this embarrassed.

Pilgrim's progress

You really haven't lived until you're driving home from doing some surprisingly fruitful Christmas shopping and there, on the side of the road, you see a grown woman dressed like a Pilgrim. She is holding a large turkey puppet and is smiling and waving to all the motorists (so was the puppet, at least as much as a turkey can smile -- it's more of a prophetic death grimace, really). Considering that she was standing in front of a hospital, I have no idea what she was selling, but it certainly put a smile on my face.

Just in case you're rolling your eyes at me because I am almost done with my Christmas shopping, let me explain. BK and I are off to Mississippi for Thanksgiving this week, and I need to take all in-law presents with me in the car. Since ye olde paychecke is now somewhat slim, being on the ball is preferable to going broke shipping 50 lbs. of crapola across the country.

The post in which I fake it and use an old photo

Last night I drove to DFW, a.k.a the airport that a drunk person laid out, and picked up my high-school friend Missy. She will be in Waxahachie for a whole week to plan her July wedding, but she took time off from ripping the heads off live chipmunks (or whatever it is those bridezillas do) to have dinner with ME. So we had Indian food where the naan tasted like pancakes and chatted, and then I drove her down to her parents' house and she turned my hazard light on a bunch of times (see below).

Here is a list of things that I associate with Missy:

• Hazard lights. In high school I drove a Mazda Protogé (S.E.X.Y.), which featured the hazard lights button as interior DECOR. It was big and red and right in the middle of the dash. So Missy would press it, ideally when I wasn't looking. Then I would get mad. GOOD TIMES!
• CiCi's Pizza. We'd go before football games and eat our body weight for $3.99. I don't think I've been to a CiCi's since. It's probably for the best.
• Reckless driving. Missy would, without fail, forget essential drill-teamal items before every single game. So we would hop in the Protogé (so, so sexy still) and drive 85 mph to her house to pick up the top half of her uniform. Or the prop for that week's routine. I am proud to announce that we never missed the bus as the result of me endangering the lives of Waxahachie's drivers and pedestrians. (What am I thinking, there are no pedestrians in Waxahachie.)
• 7-Layer Burritos Sadly, these I've had since high school.

Now, to the treadmill. I can't take its mocking laughter any more.

The triptych is complete

For those of you who threatened me with old drill team photos, SUCK IT. I'm beating you to the punch and posting what is quite possibly the most humiliating and downright AWFUL photo of me ever taken. Let's talk about it:

OK, here I am. I'm obviously under the influence of alcohol, as I am sporting my Richard Hamilton (Rip!) headband that I had gotten for free ninety-nine at a Washington Wizards game. I am also manhandling a rubber chicken that BK purchased at a garage sale (So unsanitary! Who knows where that thing has been!). Lastly, I appear to be striking what, in my drunken stupor, must have seemed to be a FANTASTIC disco move. Honestly, people, enjoy it while it lasts, because it doesn't get any better than this.

So! Be it not said that Karo embarasses her friends and not herself. We are in this together, BK, Suze and I. We are the proud, the few, the ridiculous.

Suze + Legolas 4 Eva

Today's entry in my campaign to humiliate all of my loved ones is the following photo of my friend Suze. Aside from being a law school student, Suze is also a devotee of Legolas, a.k.a Hot Elf, so much so that one of her friends bought her this life-sized cut-out of him. Please note that Legolas appears to have recently been to Wurstfest, where he purchased a hat that can be described only as "jaunty." He is also a Lonhorn fan. Suze, on the other hand, appears to have recently celebrated the new year, and may quite possibly still be drunk.

suze, originally uploaded by *Karo*.

Let me ride that donkey donkey

Today's installment from the annals of the ridiculous is the following photo of BK "dancing" at his sister's wedding. Though he's certainly struck a mesmerizing pose in this photo, perhaps the most exciting moment of the evening came a few minutes later when the DJ decided to grace all the old Southern ladies and small children in attendance with the great 12 Gauge classic, "Dunkie Butt." To my knowledge, BK had never heard the song prior to that moment, but he seized upon it with great gusto. Imagine my husband, if you will, with a circle of people clapping around him, galumping around like a gorilla riding a stick pony, slapping himself in the ass. Sadly, I have no photographic evidence of this fine, fine moment in BK history, as I was in the ladies room, gently weeping as the next 50 years of my life spread out before me like a DEATH SHROUD.

hott stuff, originally uploaded by *Karo*.

