Crazying Up the Bottle

Best Before: June 1, 2006

2006-06-01T23:47:00.000-05:00

I was living in Ireland at the time - which I say only because it sounds better than "So the semester when I was over in Ireland during college" - and walked, wearing the puppy slippers that were a going away present from my then girlfriend - into the kitchen that I shared with three male roommates (Adam, Dan and Brett) and started rummaging around the fridge looking for breakfast.

Which more than likely means I was hungover since that was basically the only time I ever ate breakfast over there, but that's not really the point.

I reached for the container of milk, popped the top, and poured some into my mouth - which sounds gross I know until you looked at some of the dishes in the sink. Even if my roommates, Dan's girlfriend, and Brett's drug dealer - and he was missing about 6 teeth - were all doing the same thing to the milk jug it was still cleaner than any of the plastic cups we gamely tried to rinse out with lukewarm water in the sink.

Actually I should say that I tried to pour some milk into my mouth, because the milk took a much more lackadaisical approach and globbed its way out of the bottle.

I spit it out in the sink over a skillet that I'm pretty sure we just ended up throwing away rather than even attempting to clean, and checked the expiration date on the milk.

March 23.

It was the morning - well, okay early afternoon - of March 24th. And all ready the milk had begun to cheesify.

I've always been kind of fascinated with expiration dates, for obvious reasons. I had a rather involved conversation with a coworker at lunch this week about the subtle yet importance difference between "Best Before" (Nah, it's still good, go ahead and give it a shot) and "Use By" (You do know that green isn't the color hash browns supposed to be, right?)

It's hard to know when it's time to stop sniffing the milk or when to stop cautiously taking a bite of pad thai that was left out on the kitchen counter overnight and just toss it into the garbage.

It's hard to know when to let something go, to realize it's not going to get any better - or to be fair, any worse - and it's time to just walk away.

It's hard to know when to stop blogging.

Crickets: *roll eyes*
MooCow: Yes I know I'm blogging about blogging again. Shut.it.
Crickets: Wake us up when something happens...

I'm noticing more and more of the people I read on a daily basis hanging up their proverbial keyboards in some form or another - bathroomreading, dan, jay (aka kickballsuperstar), vivian, d2ana, and someone else who I totally can't think of at the moment (sorry).

And I know I'm going to be doing the same thing. Oh sure I'll try to post on Waffling up the Kiwi depending on how things go. Maybe a guest post here and there.

But I've already wasted my "So long and thanks for all the fish..." post on my previous blog.

So I need something different this time.

Something like:

Crazying up the Bottle:
Best Before: June 1, 2006

Crickets: Uh, wait....does this mean what we think it means? (pause) That we can't eat you - not a euphemism by the way - anymore? But you....you're so succulent. (giggle)
Crickets: (longer pause) Um, Moo?
Crickets: That fucker's done again? Wow. He almost made it a year this time. Good job *slow clap*
Crickets: (pausing, looking around) No (they make air quotes here) "snappy" comebacks? Maybe he really is gone.
Crickets: (room echoes) Hello? Hellooooo?

(The crickets begin to throw an increasingly ridiculous pile of stuff - books, clothes, a TV, kitchen sink, airplane, statue of liberty - into a suitcase. A few jump up on the top of the suitcase as the others try to close the latches on the bulging bag. Finally getting the suitcase closed they walk to the door and take a last look around)

Crickets: We just want to say thanks to those of you who bothered to read the ramb--wait a second, why are we reading the shit that Moo told us we had to read otherwise we wouldn't get our security deposit back? Did we even pay a security deposit? (Pull out a check register and begin flipping through it) He is sooo dead. Does he even know what a NZ cricket looks like?
Crickets: (clears throat) Ah-hem. We just want to say, "Boobies!"

(The crickets flick off light switch)

Well that explains today and yesterday...what about the previous month?

2006-05-31T22:16:00.000-05:00

So I got a phone call from my parents on Sunday evening as I was sitting melting in my apartment getting ready for what I've now decided was in fact a date.

Phone: (ring) (ring) Uh, yeah so the number is from some weird area code in Colorado
Me: Aw hell, it's my parents.
Crickets: (put down the outfits they had been picking out for me - including a bike jersey and a pair of plaid pajama pants. Stupid colorblind crickets) Don't your parents live in Wisconsin?
Me: Yeah, but they buy these stupid calling cards and so whenever I get a call from 720 or 440 or some goofy area code like that, I know it's them.
Phone: Ahem, ring!
Me: Oh right. (picks up phone)
Phone's boyfriend: (punches MooCow) And that's for pickin' up my special lady friend!
Crickets: This is going to be another one of those nonsensical posts that people give up reading halfway through because there are about 7986234 characters and none of it makes any sense.
Me: More then likely, yeah. (into phone) Hello?
MooMom: Hi Moo! Where are you? [ed. note - Seriously, that was their first question. Not how are you...where.]
Me: I'm at home.
MooMom: Well we were just calling to say that on Tuesday [10 minute story about Tuesday removed because, well I stopped listening for most of it]...and so we're going to be without e-mail for a couple of days.
Me: Huh? Wait what?
MooMom: Because the cable modem isn't working.
Me: Oh right. Gotcha.
MooMom: Well that's really why I was calling. How are you?

So my parents - my dear sweet slightly-to-mostly confused parents - called to tell me that I wouldn't be getting any e-mail from them in the next few days.

Despite the fact that the last time I got an email from them (I heart you gmail search function) was April 21st. And I've gotten a total of 7 e-mails from them all year.

But at least now I know that the reason why I'm not getting email from them is because their cable modem is broken.

Crickets: (peeking heads out of suitcase) That was the story?
Me: Yes that was the story. And get out of there. Seriously you guys. They're very strict about flora or fauna entering NZ.
Crickets: Wait which one are we?
Me: Fauna.
Crickets: Even Hamilton? (cricket wearing a pink shirt with a popped collar waves)
Me: Get out.
Crickets: (grumbling) Don't be all Pissy McMoanerson because it was a lame story dude.
Me: Hate. you.

Stick what?

2006-05-30T23:36:00.000-05:00

So there are certain movies that you get done watching and you think "Whoa...Seriously, whoa. That was...whoa."

The Godfather.

Barbarians at the Gates.

And now...Stick It.

So some of you out there, who I may or may not have chatted with on IM, might be thinking "Dude, seriously, Stick It? Like the gymnastics movie. You had better be going with a chick. Seriously, you're going with a woman right?"

Whatever. If you can't understand the reason why I'd want to go see "Bring It On meets the Olympics," well then you don't understand hott women in spandex. (The reason why the guy sitting by himself on the other side of the theater a few rows down from us was watching the movie is debatable at best. Especially given the amount that he laughed at certain "jokes" ("It's not called gymnistics!"))

See, I went to this with Amber ("Hey what do you feel like doing?" "Oh let's go see a movie." "How about Stick It?" "OMG, I sooooo want to see that."), expecting it to be horribly bad. Like Gigli bad.

But it wasn't. It was easily the best movie about gymnastics I've ever seen, beating out...um...well it was still the best movie.

I think it's going to do for gymnastics what "Best of the Best II " did for tai kwan do (whatever, the first movie totally sucked).

Or what the "Cutting Edge" did for figure skating.

It was...it was actually okay.

Amber and I found different things to like about it (I think I appreciated several of the slow motion scenes more than she did) - but it managed to pack an impressive number of sports cliches into one movie.

The grizzled coach who's past his prime yet still cares.
The cold as ice protaganist who grows, learns, and loves.
Training montages - oh sweet jesus were there training montages
The bitch on her team, who eventually comes around.
The bitch on another team who eventually comes around.
The slightly clueless teammate who's just their for comic relief (ah dear sweet Wei Wei)
The soundtrack featuring no less than two songs off of ESPN's Jock Jams (one of the climatic scenes - SPOILER ALERT...oh who am I kidding, like anyone is going to go see this movie - involves a breakdance sequence on a balance beam to K7's "Come Baby Baby")
A slow motion medal ceremony
Large amounts of voice over (ala Million Dollar Baby)

There were the standard teenage movies cliches ("OMG will I get to go to prom?" "OMG, my parents just don't understand me!" "OMG, OMG!!") as well, but let's face it, this is a movie that includes a leotard spraying montage - it's a movie about gymnastics.

