Clarification

In the last post I mentioned getting "sufficiently fucked by the bartender and German man," and as I reread it after some sleep and mass quantities of water and Vitamin C, I have to clarify that I meant the term in the sense of being on the sloshed end of tipsy.

Why the need for clarification? It's because, though I'm the greater evil according to Glinda, I DO have standards, even at Catbirds (just not so much with alcohol at Catbirds...eugh).

catbirds is evil

Mother fucker. I should never ever go to Mo Mong's because I end up at fucking Catbirds. What the hell?

So tonight, it took me 3 martinis at Mo Mong's (damnit that they have the best damn spring rolls) before I convinced myself to go there. And then I ended up there, and subjected myself to psychological finger testing from Yve and the fact that she thinks my nappy hair needs extensions, and then I ended up talking in German to some man that works for Exxon and damnit, I actually knew more German than I thought I did (but beer helps).

So there's not much to report from Catbirds except that Darth was offshore, and Derrick and Nerfherder were not there, so there was a new clientele to meet. Despite that, I got sufficiently fucked by the bartender and the German man, so I am way too Scheiße to think right now, and tomorrow the BYB (that's asshole fucking boss to you) is getting his stupid misogynistic head on a chopping block, and that's a good thing.... I think I'm not making anymore sense now, and Catbirds sucks. I'm never going back!!!!!

Random Funnies

• My cat, Cosette, runs like Dino from the Flintstones
• Saturday, I was eating dinner at this great little Mexican place when the guy next to me, who looked like Ben Stiller as the orderly in Happy Gilmore, made this noise which sounded uncannily like a wookiee. I mean, it had the echoey timbre and everything. Truly, it was the weirdest thing, and he didn't mean to do it. I think he was actually yawning. SFV, you should take lessons from this guy.
• Again abused my educator status to get some free coffee and percentages off of things at Borders. The two books I wanted are still in hardback, and I can't bring myself to get them even with the discount. So I bought one book and CDs instead: Breaking Benjamin, Andrea Bocelli, and the nonfiction account of a Chinese adoption, Forever Lily (appropos bc it is written from the perspective of the nonadopting guest of the adopting parents, and I am going to be that person in the summer). I get to the front desk, and the Borders employee rings me up, stares at me, then stares back at my purchase and back at me saying, "That's a purchase in polarities." Just think if I had actually bought the Pynchon book in hardcover...

Ok, I need coffee now.

Requiem for a Dream

A cat and mouse game. Tag, you're it, but I'm sick of playing.
You say that you don't read this blog, but I know you do. It's a lie, just like all the others to yourself, about yourself.

I talked to her about the 3rd movement and the stunning section of the 6th (oh death where is thy sting) while you lagged behind, and when I turned for a moment to talk to people from my past, you slinked away.

I prayed, my last prayer, that truth would reveal itself--that there would be acknowledgement, healing between us. I was left empty as always.

And now I leave Brahms behind and crank up Mozart's Requiem, the Dies Irae pounding into my heart; and when I reach the end, Lux Aeterna, I will place a lily (white, virginal) on your grave. To your memory.

YOU asked for it

This morning (way too early I might add) I received a voicemail from a Baylor friend of mine with whom I reconnected a few nights ago. I was going to come up with a clever name for him for the blog, but after today's phone call, he has now been dubbed Narc, not for his ability to sniff out drugs but for the flower which bears his name.

I met Narc 11 years ago in Brooks Hall (was it Brooks?), staring at his reflection in the mirror he usually kept hidden under his bed. The reflection he saw, however, was not a physical one (he would've been appalled by the NoZe he saw in the mirror); instead, it reflected his intellect, and he loved to ponder that. His best friend and roommate was my boyfriend at the time, and Narc, though unabashedly enamoured with me, kept his feelings to himself (literally) and fell in love with his own reflection--well, at least the one in his magic mirror.

Unlike the Greek youth who also shares his name, Narc's Echo never made advances toward him (at least not in real life--maybe in his fantasy world); nevertheless, he spurned his feelings for her anyway, and this is why he's forced to live a life of solitude, pining away at the shrine he's made for her in his darkroom and retreating back to his mirrored intellect, his safe ZoNe.

