lobsterchick's Diaryland Diary


As the French Call it, Pacte de Suicide

There is nothing like a work Christmas dinner (all fancy and shit, I mean), and the attached "You've been here 20 years, here's a trip to Hawaii" (no shit) awards that make a girl feel like she's staring down a narrow pipeline. At the end? Death. In between now and then? Feasibility reports. Phone logs. Site walk notes. I leaned over to Mark (my "date") and said "If I'm here in 20 years, kill me."

"I'd be here for 30 years at that point."

"Do we have a suicide pact, then?"

"Oh, yes."

1:44 AM - 11 December 2005



I just got Netflix tonight. There are 27 various and sundry items (not all movies -- not with the Muppets around!) in my queue, with a big ol' line at the top saying "We expect your next selection to ship on Tuesday."

Naturally I freaked right the fuck out. Tuesday? TUESDAY?! I have to wait an ENTIRE FUCKING WEEK TO GET MY MUPPETS? WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON, NETFL-- huh. What day is it? Monday? Oh. Carry on.

11:00 PM - 05 December 2005


The Only Italian I Know is \"Giallo\" and \"Rosso,\" Which Could Be Helpful In a Medical Exam

I can still get figure skating tickets (of course, it's men's short program, like, who gives a crap?) for Torino, for the low low bargain price of approximately $330 US! Ticket to Torino: $2096 on Expedia (what are the chances of my booking passage on a steamer to Southampton then thumbing rides the rest of the way?). Hotel: around $200.

Dude. How could I not?

I mean, how could I not wear dirty t-shirts and camp out on my couch for 10 days in February, eating spaghetti and drinking red wine (to which I am allergic, so sacrifice: made) all the while sniffling and sobbing at the manipulative tales of triumph and heartbreak and ailing fathers and financial adversity, and shouting at figure skaters that if all it takes to get to the Olympics is sliding across the ice on your ass, then by God, put ME out there?

How could I not?

12:44 AM - 03 December 2005


WHILE Shopping for Chocolate Covered HEELS

Why doesn't someone shoot those Yoplait bitches already? Don't make me do it. If I do, it will be ugly.

9:29 PM - 30 November 2005


Casual Friday

I get to wear jeans to work today!

As you may have noticed, that also involves working today.

Not as exciting as it started out, is it?

12:15 PM - 25 November 2005


Open Letter to the Chick from Black Eyed Peas

Dear Stacey Ferguson:

Though I'll admit I never thought about it one way or another, in the 20 years since I first saw you on Kids, Inc., I never once dreamed I'd hear you utter the horrible, fingernails-on-chalkboard phrase, "My lovely lady lumps." Because, come on. Who, besides a self-loathing early-blooming 13-year-old girl, has ever referred to anything not-possibly-cancer on her body as a "lump"?

I mean, personally, I find nothing hotter to whisper to the man-of-the-moment, while we're going at it, "Oh yeah, play with my lumps." So I see where you're coming from. It's just original, that's all.



12:06 AM - 23 November 2005


New Girl In the Neighborhood

I am in love with my new apartment. It's in the neighborhood I lived in until I was 6 (the weirdness of that being that from my living room window, without getting my ass off the couch, I can see the school at whcih I attended 1st grade). I'm 4 blocks from one of the best parks in the city (and yes, I do live in the actual, honest-to-god city now), and my childhood dentist is on my plan, so I could walk to and from appointments. I live on the corner, and one of my streets is on the snow route, which means that it's one of like, 10 streets the city actually plows when it snows, but I don't have to park on it, which means I won't get plowed in (it happens. A lot). I park on the street I live on, which is a side street, and there is never a problem finding a spot.

I have radiator heat (which is included in my cheapy-cheap rent), and it's hard to get used to, because it's noisy. But, it keeps me warm enough that on last night, during which the temp dropped below 20, I had to take off my quilt.

I have hardwood floors, which the last woman screwed up by apparently gluing a rug to the middle of the room (no clue)? They don't look great, but still: No carpet. I have enough closets to be able to have a Craft Closet. But the walls are plaster and won't hold a nail, so my bro-in-law has to make a visit with the drill so I can hang pictures. Once we do that, pictures will abound.

At night, a lot of people walk their dogs, which makes a very-not-scary neighborhood even nicer.

I'm so happy.

11:12 PM - 17 November 2005


The Bitch is Back

Oh my GOD, I'm finally finally finally online. And after 10 minutes on hold, the cable company comped me $4.77 for the week I spent without Internet access. FOUR-SEVENTY-SEVEN, BEETCHAS!

9:35 PM - 15 November 2005


All Growed Up

Hey, don't sign up for NaNoWriMo if you're moving in the first week of the month. It gets things off to a bad start.