And for that random woman who wrote and directed the movie, I salute you.

Though seriously you put out a "Stick It Again" straight to DVD and I'm going to disown ever seeing this movie.

A horse, Andre, and a suburb

2006-05-29T18:37:00.000-05:00

So Saturday afternoon was Mr. K's birthday ~~extrva~~ ~~extrava~~ fete - down at the local horse racing track. Because nothing says happy birthday quite like standing and yelling for "Hoof Hearted" to run like he's never run before ("And down the stretch, it's hoof hearted...")

My betting strategy consists of me figuring I'm going to lose anyway, so why not lose big? Betting an 8-6-7 trifecta in one race followed by a 5-3-10-9 superfecta in the next race?

So I didn't even really bother looking at a program before tapping out my first bet on one of those automated machine thingies. A $2 5-3-4 trifecta.

Which I then proceeded to forget as an older heavyset silverback guy, a gold chain around his neck, his shirt open down to the bottom button walked by and made me giggle/retch. More of the second now that I think about it again. Actually all of the second.

Oh wait, I just won. Hee. Yay. It paid off at a somewhat pathetic $42.20. Which was the only thing I won all afternoon, but still yay!

And then it got hott. No I mean like hott. On Sunday the high temperature was a blistering 97 degrees (which google tells me is 36 c, which is good because I'd guess it was 978234234 milligrees or something like that).

I've ranted about my air conditioner before, and how it's good at making noise and tripling my energy bill, but not so good at the actual cooling part. It's like having Andre the Giant sitting in your living room breathing loudly and waving a paper fan over a tray of ice cubes.

I turned it on anyway, in the hopes that my landlord magically snuck in and replaced it with one that wasn't used by the Flinstones.

After about 30 minutes of "Neeeerrrrrrrrr" and the temperature actually going up in my apartment, I shut it off and stripped off my last layer (the crickets making bow chicka bow wah chirping noises and yelling out comments like "Oh come on, do it cross armed like they do in the movies...")

And that's the way I stayed for most of the afternoon, until I had a date/non-date with a girl I went to college with, but didn't know at all.

The original plan had been to meet up for a bike ride - but since it was about 892735897342 degrees, we decided just to grab some ice cream and walk around one of the lakes.

(Now I realize that I complain a lot about the weather, but well, you have to complain about the weather when live in a place with a 140 degree range of temperatures - it got as cold as -36 last winter. So there.)

After scarfing down ice cream - I got Oreo, she got peach - we started walking towards where we thought the lake was.

And walked.

And walked.

And then saw a "Welcome to St. Louis Park" sign.

We went looking for a lake and found a suburb.

Three hours, two games of paper rock scissors later ("Well it's not like we can get any more lost, so let's let PRS decide which way we should go"), and a rather unsettling moment involving an older heavyset silverback guy, a gold chain around his neck, his shirt open down to the bottom button walked by (Is he following me? Are they multiplying like some kind of overly tan, belly-bearing pod people?) - we had found the lake and limped home.

Next date/non-date? Sooo not going to involve walking.

2006-05-25T23:17:00.000-05:00

Oh and congratulations are due to Princess Sophia Banana Hammock who will soon be known as Mrs. Princess Sophia Banana Hammock-Crapbag.

The story as I heard it is that her boyfriend re-enacted their first date (yellow roses leading down to his recording studio followed by a trip to Hooters), got down on one knee, and asked her to marry him. *tears up* I'm so happy for you kids.

Though seriously, you have the wedding while I'm gone, I'm going to kick you.

So while you were hiking, did you see any berries?

2006-05-25T22:22:00.000-05:00

So I got about halfway through a post before realizing it was yet another meta-angsty maudlin rant, the kind that I've been writing more or less for the last month or so that make it sound like I've been listening to Monster Ballads while reading The Bell Jar all day.

I mean if my life were being made into a movie preview right now there'd be all these scenes of me (played by John Cusack of course) staring out a rain-splattered window as something by, oh, let's say, Imogen Heap plays in the background. Then a quick cut to a woman walking down the street. Then back to looking out the window. Then sitting at a desk pensively chewing on the earpiece of my glasses.

That kind of shit.

But I don't want that. I want the preview to have car chases - no...blimp chases - and koala bears wearing cheerleader outfits and a Clockwork Orange-esque flashing of random images (there's a squirrel, and a cheeseburger, and Optimus Prime, and an etch-a-sketch, and an iPod showing "Melanie - Brand New Key" is playing, and there's Jambi from Pee-Wee's Playhouse, and crickets playing a cricket match (the Chirpers captain is seen getting caught out by the third slip with a finishing with a disappointing 4 for 37)) - all while Save Ferris play a ska version of "Come on Eileen."

But apparently these days I'm just not capable of writing anything like that, so you're stuck hearing me blandly write about my date last night (we got coffee and sat around talking for about 4 hours) where the word "dingle" was used no less than 25 times and no one giggled (the datee, a 27-year-old lawyer, and I had both spent some time hiking around the Dingle peninsula in Ireland).

No giggling. At. Dingle.

I mean I almost started giggling at the word "titration" at work today - though that might have had something to do with the drawing of Millie Mole that we scribbled on a coworker's white board as we tried to figure out how to convert mg/dL to mmoles/L (answer: divide by 18).

But dingle? Nothing. I just nodded politely as she talked about "So after we got into dingle we..." No Ernie-esque giggling - well out loud at least, in my head all I kept picturing Ernie out in the boat yelling "Here fishy fishy fishy fishy..."

Squirrels need to write too

2006-05-24T22:34:00.000-05:00

"Can I see your pen for a second?" I asked one of my coworkers as we stood around outside watching other coworkers smoke.

"What do you want it for?" he asked somewhat cautiously, which makes sense since this is the same coworker whose cube I've been stealing things out of for the past few weeks - including the tennis ball that I was bouncing against the door of the building with a satisfying *thump*

"I want to draw some more on my tennis ball." I showed him the smiley face that I had scribbled on during a two hour conference call from hell, and the crotchal region which I had attempted (and failed) to pixelate. (Yes tennis balls do too have a crotchal region..)

He handed over his pen.

I took the cap off, carefully placed it on the other end of the pen - and threw it up on the roof of the building, barely sneaking it over the edge, because the wind took it (my claim) or because I throw like a girl (my sans pen coworker's claim).

I left before him tonight, so I fully expect something to be missing from my cube tomorrow morning.

I think it's safe to say senioritis is officially setting in at work. The sad part is I still have over a month to go.

---

Oooh yay, it's the other side of the line again. I'm liking the line idea more and more because it means I don't have to be coherent through an entire post.

No go ahead. Make your snarky comments now.

Done? I can wait. *starts humming A-ha's "Take on me"*

So you all remember AustinGirl right? What's that? You don't hang on my every word. Fine. I'll post the link, but after this I'm done enabling you.

So I was talking to her last night - she had called because she had read about my trip - but there was something behind her voice, a certain breathlessness, a half octave higher, further blurring that line between reality and cartoon - and the first time I asked what was new, she responded with "Oh nothing."

I told her I could smell the smoke from here (translation: She was such a liar liar pants on fire, they were causing smoke to be smellable (it is too a word) (spell check tells me this is like the 4th made up word so far. That may be a new record for me) from across the country).

"Moo," she steadied herself, "I'm engaged. And getting married next March. And moving to England." She paused, "I couldn't wait for you forever you know." Another pause, "You just sat down didn't you?"

I told her I was of course.

And then I told her I was happy for her - because I am, seriously - but part of me...man, it was like watching the doors slowly shutting at an elevator down at the end of a long hallway. Maybe you could have caught the elevator, maybe you couldn't have (in this case, I totally could have) - but it doesn't really matter now.

The point is ~~moo~~ ("You know, like a cow's opinion.") moot.

Watts and raisins

2006-05-23T20:53:00.000-05:00

First off, the power cord for my laptop was finally located inside a box burred underneath a miniature cricket bat, an alligator - or possibly crocodile - mask, and a string of Peep lights that a former boss bought for me on clearance at Target.