Now a fledgling photographer (trading the pool for a lens), Narc only uses his French degree to woo women into bed with lines like, "Quel type de fromage vous fait veut à minuit," and while he generally succeeds (heaven knows why), he still returns home in the wee hours of the morning to sleep near his Echo shrine with mirror in hand. It's a sight that would bring tears to one's eyes: poor thing in fetal position, mirror curled up beneath his runny NoZe, one hand reaching out to touch the sorority buttons he stole from her, candid snapshots, Breakfast at Tiffany's poster (because she reminds him of Holly), and the pilfered gum wrappers he thought might still contain a drop of her saliva--a sad, sad sight.

We had dinner on Tuesday and then spent the evening drinking Caucasians and watching Groundhog's Day and KOTH Season 6 while listening to the Kimday Mix and quoting lines from Lebowski (for a second there, Prax, it was like hanging out with you). Like the Black Widow that I am, I got him sufficiently snockered with smooth tasting drinks and tucked him in on my couch (wait a minute, Prax, are you sure it wasn't you?). Nothing of Crankvalue to report, but it was nice to reconnect with an old friend. I planned to post something, but there wasn't much to report that would fit the crankiness of the blog; I mean it was just your typical evening of drinks and Lebowski, and my readers are growing weary of such tales. I guess I could've posted about all of the friends we had in common: my anger infested ex is now a pastor (WTF is up with THAT??); another friend finally came out and then went right back into the closet, but his career is taking off, so I guess that's a plus; another friend quit writing Penthouse letters and is now successful in politics somewhere (don't worry Mouse, I won't come forward with your secret). I guess that would've made for an interesting post, but I've been too busy to do so.

This morning, however, when I received the complaint via voicemail that I hadn't written anything about him on my blog, I felt the need to dub him with his new name and give him his own little post. Sorry, Narc, it doesn't live up to the third leg of the trifecta you see in me (vitriolic humor)--I haven't had my espresso yet.

Smooches, dear, and I hope to hang out again soon! :-)

Gorgyles!

I worked from home today but took a little day trip to the Bayou City Art Festival and spent a day's earnings. Still, I couldn't pass up this fantastic picture (hit Paris and look for Lunch in Paris) of 2 gargoyles devouring the Eiffel Tower atop Notre Dame Cathedral. It's aptly titled Lunch in Paris, and he personalized the back for me.

The thing is, though, that I was completely infected by the damn Warrior! I honestly could not say the freakin word, gargoyles. In fact, even now as I type, I keep thinking I'm typing it wrong and that the word is gorgyles. OMG, I'm Warriorlexic now!

I even had to apologize to the artist and tried to explain that I'm not an idiot and actually have a Masters in English and am just messed up because of the show. He, having not seen the show, put on a good face and said, "Um, yeah, like a bad song stuck in your head." UGH! Stupid Warrior!

Anyway, he actually took it on Old School film, and you can even see the writing from the negative on the top of the photo, which makes me happy.

And in case you think I was just playing hookey from work, I actually went shopping and picked up a few plush seder dinner sets for the Passover teaching this weekend, and trust me, there will be much work for the Crankster this evening. But for now, off for a little Italian food and a martini!

Murfle!

I am soooo freakin tired. I had complete insomnia last night, and I'm not sure if it was D-day induced, green beer induced, or what, but I didn't sleep at all. Went out with the CP and some other guy for a free pitcher (other guy's sister is a bartender), and much emotional weirdness happened (before and after the pub) which led to an awkward parting and to me going home, looking up General Cinema trailers on you tube, blowing Prax off for a bit on IM (sorry Prax, but you'll understand in a minute) and then suddenly feeling as if I were on speed.

Weirdest thing ever. My heart started beating as if it were keeping up with an Anthrax song, and when I tried to relax and sleep, my mind starting going a mile a minute. I couldn't stop problem solving everything from emotional weirdness of the evening to emotional weirdness of everyday to what curriculum I might want to use for the summer preschool program (that one was actually a worthwhile brain venture). It felt like the one time I mixed Mountain Dew with a couple of Vivarin back in college so that I could get a semester's worth of studying done 3 days before finals while in the backseat of a car during a random road trip. Not as fun, however, last night, this went on from 11:30pm until 6am this morning when I finally got up and took a shower.

I slipped coming out of the shower, though, bruised my knee and slid half of my sideways turned foot underneath a portion of the wall where the baseboard is missing. I pulled my foot out of the crevice, swollen and bruised, and I think I broke my fucking toe. All of this occurs as I am trying to get ready to go to work (and to the store to buy soda and popcorn bc the kids had a free day today). Taping up my foot, I slip on some opaque tights and squeeze the newly clubbed foot into my favorite little heels and, like a good dancer, forgot about the pain.