A word to the wise

If you are suddenly struck by the idea that purchasing a treadmill for your home is a good idea, don't. Because then it's there, sitting in your bedroom, overtaking your entire bedroom and staring at you with malignant LED eyes, mocking you because you have to clambor atop it and do something that vaguely resembles a very drunk Yogi Bear stumbling in the woods after BooBoo. (I'm not sure who BooBoo is in this scenario, but let's just focus on the fact that I'm the drunk Yogi.) Then you'll think about how just 6 months earlier you'd run your 3 miles at the gym every day, no problem, and then you'll get sad because now you live in Dallas and don't work out with Michael Jordan any more, and all your friends are very, very far away and the restaurants in Dallas are nowhere near as good as D.C.

Then you will realize that you're being a pissy bitch and you need to get over yourself and fix the goddamn tilapia for dinner.

So don't buy the treadmill. Ok?

Joey, I'm not angry any more

On my way home from work last night I heard "Joey" on one of Dallas' few radio stations that doesn't suck weiner. Man, did that bring back some memories of high school -- me, shut up in my bedroom, sitting cross-legged on the bed, listening to Concrete Blonde's Bloodletting with a tear slowly trickling down my cheek because Trey didn't ask me to the prom. Trey, if you're reading from Australia, you're a stud, dawg.

Emotional moment #2 of the night came when I got home and took Buster for a walk. I was still reminiscing about the high school days of yore, the dog pulling me along behind him, me humming "Joey" to myself, so I wasn't really paying much attention to the lay of the land. Background information you need to know is that Buster is the proud owner of a brown, furry tennis ball that has a long squirrel tail thing attached to it. So we're walking along ("And if you're somewhere drunken passed out on the floor") when I register out of the corner of my eye that Buster has his squirrel tail toy with him. Huh? I take a closer look and learn that it's not his toy that I spy, it's an ACTUAL squirrel tail, attached to the dead squirrel that Buster had picked up off the sidewalk and was now proudly holding in his mouth. I bellowed "NO!" and started praying to sweet baby Jesus that he'd drop it, becuase I sure as hell was not about to touch dead squirrel. Jesus loves me, this I know, because after a few yanks on his leash, Buster reluctantly dropped it. Now we just have to keep and eye out for whatever disease he might have picked up from his new friend, Mr. Dead Squirrel (who, incidentally, is still camped out in the same spot on the sidewalk, looking a little worse for the wear).

This morning BK and I went to pick up our new treadmill. Though the South African gentleman from whom we'd purchased it assured us that is would fit in the CR-V (I know, SO HOTT), it was, in fact, not even close. So our options were a) BK drive home with the car's back door open and without me, or b) take everything out of the box and try to cram in the individual pieces. Option b) worked like a charm, luckily for me.

After depositing that whole mess at home, BK indulged me in a few hours your favorite past-time and mine, Christmas shopping. Mmmm, nothing gets ME in the Christmas spirit like fighting the well-coiffed Galleria crowds. People, they have SANTAS with WHISTLES in the parking lots DIRECTING TRAFFIC. And the Santas aren't half-assing it, either. They're ENERGETIC and EXCITED about getting all those luxury vehicles safely to their shopping destination.

Oh, and last night BK fullfilled his husbandly duty and went to see Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason with me. And he didn't enjoy those zany romantic comedy hijinks one bitty bit, no siree. Tonight it's The Incredibles at the movie grill -- could we BE having any more fun?!?!

Oh, and Salon published my letter -- suck it, Robert Bryce. FACE!

Yet another example of the downfall of humanity

It appears as though Miami-Dade County police officers felt the need to Taser a six-year-old child who was brandishing a piece of glass in his principal's office and threatening to harm himself.

Ok, first of all: WTF?

Secondly, whatever happened to the adults being in charge? JTFC.

Singing the chorus of Oklahoma! a couple of times and grabbing myself a Diet Coke

muzzle, originally uploaded by *Karo*.

I have received an email from a concerned friend:

"You can't let those guys get to you so much - it just ain't healthy!"

So instead of posting a chart that shows the correlation between average statewide IQ and choice of presidential candidate, I will post that which prompts this divided land of ours into a spontaneous bout of hand-holding. Namely, another photograph of my dog.