Which is obviously the best place to keep a laptop power cord.

But now I have another problem and I'm hoping one of you out there is smart and/or bored enough to give me the right answer (I'll get to something more interesting - uh, maybe - after this, just give me a sec...)

The current battery in my craptop is marked on the battery as being 14.4 watts. All the replacement batteries I've been able to find so far - including a sticker containing a part number for kahlon.com - are 14.8 watts.

My question: Is that close enough, or do I seriously have to somehow have to hunt down a 14.4 from somewhere? I know you can change the amps on a battery no problem, but I've always thought that the watts has to be the same. Anybody know or can google me an answer? I've found nothing useful other than a message board where I think they were talking about model airplanes or some shit and the conversation degraded into a bunch of formulas concerning power or something.

Anyway, moving on. Look, I'll even put a line in...

-------

Hi. Feels totally different on this side of the line doesn't it? Like everybody is going out to eat at the Olive Patch or TGIWeekend.

Speaking of olives, why can you not buy just straight olive juice in the grocery store? I mean if the only reason why I'm buying olives is for martini related purposes, I don't want an entire bottle of olives when I pour most of the juice out and I'm left with half a jar of dry olives which just raisining away in the back of my fridge.

I tried to rehydrate raisins once - you know turn them back into grapes - back when I was about 4 and was convinced that if I put them in a container of water and then into the freezer, they'd turn back into grapes. Which probably explains why the two recipes I contributed for the recipe book my pre-school class read as follows:

Sandwich
Serves 1

1. Take two pieces of bread.
2. Walk out to the sandbox.
3. Grab a handful of sand.
4. Place between bread
5. Eat.

(My theory on this is that I was planning on talking about how to make a sandwich on the way to pre-school and my brother and sister convinced me I really meant sandwich. I know this sounds far-fetched, but it has happened before.)

Pizza
Serves: everybody

1. Put pizza in oven.
2. Go outside to play.
3. Come back inside.
4. Drink pop.
5. Eat pizza.
6. Drink more pop.

Well I'm at least close to being on the right track here. It's not like I said you should put the pizza on your head or anything.

And that's way better than one of the one's from my friend Justin who had a recipe for Spaghetti where he wrote:

1. Get a big pot and fill it with water.
2. Put it on the stove until it's all bubbly.
3. Add noodles and cook until soft.
4. Drain.
5. Eat.

Ha! Stupid Justin. He forgot to mention that you should salt the water before bringing it to a boil. What a moron!

---

So seriously, anyone figured out the laptop battery thing yet?

Oh, and while I'm thinking of it...Anybody have an old iPod they'd be willing to sell/trade me?

Sir, you can't put Chuck E Cheese tokens in a parking meter

2006-05-22T23:02:00.000-05:00

So I got a message from someone on TheOnion personals last week, and really wasn't quite sure what to do with it. "Hey i_like_cows," she began before blabbing on the way that you do when you're paying 200 credits to send a stranger who you think you'd like to make the babies with an email - which incidentally you can do for free by dropping a tennis ball on the keyboard though sadly ujhnm@gmail.com hasn't returned my message yet.

(Dear ujhnm, I'm very sorry about all the spam you're going to get. Yours etc, Moobert)

I didn't quite know how to respond to it, partially because she looked like a girl I went to high school with (and didn't particularly like), partially because she had an old woman name (I went out on a few dates with a girl named Alice last year and I just felt kind of dirty saying "Wow Alice you're an amazing kisser." Oh and also because she wasn't really that good.)

And partially because, well really what's the point? I mean I'm spending my days going through the motions at work each day my disinterest level rising like the tote board at an obscure disease telethon ("And welcome back to the American Association of Retired Gunpowder Holders telethon to benefit those afflicted with scurvy...").

And I'm spending my nights sorting through all the crap I've accumulated over the past few years - when the fuck did I buy a whisk? - and - wait, why did I buy a whisk? - wondering if I should just leave the Chuck E Cheese tokens in the shoebox of change when I take it to the bank ("Okay Mr. Cowerton, your total is $114.72. Oh and we converted your Chuck E Cheese tokens using the current Skeeball exchange rate of 9.24 tickets per token and so you can choose from an eraser shaped like a strawberry, a pink jelly bracelet, a plastic jumping frog (the teller demonstrates by pushing down on the frog causing him to jump about an eighth of an inch), or a promotional CD put out for "Jesse and the Rippers." (obscure points: 27 ("You know," the teller interrupts, "the current exchange rate on obscure points is 5234.1 per flugern."))

Wow did that paragraph get nonsensical in a hurry. I just re-read it and I'm just shaking my head right now. Yeow. Anyway, where was I? Oh right.

So really what's the point in going on a first date with someone when I'm just going to be leaving the country in a month and a half? Really what's the point of going out on a date when really it's only going to lead to at most MakingTheBabies with no strings attached and with no cha--...

So I've got a date Wednesday night.

Oh whatever. Don't judge me. Like you've never gone out with someone for the sake of getting some for the first time in [horribly long time, no, like longer than that...take whatever you're thinking and double it] before leaving for another country. Pfft. I say. Pfffffft.

Besides, I told her I'm moving away and she still wanted to hang out, so if that doesn't spell makeout I don't know what does.

Where did I put that again?

2006-05-21T21:51:00.000-05:00

There's the normal stuff that people lose all the time: their keys, an umbrella, their virginity, even dogs occasionally.

Sigh.

I've spent the past few days turning my apartment upside-down - although given it's current status as a crack-addled raccoon lair I should probably say downside-up - looking for a couple of items that have apparently disappeared into thin air.

A pair of glasses that I haven't seen in about a year, that I bought back when I thought "Oh you know, I bet I'm capable of picking out glasses by myself" - which naturally meant that Princess Sophia Banana Hammock laughed for 10 minutes after she saw me wearing them for the first time. So I don't really wear them in public anymore, but they did have clip on sunglasses (shut. up.)

Then there's the power cord for my laptop which really ticks me off because it's a fricken power cord, uh, brick thingy. And about the size of a package of peeps, so it's not like it's like a pair of glasses which could be who knows where.

So I've been tearing through my apartment trying to find this stuff - and an embarrassingly large amount of other objects - and so far none of my usual tricks are working.

MooCow finding tip #1 - Check the freezer. No not in it. I'm not that bad. Yet. I mean on top of it. The amount of shit that I've been able to find but that for whatever reason I've decided "Oh I know, I'll just put my spare set of keys on top of the fridge/freezer - so that way I don't lose them." (Estimated time they were lost: 5 months). Part of the problem is that I used to keep a Peep shaped easter basket up there to store my collection of dollar bills. Wait...*goes to check* Sweet! 31 dollars and an RSVP for a wedding June 17th. But still no power cord.

MooCow finding tip #2 - Burrow to the bottom of Mt. DirtyClothes like Scrooge McDuck swimming through his moneybin (reference for the older folks (like SpecialK...awwww snap!) like the little guy from DigDug trying to find a cherry). I really hoped that's where the powercord was, since the cord went missing the last time I thought I might need in to clean my apartment in case things went well on a date (estimated time: Mid April...of 1947). So I just assumed it was under the pile of yellowing t-shirts, crumpled dress shirts where the number of wrinkles is proportional to how late I am - Dear makers of wrinkles relaxer spray, I want to have 100,000 of your babies. Yours etc, Moobert T.S. Cowerton. So I cleaned up in there. By cleaning I mean taking all the clothes and putting them into a massive, unstable pile that is currently the 4th tallest structure in Minnesota. But still no powercord (the glasses I've basically written off by this point, which is too bad because it means a lot of squinty driving for me).

MooCow finding tip #3 - Look inside of things like a set of matryoshka dolls. Where are the arms for my Brak action figure (he comes with regular and "folded" arms for reasons that would take to long to explain and can really just be explained by saying "well...he's brak")? Well see, they'd be inside the lincoln logs key chain, which was inside a nearly empty box of checks, which was inside a Fark lunchbox. This in turn was in a cardboard box along with a monkey calendar, a broken fan, and a pair of bike shorts that have seen better days and now leave even less to the imagination than before. Obviously. I mean where else would they be? Duh. So the logical place for a powercord would be inside a shoebox underneath the bathroom sink with a bunch of cotton balls and a half full can of shaving cream. But it wasn't there either.