During a break from work today, I mention to the CP that I got no sleep last night, and he says, "Yeah, I only got a couple of hours. My mind was racing all over the place. I couldn't stop thinking." SAME THING! He says his heart didn't race (maybe he doesn't have one--I should've added but didn't because I never think of witty things to say unless I'm writing them. Dorothy Parker I am not, unless behind the crutch of a keyboard). But what the hell is that? My supposition is that the green beer was TAINTED or that I'm allergic to the dye. I've actually never had green beer before and really wanted a Guinness, but who's going to deny a free pitcher of beer, you know?

Anyway, a few Starbucks visits later, I'm awake enough to continue my day and keep my circadian rhythms afloat. I've got an apartment appt at 4 bc crazy Jackie won't call me back about G's place.

Groggle

Ok, it's 9, and I'm finally feeling a little awake and less toxic after a nap. Catbirds certainly is the gateway to somewhere. I don't know if it's hell, but I'd say it is definitely a truckstop on the way.

I dig the bartenders. Nerfherder, despite his scruffiness, is always good for a laugh, and Derrick is a mean mixologist. The owner is incredibly nice, and she's thinking of opening a Catbirds sequel somewhere in NOLA, which might be the site of the next Kimday.

I'm also warming up to the surroundings. It's like Bizarro Cheers, a dollar store knockoff of the place where everybody knows your name. The "sperm etched windows" was actually one window with little blue sperm painted on it, and it was kind of cute, and apparently Catbirds was just a quirky gay bar in a previous life, not a peep show, which makes me feel better bc that window was really high.

The thing about Catbirds is that it's like the guy you meet with beer goggles on. He's shabby and obnoxious at first, and the more you drink, the more you think, "Hmmm he's not soooo bad," and while he never quite becomes Prince Charming, he does become Prince Good Enough For Right Now, and you give him your number. The next day, however, you recall his shabbiness and definitely his obnoxious behavior when he leaves you a voicemail, and you vow never to go back to beer goggles state again (until that next Jack and Ginger). Yep, that's Catbirds.

Darth was in hyperdrunk last night, as were most of the aliens in Mos Eisley (the majority of which were journalists). Fraggle Rock was hitting on a nice girl from Austin, and Darth's friend, Freddy, was assuring me that Bambi and Thumper were happily snuggling up under my awning ass while watching their mother die at the hand of man. That was the compliment of the century, for sure. And really, if one more person "accidentally" tripped and fell face first into my boobs...come on!

Really, an uneventful night (or maybe I'm trying to forget).

Have I NO friends?

Where are the people in my life who are supposed to say, "No, Cranky, don't go to Catbirds?" Glurrrg.

Need Vault. Vault is the new precious.

Lugubrious record

24 people looked at my blog yesterday. Must've been the LOTR label.

To Catbirds or not to Catbirds

that is the question.

I received an IM from G today saying that Darth wants me to come to Catbirds. Here's the dilemma: I want to go out tonight--tired of GS cookies, wine, and sappy movies; however, as noted in previous posts, Catbirds is the Devilport of 2007, and I have to work 2m.

I am itching to see those sperm etched windows, though.

This dilemma is compounded by the fact that I'm craving Mo Mong, and you know that an evening started at Mo Mong never ends without the temptation of Catbirds. The thing is, though, I don't like the place. Why am I tempted to go? Does it satisfy something in my white trash subconscious?

Ah well, I'll be back later with my decision, but speaking of decisions, Saturday is D-day for me. Making huge decisions about chunks of my life--love, education, moving, career...

Why Saturday? It's because big decisions are best made over green beer, and definitely not green beer at Catbirds. Harp, maybe.

My Precious

It began with the baking of the damn things. Three were Thin Mints--sweet, delicate, and fairest of all cookies. Seven were Samoas or as they are currently dubbed, Caramel Delites, the hearty coconut and chocolate creations. And nine, nine were peanut butter patties which were given to my friends because I don't like them. They look like ordinary cookies, and they don't even taste that good, really, so you'd think you'd have the strength and will to govern over them.