I stand corrected

Apparently, I spoke too soon about Sen. Arlen Specter. Thankfully, the rude pundit was there to set me straight:

Specter could have fought back - he could have made a case for the independence of the legislative branch from the executive. He could have said more strongly that he was talking about the reality of dealing with an angry Democratic minority. Oh, how strong and mighty he could have stood for ideals and moderation. Instead, Specter was paid a visit by Karl Rove's Sodomizin' Stormtroopers. God, how the sphincters of Republicans ache at the thought of the black-clad SS and their foot-long black dildos, how the alphabet streets of D.C. are filled nightly with the moans of would-be dissenters from the Bush agenda who are raped back into line with just a wave of Rove's corpulent hand. It took one night of abuse with the sandpapered rough phalluses before Specter put on the Shirley Temple dress and went on the gabfests to lick his giant lollipop about what good widdle girl he would be. Isn't he adorable on CNN's Inside Politics, saying, "I've supported all of President Bush's nominees in committee and on the floor," followed with a stark admission of his bitchery, "I think I can help the president"? Wasn't he a sweetie pie on Face the Nation? Yep, Specter dancing around and showing his cute panties to everyone is a warning to anyone who dares not toe the Bush line.

The rude pundit is my new favorite pundit.

While I have your undivided attention, can we talk about when it was exactly that people in America LOST THEIR FUCKING MINDS? Apparently the new Kinsey biopic starring Liam "You May Remember Me from Schindler's List but Not So Much from Gun Shy" Neeson is now being protested by certain "groups," and by "groups" I mean total fucking morons:

"Alfred Kinsey is responsible in part for my generation being forced to deal face-to-face with the devastating consequences of sexually transmitted diseases, pornography and abortion," said Brandi Swindell, head of a college-oriented group called Generation Life that plans to picket theaters showing the film.

But this one is really choice:

"Instead of being lionized, Kinsey's proper place is with Nazi Dr. Josef Mengele or your average Hollywood horror flick mad scientist," said Robert Knight, director of Concerned Women of America's Culture & Family Institute.

Let's discuss

Let's discuss the lady that was 20 seconds ahead of me in the restroomial process this morning at work. She washed her hands, dried them, and then got a whole nother (a whole nother, that's right, I said it) paper towel. Perhaps her hands are still wet, I thought to myself as I was drying my own hands and peering at her in what I hoped was an inconspicuous fashion, but was most likely slack-jawed gaping.

But no, she used the paper towel to open the restroom door.

Now look, I'm as hygienic as the next guy, but honestly, lady. Haven't you seen the local news exposés? Haven't you learned yet that POO MATTER IS EVERYWHERE? Sure, you may have deftly avoided the fecal matter on the door handle, but what about that guy in front of you in the hall on the way back to your office? Maybe he just farted. And maybe his poo molecules are going Right. Up. Your. Nose.

Oddly enough though, it really squicks me out when people bring coffee pots and pitchers into the bathroom to fill them up. Can't you do that at the water fountain? Honestly. I don't want to drink the water you harvested in the fields of poo.

If my readership allows me to wax nostalgic for a moment, all this talk of poo reminds me of a girl I went to college with. She was one of those goddamn perfect Barbie dolls you just wanted to pinch (hard): president of Panhellenic, good grades, blah blah blah. She and I were both in a semester-long thingee called the Normandy Scholars Program, during which there was much studying of WWII. The program ended with a month spent in Normandy, ostensibly to look at beaches and shit, but really to drink your body weight in red wine and then yak it all up in the bathroom of your room in the 12th? 13th? 14th? century abbey where you were staying.

Anyhoo! One weekend a bunch of us took the ferry over to England (and speaking of yakking, can I just say that European ferry passengers are the most seasick prone bunch of motherfuckers I've ever seen, as I've had the opportunity to learn TWICE in my life now) and shared a hotel room in London. It was a tiny little room with one of those port-a-potty bathroom/shower jobbies in the corner, kind of like a cruise ship bathroom. So Barbie was concerned that there was nowhere for her to hang her towel, so I suggested she close the toilet lid and put the towel on top of it.

Judging from her reaction, you'd think I'd just suggested she lick the inside of the toilet bowl. Then again, this is the girl whose mother taught her to say "Bless you" whenever someone burped. I guess the rules of ettiquette are a little different in El Paso.