Unfortunately...I did find a spider. *shudder*

Great. Now what happens when I need another roll of toilet paper and I have to get it out from under the sink?

Stupid effing powercord.

Singles

2006-05-19T01:36:00.000-05:00

I set the bottle of wine down on the counter and slapped down a handful of crumpled up dollar bills and thought about giving the guy ringing up my purchase some kind of explanation - "I'm not really an alcoholic. I've been wearing this hoodie all day as a way of getting around the dress code at work (I claimed I was cold) and I know I haven't shaved in like two weeks, which basically means that my blond stubble looks like an ADD gardener planted seeds on my face, and I realize that I'm paying in a fist full of crumpled dollars but that's just because with the way I've set my budget up for the next two months, if I spend money in dollar bills, it doesn't count."

But he looked bored enough to not really care.

And plus, he didn't card me - so I figured he didn't really care about the scruffy guy showing up right before closing time. I mean I realize I would have looked a bit more destitute had I been buying MD 20/20 or something instead of a bottle of Chateau Ste Michelle Gewurtzaminer, but still, I felt slightly judged as he straightened the pile of George Washingtons in front of him.

But whatevs.

See, I don't really like dollar bills. Or change for that matter. In my world basically everything would cost no less than $5 - and that eventually things would even out. You buy a pack of gum? 5 bucks. You buy a garden hose? 5 bucks.

So that means that typically I take whatever dollar bills I have and stuff them into a Peep easter basket - the bills hanging out the sides like a peacock who's part of the "Hairclub for men" ("Hey baby how you doin'? You good. All riiiiiiight! (throws the double thumbs gestures) Catch you later girl (sighs) Man this sucks...")

But getting ready for having no real income to speak of for the next year - oooh, I feel like a teacher - I've come up with a slightly obscure budget that allows me to spend as much as I want, as long as it's in dollar bills.

*waits patiently for stripper jokes to finish*

This is going to be awhile isn't it?

*waits*

You good? Oh wait no, I see Wendy and theinsider are still giggling. Take your time...All right then.

Which is why I can justify going out to happy hour tonight before swinging by the liquor store on my way over to a coworker's house - all basically "free" because I spent nothing but dollar bills. (My coworker - if he actually read my blog would point out that he paid for happy hour, but whatevs...I could have paid in singles).

After the dollar bills are gone, then it's onto the shoebox full of change that's starting to bend one of the shelves in my closet.

So yes, I will be "that guy" in front of you at the grocery store or at Arby's paying for the 5 for $5.95 entirely in quarters.

Luckily I'm leaving in about a month and a half, because I think if paid at Starbucks with pennies someone would start shoving them up my venti, if you know what I'm sayin'.

It's a toaster...uh...um....thing

2006-05-17T18:46:00.000-05:00

So I was running late for work this morning - do to an incident involving a mirrored closet door, a vacuum cleaner, and a plastic crate containing a dozen golf balls, and the pieces from the roof rack of my car - and looked for something in the kitchen that could be considered breakfast.

Now given that I've eaten miso soup, a beddar with cheddar, and half a tub of cottage cheese for breakfast other mornings this week - I mean really as long as it's food (or food product) it can be eaten for breakfast.

So I started hunting through my cupboards: A box of quinoa, stick of Yak jerky (wonderfully named "Yak Snak"), an empty ice cube tray, a can of something with the label torn off, and a bottle of Flintstone's vitamins (shut it, they're just like grown-up ones).

Onto the freezer: Brown bananas kept for making banana bread (never mind the fact I have no cookware to speak of), an empty ice cube tray, an opened bag of sliced almonds...oooh, two toaster strudels in a plastic bag and back there under the box of veggie bacon - one of the frosting packets.

Wait...or are those toaster scrambles?

I should probably explain since no one seems to know what the hell I'm talking about most of the time. Toaster strudels are these little crispy (in theory) pocket type things about the size of a deck of cards and filled with fruit filling, mostly commonly "red" flavored. Each strudel comes with its own individual packet of icing which you can squeeze on the top of the cooked toaster strudel (which you cook in a toaster duh, though I did realize recently that they now have microwave directions which is kind of like giving oven directions on microwave popcorn). They're really fantastic.

Toaster scrambles on the other hand are very similar but filled with egg, cheese and bacon. Oh and come sans icing.

And are visually identical to toaster strudels.

Both of which I know I've purchased within the past few months and both of which could easily have been in an unmarked plastic bag in my freezer along with clumps of ice.

Screw you by the way ice. Why is it that you'll take and cling to leftover hot dogs, toaster strudels, and the one last fish stick that I don't really know what to do with but has been in my freezer for the better part of a year - but you can't fill the fricken empty ice cube tray sitting right there?

So I got to work and was in the breakroom sniffing the toaster product trying to figure out if it smelled like fruit or like bacon (it smelled freezer-burnt is how it smelled) when one of my favorite coworkers came in.

Her: Toaster strudels huh?
Me: Maybe. (pause) They might be toaster scrambles. I don't know.
Her: Yeah but you have the frosting packet.
Me: But they were separated in my freezer by about a foot or so. I don't know if they're supposed to be together.
Her: Are you going to still put the icing on it?
Me: Well I think I pretty much have to. I mean I can't let it go to waste.
Her: But what if it's got cheese and eggs in it.
Me: Would you be all that shocked if you saw me eating cheesy eggs covered in frosting?
Her: I saw you eating soup for breakfast and chocolate cake for lunch yesterday, so no.
Toaster: *bing*
Her: I think they smell eggy. I wouldn't do it.
Me: (rips top of frosting packet and squeezes it on) Too late. Here we go. (bites) (chews) Man that's freezer burned, but yeah that's definitely "red" flavor.

The can in the cupboard with the label ripped off? So not going there.

Hot chocolate and micro machines

2006-05-16T20:59:00.000-05:00

Sometimes you just don't have a choice.

I'm not talking about the days where you wake up in the morning and realize that you're out of clean underwear and because you've hit the snooze button one (or 8) too many times so you don't have time to stop at Target, and so you have no other choice but to slide on a pair of spandex under your dress pants.

Or the times when despite spending four hours over coffee laughing and giggling like you've known each other for years, you walk her out to her car (a red civic naturally - I swear I've gone on dates with like 10 girls who drive red civics) and she starts talking like the guy from the Micro Machines commercials, "WellIHadFunTonightWe ShouldDoThisAgain SometimeWhyDontYouGive MeACallOkayBye," before managing a Jackie Joyner Kerseeian sprint for the safety of her carcoon, which if it were a cartoon would be complete with MooCow leaning in to kiss a dust cloud, which then clears showing he's actually kissing a parking meter that flips to "Expired."

Those things - and what Alanis would call irony - you just don't really have any control over. You can either get pissed off realizing that what you thought was a chocolate chip cookie was actually raisin ("Hey, I know! Let's put nasty tasting fruit in cookies! We'll sell millions!" - fuckers) and getting all upset and shaking your fist at karma.

Or you can realize that sometimes the universe has a way of evening things out. Like when she calls - after a week of near panic including a positive test result from planned parenthood - to announce that she's not pregnant (and yes, after a lot of online research it is possible to keep your v-card and get someone pregnant).

Or how your foot slips off your bike pedal slowing you down just enough to avoid getting creamed by the 1992 Ford Escort running a red light.

Or more simply you find $20 bucks in the pocket of a winter jacket.

I suppose maybe it's Serendipity - in the non-Love-in-the-time-of-cholera-in-a-Manhattan-bookstore kind of way.

Things just happen.

Which is why when you see that there's a marathon in Auckland on the day of your 28th birthday, you have no other choice but to sign up.

Well for the half-marathon.

I mean come on now, I still have some choice. Cusack's character in Serendipity didn't have to order hot chocolate. He could have gotten coffee and things would have turned out the same. Well, whatevs, they might of.

(Actually I really don't remember that movie at all, but there was something with hot chocolate, right?)