That said, I am all moved. Pics of my new place to follow, though none of my whacked-out upstairs neighbor who vacuums relentlessly and stays up all night WALKING AROUND. Dude, it's an old building. The floors creak. Sit down at one of the eighty-five million computers you got going up there and stare at any of the several crucifixes (crucifices?) hanging on your wall for a while. Just a suggestion.

I called Abbie at 3:30 am last night, because my heat is radiator and scary and makes noises. After the initial freak-out, during which she was apparently halfway to her car to drive over and save me after having seen my name on the Caller ID in the middle of the night, she did some spot-on impressions of a radiator ("tssssssss... kachunga chunga") and talked me down from beating the crap out of Jesus Computer (I thought he was banging on the pipes as some sort of religious ritual! Never mind that the pipes are in the wall!). Then she called Jamie and woke him up, faking him out with a big "We need to go save Sandy!" alert. She is the meanest person I know, and for that, I love her. The whole "Sandy needs to be saved" panic is a little... much, because dude, I have a hammer now. A $4.99 Target hammer. I can protect myself.

Anyway, Category Suck: The End of the World was predictably horrible and therefore predictably bitchin', and I haven't written about it since I don't have the Internets in my apartment yet (tomorrow! Whoo!), but it's coming. And you better be looking out your window for the giant French clown head that I'm gonna toss in to you.

12:10 PM - 07 November 2005


Just So's You Know

I'm never moving again. As long as I live.

7:09 AM - 04 November 2005


A Frightfully Hilarious Story

No name changes. I'm too tired.

My mom's next door neighbor gave Evie a big ol' banker's box full of Mardi Gras beads they had left over from some promotional event, and since Evie's 3, they are pretty much all over the house. After the Trick-or-Treat-orama, we sat on the sectional (not Italian leather, alas), my mom, then Lisa, then me. Lisa and I each grabbed a string of beads, mine being of a large white variety most strongly resembling actual pearls. I put them on, and tied them in a knot in the end, knowing what Lisa would say. "Porno pearls!" she shouted, except she whispered "porno," as Evie was running in circles screaming, clearly buzzed. Every time you read the words "porno," "anal," or anything else sexual in the following, hear it as a whisper.

Having gotten my sought-after reaction, I snickered. And here's where the fun begins.

"I was goofing around with Tom the other night and asked him if he wanted me to bring those into bed with us. He, like, FREAKED OUT."

I gave my sister a strange look and thought Hmm... that sounds like...

Tom walked in. "Oh, is Lisa showing you her anal beads?"

I lost it.

My mom lost it.

Lisa: "THAT'S NOT WHAT THEY ARE! And I don't even know what that is!"

Tom: "You call them porno pearls!"

Me: "You don't know what anal beads are?"

Lisa: "You do?"

My mom: [Laughing inaudibly.]

Me: "Let me demonstrate them for you." I make an "OK" sign with my thumb and forefinger, and set the necklace on top of my hand. "First, you cram 'em all up in there."

My mom: [Gasping for air.]

Lisa: "GOD!"

Me: "Then you pull them out one by one."

Lisa: "How do you know this?" She turns to Tom. "How do YOU know this?"

Tom: "Why'd you think they called them porno pearls?"

Lisa: "I thought porn... stars... liked to wear them... because they thought they were... pretty?"

Everyone: [Laughing inaudibly.]

Me: "Marcia taught you that term, right?"

Lisa: "Yeah."

Me: "Do you think she knew what it meant?"

Lisa: "NO!"

Me: "Come on. This is the woman who kept a heart-shaped box of condoms by her bed."

Lisa: "Fair enough."

10:31 PM - 02 November 2005


One Night Dry

"Ladies and gentlemen, in this box, I have the product that is going to CHANGE. YOUR. LIFE. It looks like a length of plastic tubing ending in a pillow, but what it allows you to do is PEE while you're SLEEPING! That's right, no more inconvenience of getting up in the middle of the night, no more mess! With the Dry Dreams, you just pop it up there and... go! See? Doesn't that feel so natur-"

Oh sweet mother of mercy that is not natural. Not right at all. Did I just pee in the bed? Did I just wet the bed? I did. I wet the bed. I have to get to the bathroom. Thank god for those Kegels.

That's right, sports fans. I WET THE BED TWO NIGHTS AGO BECAUSE I WAS SO EXHAUSTED. It wasn't a lot (I had to change my pajama pants, but the sheet stripping waited till morning, thanks to a towel), and it's never happened before, and if there is anything to laugh about in a twenty-seven-year-old doing that, it's that I did it TO AN INFOMERCIAL WHERE I WAS THE STAR.

But I woke up dry this morning, so like an alcoholic or drug addict, I'm going to keep a calendar. So far, I'm one night dry.

9:31 AM - 29 October 2005


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