Update! It turns out that my friend C. had blogged about an article on the very issue of germophobes just there other day.

drive home, originally uploaded by *Karo*.

On a note completely unrelated to bathrooms and poo, here's a camera phone shot I took of my drive home. Texas sunsets are spectacular, almost as spectacular as the suckage of my camera phone.

Mencken called it in 1920

"[W]hen a candidate for public office faces the voters he does not face men of sense; he faces a mob of men whose chief distinguishing mark is the fact that they are quite incapable of weighing ideas, or even of comprehending any save the most elemental -- men whose whole thinking is done in terms of emotion, and whose dominant emotion is dread of what they cannot understand. So confronted, the candidate must either bark with the pack or be lost... [A]ll the odds are on the man who is, intrinsically, the most devious and mediocre -- the man who can most adeptly disperse the notion that his mind is a virtual vacuum. The Presidency tends, year by year, to go to such men. As democracy is perfected, the office represents, more and more closely, the inner soul of the people. We move toward a lofty ideal. On some great and glorious day the plain folks of the land will reach their heart's desire at last, and the White House will be adorned by a downright moron."

- H. L. Mencken, in the Baltimore Sun, July 26, 1920

(emphasis mine)

Earl Balboa is not from Texas

No indeed, he is from Washington Township, Pennsylvania, which, as we all know, is a blue state and therefore highly enlightened.

I hope the election of George W. Bush is seen as a wake-up call to all the liberal Democrats who oppose God's will.

It is His doing that George W. Bush is still our president. Millions of born-again Christians helped win this election through our prayers and votes. Jesus speaks through the Republicans.

The Democrats will not be able to win elections until they renounce their sinful ways and stop encouraging abortions, gayness, and trying to take away our guns.

Also! I was so unbelievaably pissed off by this article in today's Salon that I was actually moved to write the following letter to the editor:

To the Editor:

You're going to be getting a lot of mail from pissed off Texas liberals for publishing Robert Bryce's "The Texas chainsaw massacre," so allow me to be one of the first to tell you how disappointed I am that Salon would publish such a load of codswallop. Hell, I just moved to Dallas (where we elected a Hispanic, lesbian sheriff last week) five months ago, and even as a non-Texan I'm getting really tired of the constant pre- and post-election Texas bashing. Ignorance exists nationwide, and I would have thought that Salon would know better than to pin our country's current woes on one state. Thirty-eight percent of us did our damndest to get that idiot out of office, and we do not appreciate being told that Bush's Hollywood cowboy worldview represents us.

The Uncivil War

Can I just say that I'm really tired of this rash of Texas- and South-hatin' that the election has spawned? And I say this as a non-Texan, non-Southern POLE who really misses living in her little liberal DC bubble. I think the haters are failing to understand that PEOPLE SUCK NATIONWIDE. Yes! It's true! There are people who suck in New York! And in California! Sure, there are enormous urban populations there that sway the state vote as a whole, but ignorance exists everywhere. And though there are certain states, like Texas, that have a higher suckage factor, DON'T HATE ON THE ENTIRE FUCKING STATE. I live here! I do not suck. BK does not suck. Ninety percent of Austin's population does not suck.

And you don't even want to be on the same continent as me if you're going to claim that Buster sucks.

Weekend roundup

hot pot, originally uploaded by *Karo*.

Saturday night BK and I went to a restaurant called Fusion. We got to experience (a) really surly service, (b) overpriced, mediocre food, and (c) the cackling good times that were the pharmaceutical convention party at the table next to ours. On the bright side, I got to take this picture of BK spooning rice into his hot pot!

I would be remiss if I allowed the weekend to go by without sharing the story of BK closing the garage door onto his new car, so here goes:

The Story of BK Closing the Garage Door onto His Car

Saturday was a gorgeous day in Dallas, Texas, so of course we celebrated by going to the grocery store. We got home, pulled into the garage, BK swung the back door open, and we started carrying stuff inside. Buster would greet us at the door every trip we made, SO excited that the Big Dogs were back home -- maybe, just maybe, he'll get treats! Or a walk!

I guess BK got tired of making sure that Buster didn't run outside, because on one of his trips, he decided to close the garage door. Time shifted over into slow-motion -- I could see the garage door rolling down towards the CR-V, but I couldn't move, couldn't do a thing about it. I shrieked something -- I can't remember what exactly, but I'm pretty sure it was something along the lines of, "ARRRGGGHHH!!! No! Don't! The THING!" BK started frantically stabbing at the open/close button, but it was too late. The garage door had settled on top of his car door with a resounding crunch.