I'll treat your tahitian if you're not careful

2006-05-15T22:40:00.000-05:00

"You," she began after spending half the day reading my blog, "tend to make up a lot of shit don't you?" I hadn't been intending to tell her about it - typically it doesn't end well; like post-praying-mantis-coitus not ending well - but she asked why my nickname was MooCow and I cracked under the pressure.

Her: So what's the deal with MooCow?
Me: (sweating, though the fact that this was over the phone should have worked to my advantage) Oh, just a random nickname, because "I like cows. And they like me. I like cows, just wait and see."
Her: You're sweating right now aren't you?
Me: No.
Her: Uh huh.
Me: I'm not!
Her: Well I'll let you go before you electrocute yourself.
Me: Fine. (pause) Once upon a time there was a guy who was bored and decided to start a blog and tried to....

Okay so I'm not going to pass my spy test. If I were a spy, we'd all be speaking russian and Major Tohr would have found the ark (obscure points: 3.7) and Swiper would have totally gotten away with stealing Backpack and at best I'd be sleeping with femme fatales named "Saggy Chestale."

So she - ha! Try to get that one out of me! Hmm? Okay fine it was my friend Sarah (damnit!) - read a bit and realized some obvious inaccuracies in what I was writing.

Mostly because at one point I claimed we made out.

Also, uh, that she had a pirate hook instead of a hand. Listen, it was an honest mistake. I meant to write "bracelet" but I spelled it wrong and it came out as "pirate hook." Like you've never done that. Pffft.

See, I bring this all up because I went out to eat tonight with a couple of my friends - SpecialK and her husband - and a topic came up that would have been so much better had it happened in my head than the way it actually did.

So in interests of fairness I'm going to present the version that I made up (although the made up version is true down to a point and then it goes all wonky) and the version that actually happened. It's like a really lame director's cut, like of say, Encino Man (part of the Pauley Shore Signature Series).

---

So I was in the bookstore this weekend - having managed to make it through Mother's Day brunch without passing out or puking (comment from my sister as soon as I showed up: "Wow you look like all kinds of hell.") - trying to find a copy of Cycling in New Zealand, when I saw the guidebook for Tahiti.

Which made me giggle for two reasons:

1. I thought it said "Titty."

Listen I was really hung over, okay? And getting two hours of sleep may not have been the smartest move - especially during brunch when my mom launched into a 10 minute long explanation of how she spent an hour writing a letter to the editor of the local paper because they did a slow-news day cover story on someone from Dickinson South Dakota, but (my mom made her "gaaah" face), Dickinson is actually in her home state of North Dakota. North! North!!

[Here, amazingly, is where the true part of this story ends. - ed.]

And because

2. It made me think of Tahitian Treat.

You know, that super sweet syrupy liquid that tastes like someone bought all the remaindered, overstocked, and slightly irregular "red" flavor from the Kool-Aid store and tried to see how much sugar it takes to supersaturate it - to turn it into the consistency of a Wendy's Frosty's (not a euphemism).

So I checked the next time in the grocery store, searching the can for the words I wanted to see. Which weren't "Registered trademark of Dr. Pepper/7 up."

The words I was looking for weren't there - "Bottled at the source, Laipao'tanu Tahiti."

Damnit. Why can't it be like Evian? Why can't there be a river of delicious cavity causing kid bait flowing through a tropical paradise? The natives - no teeth naturally - heading down to the river with a basket full of white t-shirts which they spend hours beating and churning against the rocks until they're a deep dark red again ("Un'glatok, your shirt is filthy white! You take that off and go put on a clean red one right now, or else I'll tell the great spirit Nabowch'k you haven't been listening to your tanu again!")

---

(So that's the version I made up. Then there's what actually happened tonight)

Me - I think I might do a stop-over in Tahiti on my way back.
SpecialK - Really? Why?
Me - Why not? When else am I going to have the chance to lay on a beach and...
SpecialK - (cackling) Drink Tahitian Treat! (laughing harder)
Me - (dryly) Yes, I'm going to Tahiti so I can drink Tahitian Treat. That's exactly it.

The sad part is, she's partially right...

Matchstick

2006-05-14T13:49:00.000-05:00

"I think," he began what was the understatement of the night, "that we may have started a little fast."

Sunlight streamed through the door of the bar as the birthday girl teetered and tottered her way back inside from having a smoke managing to only knock into two people. Which doesn't sound all that impressive except that she bumped into 4 on her way out of the bar.

"Are joo guysh hav--" she paused, debating on if the burp was going to be a burp only or if the rumplemintz was going to become upchuckmintz. Thankfully the burp was traveling alone. "havin' a good time? I'm sho glad you all came! I love you guys!" And then proceeded to poke someone in the eye as she tried to hug them, before she teetered - but didn't totter - and slumped against the wall.

I looked at the clock.

6:24

The first round of shots by itself would have been okay, but it was followed by a second. And a third. And a fourth.

The fifth was just stupid really.

Which is how I found myself in a back of a cab before the news had even started.

Yeah we started a little fast.

I can fly I can fly...I caaaaan flyyyyyyyyy

2006-05-11T22:11:00.000-05:00

"So apparently," she began, her hands flopping around muppet-like, "someone said something to someone about me." She Kermitted dismissively, "And it was suggested I be a bit more *pfffft* responsible." She paused, but her hands didn't.

"And I'm pretty sure (hand gesture) that I don't like the idea (hand gesture) of being 'the man' (air quotes, which counts as a hand gesture). Has anyone ever told you it's time to grow up and start being more managerial?"

I think I laughed first. But just barely.

I pointed to the hoodie hanging up in my cube, the tennis ball martha stewarted up with a sharpie (maybe it's more christopher lowell), the pile of monkeys in the corner, the photocopy ransom note of all the items stolen out of a coworker's cube ("iF yOu EvEr WanT tO SeE yOuR StUfF, bRiNg Mt DeW tO tHe mOnDaY mEeTiNg"). "Yeah, um, I'm pretty sure I'd be fucked if they told me to start being more managerial and responsible and act like someone in my position should."

I'm currently safely ensconced in middle-management (I am Peter Gibbons - but more at the part of the movie where he meets with the bobs and Dr. Cox tells him that he will have three people underneath him). And prior to announcing my departure, there were rumors of a position higher, yet still Jennifer Aniston-free, on the corporate food chain.

The fact that on the last business trip I was wearing a monkey t-shirt the day before I gave part of a presentation on one of the largest business deals the company has ever seen, and spent the hour the morning of the presentation - when I should have been figuring out what I was going to say - watching Cartoon Network.

Maybe it's a Peter Pan complex - I do own some green spandex after all (shut it, it was a poor choice in the Men's cycling clothes clearance section of REI) - but I'm just not ready to grow up yet. I mean, is there actually a point where my cube won't be full of items purchased off of Archie McPhee?

Though really if my sister is any indication - one section of her cube used to be devoted to as fake-blue food items (i.e. anything "blue raspberry") - maybe it's some weird genetic thing.

But I wonder sometimes.

A couple of my friends - I don't think I can use names here - have decided that they're going to start having babies next year and so this is the year where they do all the non-kidlet (tm ValancyJane) things that they can. Long trips, eating ice cream for dinner, all those things that they (correctly, if my friends with kids are to be believed) will stop doing once they have a tadpole.

They're ready.

Should I be?

Just one more thing...

2006-05-10T23:07:00.000-05:00

My apartment currently smells like strawberries. Well wait strawberries and *sniffs* dirty socks *sniffs again* and okay I'm not really sure what that is, but it might be the Beddar with Cheddar in the trash that rolled off my plate and onto my floor. Which normally I'd follow the 10 second rule, but I know where my floors have been.

(Pause) No, I meant besides under my feet. Whatevs, you know what I mean.

Which brings me back to why my apartment smells like strawberries.

See, since my mom and brother are going to be stopping by my apartment on Saturday - and I have to clean the bathroom too because as soon as my mom gets here she's going to say "Oh dear. I had a diet coke before we left and you know what that does to me" and rush into the bathroom before she even really bothers to say hello.

And I've found that pointing out that if she drove faster than 63 miles an hour, it wouldn't take as long and she wouldn't have to pee as bad - well, pointing that out doesn't go over terribly well.