But we are all deceived. In the land of Girl Scouts, in the fires of th GS ovens, the Dark Lord Brownie baked in secret master cookies to control all others. And into these cookies, he poured all his gluttony, his marketing skills, and his will to dominate all life. One cookie to rule them all.

One by one, the free peoples of Earth fell to the power of the GS cookies, but there were some who resisted....until, when chance came, the cookie ensnared another eater. The cookies came to the creature, Cranky, who took the box deep into the tunnels under the Montrose Duplex, and there it consumed her. The cookies gave Cranky unnaturally bizarre cravings. For 5 weeks, they poisoned her mind.

We wants it. We needs it. Must have the precious.

[My apologies to Tolkien and the GS council]

Bridges

I've gotten to spend a lot of time alone this week and last. Gone are the 75 hour work weeks for awhile, and that means more time to myself, by myself. And tonight I watched Bridges of Madison County, a movie that I bought on a whim solely because I needed a third movie to get the sale price. I watched it once as a teen with my friends Gordie and Bobby; Gordie and I watched as Bobby bawled her eyes out over what we thought was the longest, most ridiculous movie ever. In fact, as I picked it up yesterday, I thought of that sleepover and of us staring in disbelief as a cataract poured out over Bobby's face. She was always a sap.

Tonight, though I still think it goes on way too long, I appreciate it more; perhaps it's my age or my situation. I dunno, but though I can't see why a 13 year old girl would weep over it, I can understand the beauty of the film, and I can actually envision myself in Francesca's shoes, whether in the past or in the future.

Still, the film is not the reason for my post. I learned tonight (and I think it's something I've known but have never verbalized, really) that I absolutely love sitting at home, curled up on my sofa with a down duvet (and 2 cats), drinking midrange wine out of my best china, marveling at the lightning, absorbing the rain, and watching a candle flicker while a low volume, long movie plays in the background on my little, cheap TV. Yeah, I like that.

Happy belated bday, warrior

In my craziness, I forgot that the Warrior's bday was yesterday. Since I had to work, I'll celebrate tonight with a little dedication and some tainted OJ.

Don't mess with Texas (or God either)

So I had the kids write about how they viewed God today, and I got some typical answers and a few creative ones (e.g. runs at the speed of light), but I was reminded, once again, that I work in the suburbs of Houston when I looked down and saw, "God is a Texan."

Explains the last 2 elections, though.

Meme from Real Simple March

Coming off of a migraine, and trying to get my brain working enough to function at work this evening, so here's another meme:

1. My life would be simpler if... I had a play by play guidebook (but it would be much more boring)
2. Bikini or thong? both; thong most often
3. What's the nicest thing anyone has ever said to you? A prof once told me that my master's thesis was the greatest literary work to ever go through the UH system. But now that I rethink this question, it was when one of my students, a first grader, told me I was his favorite person. That means a lot.
4. What was your most embarrassing moment? So many to name; most recently, when I was talking with a coworker after work and I looked down to see that my bag strap had pulled my tank over, exposing part of my breast (areola borealis).
5. What's your favorite place in the world? anywhere outdoors with sunshine
6. Biggest waste of time? staff meetings
7. If I knew then what I know now... I would've told Dax Goodwin the truth (that my parents wouldn't let me go out with him) instead of telling him that he just didn't do it for me. Sorry, Dax.

Mesa Testa

Yesterday I lost my glasses, keys, and wallet in 3 different places. I found them all, but geez! This meant an evening hitching free rides on the lightrail and watching Sheryl Crow with no beer. Cranky was CRANKY (which is only fitting on G's last night in town).

It was a 75 hour week last week, but this week should be much lighter. I'm not even counting hours, and it's like a burden lifted, except for the fact that my brain has gone on hibernate.

Ok, I need me some Breakfast at Tiffany's, some wine, and some girl scout cookies. Yes, this is what single 30 somethings do on Thursday nights. I remember the days spent crawling from pub to pub. Now I crawl from couch to bed after falling asleep during a movie. Really, I've got to start having a life again. The year of Don Eduardo is not proving as adventuresome as the year of my boobs. Maybe I should make it the year of my boobs AND Don Ed.

To give myself credit, though, I did make a spontaneous decision to hit the Devilport the other day, where the bartender once again poured me samplers in rocks glasses and where the girls came out to say hi. The place is evil, and it is now compounded by the fact that it has free wifi now, so I can do work while being sucked into an abyssmal stupor. That should be productive.