Just in case you might think that this is where this comedy of errors ends, allow me to share with you what happened next: as BK runs over to his car to inspect the damage and I'm making myself useful by standing there and shouting vaguely mean things, Buster takes that opportunity to wander out into the garage. I can't be 100% certain, but I think his thought processes went a little something like this:

"Huh. Look at that. No one is paying attention to me. Here I am in the garage. Outside is right there, and it smells really good. Ok, well, lemme just sidle on over here ... Pay no attention to the dog, nothing happening here ... Round the corner ... FREEDOM!"

That's when I hear BK yell, "Buster, NO!" and see him sprint off around the corner. I carry the rest of the groceries inside, inspect the car door damage (not bad), close the garage door, and start putting groceries away. Every few minutes I go outside and whistle for Buster, but neither he nor BK are anywhere to be seen.

BK and Buster come in about 20 minutes later. Buster's panting up a storm, wagging his tail, SO FUCKING PROUD OF HIS LITTLE SELF. BK on the other hand, is soaked with sweat and looking mad as HELL, people. I find out later that after BK chased Buster through all the backyards of the neighborhood, he finally had to tackle him to catch him. That's right, my grown-ass husband chased my sweet little puppy dog around the neighborhood and then TACKLED his ass. Then he half-carried/half-dragged the poor beastie home.

Let's just say that BK wasn't feeling a whole lot of love for Bus for the rest of the day.

Dog park!

dog park!, originally uploaded by *Karo*.

It was Pug Day at the dog park this morning. I've never seen so many ugly little waddling barrels before in my life. Still, good muddy fun was had, although Buster had to suffer through the indignity of a bath when we got home. Baths: the one thing in the world that isn't Buster's favorite.

"O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!"I chortled in my joy

Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
  Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
  And the mome raths outgrabe.

"Beware the Bar Exam, BK!
  The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
  The frumious Bandersnatch!"

He took his vorpal pen in hand:
  Long time the manxome foe he sought --
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
  And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,
  The Bar Exam, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
  And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through
  The vorpal pen went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
  He went galumphing back.

"And, has thou slain the Bar Exam?
  Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!'
  I chortled in my joy.

Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
  Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
  And the mome raths outgrabe.

Congratulations to BK for kicking the Texas bar exam's ass.

Some good things

Considering everyone I know is currently suffering from an election-induced low-grade depression, I thought it might be a good idea to list a few things that don't suck.

• I got my new iMac yesterday at work, and can I just say that it is totally super-sweet? It's got an almost 150 GB hard drive, so I loaded all my mp3s and photos onto my iPod last night and brought them to work. I can't wait until our upcoming departmental move when I'll get an actual office (!!!) and will be able to rock out to Brit without the fear that I'm bothering the SWEDE in the cubey next to mine.
  
• Senator Arlen Specter does not suck. Although I don't really know much else about him, so if he pulls wings off of butterflies in his spare time or something, let me know.
  
• BK has received a groundswell of support for his future political maneuverings! I hate to disappoint those of you who have voiced excitement over a BK08 presidential run, but I think he's planning on starting on a somewhat smaller scale. (BK: "They'll be so disappointed when I'm only running for dogcatcher.") So you'll have to move to Dallas to give him your full support, and you should definitely move here, BECAUSE IT'S SO GREAT. Really.
  
• I have new blog readers! Comments have been made by people of whose e-existence I have been heretofore completely ignorant! Welcome, strangers. Comment away! You make me all melty on the inside.
  
• Certain people out there, you know who you are, are all in luuurrveee, and that makes me happy.
  
• And hey, it could always be worse. You could be this guy.

Oh, and one more thing. Let your spirits soar to the heavens, because this exists in the world:

It's funny cause it's true

BK goes to town on the Democrats

BK has kindly allowed me to post an email that he wrote to a friend this morning. He has also decided that he is going to run for office in a few years.

Wow.

I'm trying not to feel angry and isolated. After all, 48% of the population did vote for my guy. But it's pretty clear that culturally I'm in the minority. (Especially in Texas.)