So I started cleaning tonight by disassembling the forensic evidence that is the pile of dishes on my coffee table, and shooing away the trenchcoat wearing mumbling detective who always keeps saying "Just one more thing..." You could basically piece together my last couple of weeks by sifting through the strata of discarded glassware, food wrappers, and stupid plates without high enough edges to keep Beddar with Cheddars from rolling off the sides.

"Well after a bike ride [half empty water bottle with the nipple (whatevs, it's the technical term) (also, *giggle*) still sticky with blue flavored gatorade] he grabbed something quick to eat [empty package of string cheese] and dashed out the door to a birthday party [a receipt from Buffalo Wild Wings with Google Map'd directions scribbled on the back, which would have been helpful had they actually been brought along]. Oh and then he drank some beer [bottle cap stuck to the bottom of a glass of what I really hope was milk]."

And loaded all the dishes up in the dishwasher, grabbed the bottle of detergent and squeezed.

*ppppfffffthththththhththh*

The little measuring cup thingy on the dishwasher was only like a quarter full, and despite always thinking I'm out of shaving cream at Target I apparently never think that I'm out of dishwashing soap. So a couple of minutes of squeezing and shaking (not a euphemism) that sounded like the bathroom at a Taco Bell convention (also: eww) I set the bottle upside down, balanced on it's cap next to an open box of cereal hoping the last few bits would drip down to the bottom.

I don't even know why I bother buying cereal. I never eat it. I tell myself I'm going to eat breakfast more often - and I do. For two days. And then the box just sits in my cupboard along with the boxes of Frankenberry from my last failed attempt to eat breakfast.

So I set the bottle upside down and turned to walk away. And as I did the bottle fell over knocking down the box of cereal splattering 8 essential vitamins and 20% more dried strawberries over a rather impressive swath of my kitchen floor.

I own a broom. Uh, I think. Okay I might own a broom. Possibly. Which obviously I didn't go get because I wouldn't need to be debating the existence of it or not.

Instead, I pulled out the vacuum cleaner. Now I don't know if you've ever tried to vacuum up cereal pieces on a kitchen floor using the second cheapest vacuum they sell at Target but mostly what it does is to break up the flakes and dried strawberries into little tiny pieces and then spray those pieces over an even more impressive swath of the floor (I found a couple of pieces of strawberry blown underneath the kitchen table a good 6 feet or so away) that besides being impossible to clean make a crunching noise with each step that makes you think "Oh my god I just stepped on a cricket!"

On the plus side, it did also make my apartment smell like strawberries.

I shall believe....

2006-05-10T00:48:00.000-05:00

I think I have an excuse for being a bit sappy right now. Basically I'm one "Good Riddance (Time of your Life)" away from being the last episode of Mad About You.

So I'm not all that surprised that a song came on the radio as I headed home from a happy hour[s] where I ate nachos for dinner (Dear staff at Lone Star, I'm not quite sure who came up with the idea of putting a layer of bean dip as the base of your nacho tower, but you sir/madam are a genius. Yours etc, Moobert A. C. Cowerton) and heard a song that almost made me lose it a little.

It's my own fault really. My car is full of burned CDs with no labeling on them at all - so when I grab a CD out of the folder trying to avoid the "Yoo-Hoo" truck I almost hit this morning - I have no idea what songs are going to be on it.

As Princess Sophia Banana Hammock found out last summer.

"Is everything on here from some soundtrack or something?" She flicked to the next song which was 'Secret Garden.' "It's either that or you don't have a penius. Seriously, what is this shit?"

The next CD - identical to the other 20 tucked away in the CD case in my car - made it through about three songs before Kris Kross began blaring over the speakers.

Actually I wasn't even expecting that one. Kriss Kross? Seriously? I'm pretty sure that I was too busy back then trying to figure out the lyrics to Snow's "Informer."

A licky boom-boom down.

Which probably explains why I was a bit caught off guard tonight as I shoved a random CD in. Carbon dating - or a copy of the Billboard charts - would have put the CD at late 2005. Or squarely in the Amyezoic period.

It's weird how certain songs just become tied to certain people. Actually now that I think about it, it's not that weird because almost everyone is associated to a song in my head. I mean anything off of "Confessions on a Dance Floor" = Dan. Therese = "You wouldn't like me" by Tegan and Sara. Allison = "Pour some sugar on me" [ed note - Whatever. You know you used to love it, a]

And for Amy? "I shall believe" by Sheryl Crow.

Which was apparently burned as tracks 2-5 on a CD (track 1 was "Bitersweet Symphony" and track 6 was "Son of a preacher man" in case you're curious) which found its way into the CD player as I drove home through the misty night.

Fuuuuuuuuuck.

(And yes I realize the irony of posting this after last night, and yes it was quickly replaced by another CD (track 1: "SOS") (also: Shut up. I like crappy music, okay?).

And totally not the song I needed to hear at that particular moment in time - the windshield wipers swishing their way across.

Shit, this is really happening, isn't it?

(I hope as much, if not more, than you that tomorrow is back to "wacky, zany, non-sensical Moobert J. Cowerton....)

We represent the lollipop kids

2006-05-08T21:52:00.000-05:00

So I've started getting the glazed over look from my friends. The one that says "Shut the hell up about crickets/Amy Hockert/Peeps/whatever-the-hell-your-current-obsession is."

Which is the fun part about having a blog. Because you can't tell me to shut up. Well I mean you can, but then I'll just say "You're dead to me" (number of times WendyKat has been dead to me: 89723589123478975125238897) and keep talking about it. It's a win-win situation (or is it win-win-win ("I win for successfully mediating..."))

So just to recap, I'm going over to NZ with no job, no place to live, and really no idea what I'm going to do. Which probably should have me freaking out a bit, but it doesn't really. Well a bit, but I freak out if I misplace my hand sanitizer, so whatevs.

Because the last time I was in a situation like this, it resulted in a wedding.

Not mine obviously duh. I mean I know I'm a hussy, but I'm not that much of a hussy. Though I realize that would be a much better story, especially if it involved Scarlet Johananannson.

We - the mini-harem of six girls I was traveling with - got off the plane in Dublin, and after spending six hours waiting for a bus aaaaand a three hour cross country bus ride stepped off into what can best be described as a monsoon. Or a gale maybe. I wouldn't have been surprised to see a leprechaun whip out a big lollipop and begin singing "We represent the lollipop kids..."

And as I picked up my suitcase which had impressively been blown over into the largest puddle in the parking lot, I realized I had no idea where I was going to live for the next six months. I mean I had realized it before, but now it was kind of sinking in as the daylight slunk away like a misty grey puma. The other six had already figured it out - four were staying in a house together, and the other two were sharing a flat. Which left me the odd man - and only man - out.

So I followed the two as they went to go meet with their new landlord, and somehow secured one of the last spots in the building living with three other guys.

And so the 10 of us started hanging out. And by "hanging out" I mean drinking. A. lot. Like playing drinking games on a Thursday night kind of a lot.

About a month or so after we got there I left to go on a week long hiking trip, spending my last few minutes before I had to catch the bus pulling items out of my backpack (leaving the gloves behind wasn't the best idea ever as it snowed one night, but making room for the nutella was soooo worth it) and tossing them on my bed - the only full sized mattress in the apartment which I got after winning an epic battle royale of rock-paper-scissors (in the final, I predicted my roommate Brett was going to throw "avalanche" (rock rock rock) and so I pulled out "fistful of dollars" (rock paper paper) to win 2-0)

A week - and 100 miles of hiking later - I came back to the apartment and spent about half an hour in the shower trying to peel the duct tape off my blistered feet, changed into a pair of pajamas and was about to clear off all the crap strewn across my bed, when I realized it. was. clean.

Everything was piled neatly on my desk - books that I should have been reading that week if I hadn't skipped class facing the right direction rather than all topsy turvy, t-shirts neatly folded rather than covered with more wrinkles than Bea Arthur riding an elephant.

My roommates denied knowledge of course, which is what my roommates did when they weren't finishing my milk or taking the last Guinness (bastards), until about a week later when the truth came out that one of them had hooked up with one of the girls I was on the trip with and had spent most of the weekend (the other guys in the apartment were gone) in my bed.

And after I washed the sheets (twice) I got the rest of the story. We all figured it was just a random hookup - he was, well, kind of a tool (he liked to watch wrestling) from New Hampshire; she was, well, a bit prissy and kinda looked like a panda bear. "I give it a week," the rest of us scoffed when they weren't around.

It lasted a bit longer than a week.

"Well it definitely won't last for the rest of the semester." "...once they're back in the US." "...through all of senior year." "...through the summer after graduation." "...through the year after that." "...and the year after that." "...holy shit, they're engaged?!?"

And so I found myself at their wedding reception sitting at the farthest back table - Table 20, woo! - with several of the girls from the trip talking through that first night in Ireland, the hiking trip, and the day when we all found out they had hooked up, and all of the "What's ifs..." that had to happen for them to even meet.

Which I feel a bit responsible for - I mean, what if I would have chosen to live somewhere else? Or if I hadn't gone on the hiking trip? Or if I had used the "toolbox" (scissors scissors scissors)? What started off as me having nothing but a belief that everything is going to turn out okay and that everything happens for a reason, ended up with them meeting, falling in love and having 100 million of the babies.

So we raised our glasses at table 20 - woo! - clinked and clanked them together and louder than was necessary (but not really surprising given the open bar) toasted "To Moo's bed!" drawing stares and glares from the bride's barely-related relatives at table 19.

And that is why I'm not worried about New Zealand.

To Da-lut?

2006-05-07T23:19:00.000-05:00

Well I didn't end up winning my age group at the race this weekend. I took second. Fine, yes of two. Listen it doesn't matter what my time was. Well it doesn't. I mean really I could have walked on my hands and I still would have won a silver medal.

My dad won his age group, my mom was 3rd in hers, and my sister took second. Though to my sister's credit, she actually did beat someone who wasn't even in a wheelchair, or on crutches, or had a pirate hook for a hand.

Which doesn't seem like it would affect someone's running ability, but how would they be able to wipe sweat from their forehead? Exactly! And then they'd be running around blind going "I can't see! I have sweat in my eyes." And I know it seems like wearing a headband would be the simple solution, but have you ever tried to put on a headband with just one hand and a pirate hook? I haven't either, but I've gotta imagine it isn't easy.

The rest of the time at home was the normal mom and dad telling stories that as near as I can tell had no point what-so-ever.

Okay I just started typing up an example, but I can't really subject you to that. The short version: Someone called and then didn't call back. The long version was around 10 minutes and involved references to no less than 8 people who I pretended to know simply to keep the story moving along. ("You know Annette right?" Uh, sure. Yes.)

Other highlights included their neighbors who keep a cat chained up to a post in the front yard, which is just bizarre.

Oooh, I almost forgot.

So Friday night after realizing I had eaten at both Taco Bell and Chipotle that day - which shifted my strategy for the race the next morning from "run" to "stand there and be rocket powered from all the beans" my sister and I headed back to cheeseland.

And about 20 minutes after we left my sister's house (she was driving) we saw a road sign for:

Duluth - 132

Duluth? Huh? That's like...that's up by Canada. Which is not where we want to be going.

(Which reminds me, my cousin's favorite joke goes like this:

Guy (talking in a norwegian accent) - Does dis bus go to Duluth?
Bus Driver - No, it goes beep beep

My cousin is 38...) (Don't get it? Okay it helps if you pronounce Duluth as "da-lut" like how people talked in the movie Fargo)

Yes, my sister had impressively managed to get lost on an interstate less than 15 miles from her house. *slow clap* Nice work sis! Niiiiice work.

What? I was talking about beating someone in your age group.

You have the right to what?

2006-05-04T21:14:00.000-05:00

My parents have had the same message on their answering machine - an ancient dinosaur of a thing that may be the last use of cassette tapes anywhere in the world, with the exception of the tape player in my friend Linsey's car - since roughly 1997.

Hello (it's my dad talking by the way) you've reached the Cowertons. None of us can answer the phone right now but if you leave your name, number, and a brief message, we'll get back to you as soon as we can. *beep*

What this doesn't capture is the weird clicks and whirrs, the metallic sound to his voice that only comes about if it exists on a cassette tape that has been played thousands of times.

Or if you're the guy who does the "intergalactic plan-a-tary" part of the Beastie Boys song.

So I called home tonight and as the phone hit ring number 4, the answering machine scratched its way to life (current number of small electric appliances older than the answering machine in my parent's house: 14 (including a VCR with a corded remote))

Hello (it's my dad talking by the way) you've reached the Cowertons. None of us can answer the phone right now but if you leave your name, number, and a brief message, we'll get back to you as soon as we can. (pause) You also have the right to remain silent, though should you choose to say anything it will be recorded. *beep*

The message I left for them went:

(two seconds of silence followed by laughter) What the heck [I'm always amazed at how my language instantly cleans up when I'm talking to my parents] was that? Well congrats on changing the message for the first time since I graduated from high school. Anyway, give me a call.

I mean some of my friends have pretty goofy messages. There's 'Da with her "Hi, you've reached my (pause as if she's looking down to see what she's holding in her hand) cell phone..." Or another friend - I forget who though I'm tempted to start calling people and hoping voicemail picks up - with "So hi and stuff *beep*"

But for my parents to change their message (which if you really think about it makes no sense), it just kind of threw me for a loop.

Much the way I did when I called them back. My sister and I had been taking bets on what their reaction was going to be. She was close, but of course they gave things their own special spin.

Me: So can I store some stuff there?
MooMom: And you want to do this because?
Me: I'm moving to New Zealand for a year.
MooMom: Oh. Oh my. Oh dear. Oh. (yells) MooDad, you need to pick up the phone.

Various questions followed including:

MooMom: So are you going to have a job?
Me: Yeah I'll figure it out once I get down there.
MooMom: You know, if you were a teacher NZ is supposed to have one of the best reading education programs in the world.
Me: Um, okay.
MooMom: Well if I was down there that's what I'd do.
Me: Well yeah but that's because you are a reading teacher. I might end up temping or doing whatever.
MooDad: They have McDonalds down there too you know.
Me: Or working at McDonalds.
MooDad: No, I just meant you won't starve if you can't find a job.
MooMom: Oh. I'm sure you'll be fine son.
Me: Yeah I know I will. (pause) Besides, ramen is so much cheaper.

--

Oh and also, introducing "Waffling up the Kiwi" - which oddly enough was available. See this way I can give the link to my parents without having them come here and find pictures of me in a skirt or with peeps taped to my nippular regions.

Or making fun of them.

Often.

Waffles and kiwis

2006-05-03T18:08:00.000-05:00

I stepped off the plane, slipped on my backpack - the outer pocket empty except for the Belgium-Germany section of the Lonely Planet Europe book, which I had torn from the entire massive book and which I'd regret about a week later as I found myself heading to Switzerland - and started making my way to what I hoped was the train into town when I saw it.

A Belgian waffle stand.

Huh. So they're not like french fries. They actually serve Belgian waffles in Belgium. (Had I actually been reading the guide book, I would have realized that not only do Belgians actually eat waffles, there are two different kinds, the Brussels and the Liege. (Jeopardy value - $400) (I don't know, the difference is like density or something. Go use google you lazy mclazersons)

Both of which are fantastic by the way.

Damnit, now I want breakfast food for dinner.

And soon - probably in July - I'll be finding out if kiwi are like Belgian waffles.

Because I'm moving to New Zealand for a year.

Yes way!

See they have this program down there called a "Working Holiday" where if you meet very strict criteria (under 30? check. Not bringing children? Check. Never been expelled from a country before? *whistles* Whatever, they only suggested I leave...) you can get a year long visa allowing you to work anywhere as long as it isn't "permanent employment." Which rules out my chance at becoming a sheep farmer or professional hobbit.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized there's really nothing keeping me here. No house, no pets, no kids, no hott woman. The closest thing to responsibility in my apartment is remembering to water my banana tree - which is, uh, really really hearty. No I mean really hearty. I think it might be part cactus.

It's obvious - at least to me, but it's my job to obsess over minutiae - if you read the past few months here (or if you've hung out with me in real life I suppose) or so that I've changed lately. There's a certain edge, a bite, an eeyore like cloud that's been hanging around - even to the made-up conversations with people both real and imaginary cricket. So maybe this is just my way of dealing with that, of breaking out. Of going big or going home.