But what I'm more pissed off about is the democratic party. I'm sick of the Democrats not being forthright about what they believe. Kerry spent so much of this campaign trying to make like he's not a liberal. Instead, he should have been selling liberal values!

Democrats cannot win by pandering to the conservatives: goose-hunting, saying they're personally against abortion but not willing to make it illegal, saying they're against gay marriage. We lose by fighting that way. We cannot out conservative the conservatives. We're not getting those votes, and we need to quit pandering to the Christian Coalition.

Instead, we need to sell our ideas! We're right! We're more reasonable!

1. There is not a single rational reason why gays should not be allowed to marry, or at least have civil unions. Opposition to gay couples is based purely on the idea that being gay is icky or an "abomination."

No one who knows openly gay people could possibly think they "chose" to be gay.

2. The idea that women could be imprisoned for having an abortion is absurd, and this is what is really at stake in the abortion fight. The democrats should propose a constitutional amendment that (1) confirms the right of women to have abortions in the first two trimesters and (2) bans abortion in the last trimester, except where the health of the woman is at stake.

3. Progressive taxation is the only form of taxation that is workable, because the wealthy are the people with the money. Lowering in percentage terms the tax on the wealthy while raising it on the middle class will not create more jobs. It will create more savings by the wealthy, more lavish lifestyles for the wealthy, and a massive federal deficit (which will ultimately cause higher taxes).

4. There is nothing in the world wrong with religion, and we should value it, but it should be no part of government. It is unfair to people who do not share the views of the religious.

5. Wars must be fought only as a very last result and not because we might be safer if we go take over some countries that might one day pose a threat. This breeds even more anti-American sentiment and will simply lead to more attacks.

6. There should not be limits on medical malpractice (or any other sort of professional malpractice) because the legal system is the only significant means of keeping doctors and other professionals accountable for their mistakes. If you put caps on damage awards (unless the caps are very high), you make it impossible for attorneys to take malpractice cases because the potential upside is too low.

7. Gun control is reasonable. Guns should have child safety locks. All gun owners should have to register. Firearm laws should be enforced. Automatic weapons should be illegal. You shouldn't be able to have a handgun unless you have some sort of reason for needing a concealed weapon. The good guys can protect their houses with rifles and shotguns, and there are very few reasons for the good guys to have concealable weapons.

These are the arguments we should be making. A campaign based on these ideas is probably a loser right now. But we're losing anyway! If we can't beat Bush (Bush!) with the Gore/Kerry half-assed pandering to conservatives, we can't beat any republican waving the flag and holding a cross. And even if we did win by abandoning or marginalizing liberal values, it's not really winning -- it's just slightly better than the other option.

On the other hand, vibrant campaigns that liberals can really cheer for might go a long way toward shifting the whole culture to the left.

Four more years

I am so sad this morning.

The liberal agenda exposed!

Courtesy of Comedy Central's election blog:

Fire up the Maytag, it's time to do some laundry

I knew something was up when I came home this evening, opened the back door, and saw that Buster was not on the other side, squirming with doggie delight. The big dogs coming home is the Best Thing Ever, so Buster is usually right there, legs flailing, tripping all over himself with the knowledge that soon there will be kibble! And a walk! Today though, no Buster.

I round the corner and see him in the living room (Whew! No dead dog!), perched on the ottoman, staring at me with what in hindsight can only be described as a look of terror in his eyes. I give the room a cursory glance but don't see any chewed up remotes, no detritus of a day of doggie boredom gone sour. So I give him his kibble, he practically does sommersaults of joy, all seems right with the world. I go get the mail and as I close the front door I turn back around to see something not quite right, an odd discoloration on the couch. Hm. I move closer to see more fucking pistachio shells (WTF?!?! I vacuumed Saturday! I moved furniture! There should be no more pistachio shells! Had they been languishing in his belly this whole time?) resting in three discrete puddles of doggie puke.

I cannot tell you how awesome that was.

I then notice that there is also vomit all over the armchair, yellow and dribbling down the side of the cushion, embarrassed of its own weak consistency.

So yeah, I'm getting to spend the night stripping the furniture cushions, washing the covers, and then stuffing the cushions back into them. And for some reason, I can never get it quite right -- they always come out sad and lumpy, squashy with bulbous tumors. I'm leaving all 4 couch cushions for BK to stuff. I think that it's only fair that we share this beautiful moment of growth and bonding over our dog's vomit.