And so I'm packing up my stuff - anybody have some space in their basement by the way? - and I'm just going to go. Move out of my apartment. Sell my car. Quit my job. Auction off my collection of Ashlee Simpson CDs. And will undoubtedly mean the end of Crazying Up the Bottle (though Kiwi-ing up the Bottle has a nice ring to it), at least in its current form.

Oh sure if I stop to think about it, it's silly and scary and stupid all at the same time. Like a roller skating clown who's not paying attention and heading down a ramp over a swimming pool filled with sharks and with lions. You don't know whether to laugh, yell look-out, or just stare dumbfounded.

But it's also something I want to do. That I need to do. That I have to do.

Like a cloud

2006-05-02T21:24:00.000-05:00

The bed was almost enough reason to stay with Sarah.

Almost.

It was this massive, almost obscene pile of fluff - the bed, not the ex-girlfriend - like a goose - no, a whole gaggle of them - had exploded showering everything in their oh so soft feathers. Combined with a massive blanket, an open window, and that time in fall in Minnesota when you can still leave the window open all night and wake up just warmer than chilly, it was like sleeping on a cloud.

She was totally crazy though.

Actually no, that's not really true. She was a total free spirit - worked part time as an RN and smoked a lot of pot - who invited me to come over and watch a movie on our second date. And...well, you know. But that spark, that little ooh-la-la that rides on the backs of butterflies just wasn't there.

And so I had to say goodbye to the bed and go back to my real bed, which by comparison felt every morning like I was being tortured by The Albino.

See, the bed I'm currently using was the bed a college friend of mine had in high school - which now that I really think about it and what she probably did on there...oh god. Unclean! Unnnncleeeeeaaannnn!!! Her mom was redoing (read: turning my friend Lys' bedroom into a sewing room) and was getting rid of the bed and well...I needed one so I took it.

It's the worst bed ever. Even the old urine stained bunk beds at my parent's house, the mattress resting on a sheet of plywood and six inches of foam, that creaked at the slightest touch and had me fearing for my life when my brother lept onto the top bunk...okay no those were worse. I guess.

But I really don't like my bed. Though I don't think about it much until I sleep somewhere else (Crickets: Awwww yeah, big pimpin') like a hotel (Crickets: Awww yeah, big escortin') by my. self. (Crickets: Awww. Yeah?)

Maybe I should give Sarah a call.

My feet hertz

2006-05-01T22:50:00.000-05:00

So I came to the realization this weekend that there are two types of people in the world:

Those who find themselves crammed in the back of a cab with 3 other people flying down the 101 at about midnight when someone pulls a bag of Coco Puffs from their purse and begins handing them around the cab, but the woman laying across your lap asks you to pour some cereal into her mouth since she can't do herself because she's wearing those giant "#1" foam fingers on both hands.

And those who don't.

Any guesses on which type I am?

Ha! Fooled you. I'm actually the second type - because the bag of cereal that was being passed around the cab Saturday night was actually Corn Pops.

Okay fine fine, it was a trick question. Whatevs.

I apparently left behind an Ark-ful miserably rainy weekend in Minneapolis for a sun burny good time in San Francisco, but that's not saying a whole lot since I can get a sun burn from a 60 watt light-bulb. And had a very very good time.

We flew out Saturday morning - my airplane karma continuing with the seat next to me one of only three empty ones on the flight, unlike the flight back where the 6'6 sasquatch was given the middle seat next to me in the exit row - and my coworkers and I picked up a rental car (Hertz: The official rental car company of Crazying up the Bottle) and they headed out to the Giants game.

I grabbed my sunglasses, a bottle of water, and the map out of the car and headed out to walk the streets of San Francisco, without really any idea of where to go besides hopefully re-enacting the entire opening credit sequence to Full House.

And proceeded to get myself lost within about 5 minutes. Now usually I claim that if you're just wandering around it's not possible to be lost, because technically...well if there's nowhere you're trying to be, how can you not be there (aka lost)?

But um, okay if you find yourself on the on-ramp of a freeway? You're effing lost.

So I pulled out the handy dandy map, figured out where I was, and decided to head to the "2" in a yellow circle marked on the map that was only a few blocks away. Oooh. Yay! 2.

Which was located in a rather industrial area near an underpass. There was a gas station on one corner, a seedy looking bar on another and a row of shops with their iron gates slammed shut.

Huh. Maybe this was the site of some building during the 1906 earthquake. Or Ferlinghetti passed out here. Or maybe it's the current home of Uncle Joey.

I checked the map legend to see what number 2 was.

A Hertz Rental Car location.

As were numbers 1-11. (And slightly disturbingly 1-59 in the greater SF area - not including Oakland)

Okay going back to my opening paragraph, there are two types of people in the world:

Those who make a mistake or do something stupid, shrug, and continue on their way.

And those who decide if they're going to do something stupid, they're going to do something incredibly stupid.

You know, go big or go home.

So I took a picture of the Hertz store.

And headed off towards number 7.

Which, okay, now to be fair I was really heading towards Market Street, which I had at least heard of before. And once I hit Market street I just kind of wandered along for a while - one of my favorite things to do in a new city is just ramble around - and I just kind of came across Hertz store number 7.

So I took a picture of that too.

And looked at one of the public transit maps which thankfully had actual points of interest - well assuming your interests weren't finding the official rental car of Crazying Up the Bottle - marked.

So I headed towards the Farmer's Market, picked up some cheese and a loaf of bread (tre european, non?) (oh wait, I mean, like totally awesome dude?) walked along the water for awhile before heading over towards Chinatown.

On the way I pulled out my map and realized that I was a few blocks or so south of helpful yellow bubble number "4."

So Hertz picture number 3 ended up on my cell phone.

From there it was over to Fisherman's Wharf - which, okay, quick tangent here but Minneapolis I've decided just doesn't have a "random crap" district except for maybe the mall of america. I mean NY has Times Square and Boston had the area over by the Aquarium, but Minneapolis just doesn't have one central location overrun with couples in matching shirts both wearing fanny packs buying "I lost my cherry in Minneapolis" t-shirts (trust me, it makes sense).

I think I made it about two blocks along when I saw Hard Rock and randomly turned down a side street trying to get away from that area as quickly as possible.

And I guess kind of explains how I ended up posing like a pirate (one hand covering an eye like an eye-patch, the other made into a makeshift hook) handing my camera over and having my picture taken in front of a Hertz (yellow bubble #5) by a couple of incredibly confused non-english speaking tourists (German I think).

In the end, when I met my coworkers out for dinner I had spent 5 hours walking the streets (my guess is around 12 miles or so), sunburned myself to what I believe would be medium-well, had the fourth toe on my right foot start bleeding (for some reason whenever I walk a lot that toe just starts gushing blood after awhile), and took pictures in front of 5 Hertz stores.

Sigh.

Which were all lost in the back of the cab as I snapped a picture of the woman with two foam fingers and an open mouth full of partially chewed Corn Pops and mistakenly (read: drunkenly) was confused by "Delete all?" and "Delete selected?"

At least I still have the map.

I'm like the cube-burglar

2006-04-28T21:36:00.000-05:00

So I've decided - for reasons that escape me at the moment, mostly because I was distracted by the Mentos commercial with the birds - to steal everything out of a coworker's cube one object at a time.

Coat hooks? Gone.
Stapler? Gone.
Tennis ball? (Tennis ball? Really?) Gone.
Wheel off the "guest chair?" Well it's still there right now, but only because he got back from lunch a bit sooner than I was expecting.

Damn you semi-legal Taco Bell workers for being so efficient. Daaaamn youuuuu!

He hasn't noticed yet, but I imagine he will pretty soon. Like the day when I steal his left shoe - he Mr. Rogers' his way out of his motorcycle boots into his "work" shoes every morning. I mean that's gotta be fairly obvious at that point.

And...

Uh...okay so I forgot where I was going with this, and I'm really tired and have to be up at 6 am on a saturday to catch a stupid plane - so well I. give. up. I'll be back on Tuesday. Whee!